Remember your first job? Not the first time you mowed a lawn or baby sat the neighbor’s kids; I mean the first time you showed up at a place of business wearing appropriate clothing, did whatever your boss told you to do and, a week or two later, came home with a paycheck. Your first real job. Or, at least the first job your parents called a real job.
My first real job was at a health insurer processing claims for two summers in a row. I like to think of it as preparation for my next medical mystery.
Ok, so it was deadly dull. But it sure felt good to start college with a few thousand dollars in my savings account.
The Teenager believes his future lies in the film industry. A noble thought. Since Steven Spielberg hasn’t offered him a position as executive producer, however, his car remains devoid of gas, his calendar devoid of dates, and his plans to go on a three-month road trip with his Teenager Buddies a pipe dream, at best.
Since The Teenager is, after all, an intelligent, capable and clever human being, he sought only jobs he believed worthy of his potential. He prepared a resume, developed a job hunting strategy and filled out applications at every computer or sporting goods store within a 10-mile radius -- all to no avail.
Why? Everyone wants those jobs. Three months into The-Great-Job-Hunt-of-2006, and the Teenager had not so much as flipped a burger for $5 an hour.
“I don’t understand it, Mom. How can J get a job so easily? He's lazy, and a space cadet besides!”
“Where does he work?”
“Baskin-Robbins.”
“Why don’t you apply there?”
“Nah, I don’t want to scoop ice cream.”
“What about where that wild-haired buddy of yours works. Why don’t you apply at Barnes & Noble?”
“Nah, I don’t like books.”
“Maybe you should try cutting your hair?”
“Come on, Mom, this is serious.”
We knew he’d hit bottom when he called ten of his friends to find someone to join him for a movie, and all of them were busy. Why? They all had jobs.
Then, Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw threatened to take away his (gasp) truck. The Teenager responded with renewed verve. He cut his hair, expanded his strategic sphere, and, miraculously, an interview appeared on his calendar.
Friday, the good news arrived.
The Teenager is now The Ace Hardware Man.
parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Lessons in Raising a Teenager: Part II
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Lessons in Raising a Teenager: Part I
I was 17 when I graduated from high school and moved out of my parent’s house. The Teenager knows this. Therefore, he believes that since he is now 17, he’s eligible for all the rights, responsibilities and privileges his mother enjoyed.
Lesson 1: Never tell your child anything about your childhood. He will use it against you.
The Teenager and his Teenager Buddies have mounted a well-planned and brilliantly executed public relations and marketing campaign to convince their parents that an unsupervised trip to Los Angeles in a rickety Ford with a bad transmission is a critical step toward their future as movie moguls.
The Teenager, in particular, displayed notable business development skills:
Smart Move #1: The Teenager first determined which of the six parents was the most likely to succumb and create a domino effect of agreement among the other parents.
Smart Move #2: Next, he determined the key points most likely to convince said parent, and developed a sales pitch complete with Excel spreadsheets and Power Point slides.
Smart Move #3: Given that Teenager Buddy J rarely strings two words together to make a thought, much less a sentence, and Teenager Buddy C has hair so wild it sends lurking coyotes yelping for the nearest dark cave, the Teenager nominated himself as the Public Relations Spokesperson.
Lesson 2: Never teach your child business sense. He will use it against you.
The conversation went something like this:
“Mom, I need to talk to you about my career in film. It’s really important for me to spend as much time in L.A. as possible to develop connections. Also, because of the set designs in my next film, I need J and C to learn more about the technical side of lighting, and there is no better show to demonstrate this than “Stomp.”
“No.”
“We’ve each saved $200, we’ll drive J’s car, which is very fuel-efficient, we’ve stocked it with plenty of water and a first aid kit, and we can purchase temporary driver’s insurance so that we can all drive and no one gets too tired.”
“Isn’t that the car that you guys are always pushing out of parking spaces because it doesn’t have reverse? No.”
“We’re staying with C’s uncle who is a responsible adult.”
“No.”
“We’ve planned….”
“No.”
“Mom, please...will you listen to me before you say no.”
Smart Move #4: Pull the guilt card at precisely the right moment.
Anyone care to lay odds on Queen Mom and Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw joining The Teenager and Teenager Buddies in a remake of The Nuclear Family Goes Skiing titled The Nuclear Family Goes to Tinseltown?
parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary
Lesson 1: Never tell your child anything about your childhood. He will use it against you.
The Teenager and his Teenager Buddies have mounted a well-planned and brilliantly executed public relations and marketing campaign to convince their parents that an unsupervised trip to Los Angeles in a rickety Ford with a bad transmission is a critical step toward their future as movie moguls.
The Teenager, in particular, displayed notable business development skills:
Smart Move #1: The Teenager first determined which of the six parents was the most likely to succumb and create a domino effect of agreement among the other parents.
Smart Move #2: Next, he determined the key points most likely to convince said parent, and developed a sales pitch complete with Excel spreadsheets and Power Point slides.
Smart Move #3: Given that Teenager Buddy J rarely strings two words together to make a thought, much less a sentence, and Teenager Buddy C has hair so wild it sends lurking coyotes yelping for the nearest dark cave, the Teenager nominated himself as the Public Relations Spokesperson.
Lesson 2: Never teach your child business sense. He will use it against you.
The conversation went something like this:
“Mom, I need to talk to you about my career in film. It’s really important for me to spend as much time in L.A. as possible to develop connections. Also, because of the set designs in my next film, I need J and C to learn more about the technical side of lighting, and there is no better show to demonstrate this than “Stomp.”
“No.”
“We’ve each saved $200, we’ll drive J’s car, which is very fuel-efficient, we’ve stocked it with plenty of water and a first aid kit, and we can purchase temporary driver’s insurance so that we can all drive and no one gets too tired.”
“Isn’t that the car that you guys are always pushing out of parking spaces because it doesn’t have reverse? No.”
“We’re staying with C’s uncle who is a responsible adult.”
“No.”
“We’ve planned….”
“No.”
“Mom, please...will you listen to me before you say no.”
Smart Move #4: Pull the guilt card at precisely the right moment.
Anyone care to lay odds on Queen Mom and Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw joining The Teenager and Teenager Buddies in a remake of The Nuclear Family Goes Skiing titled The Nuclear Family Goes to Tinseltown?
parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary
Saturday, July 08, 2006
The Sounds of Silence
Setting.
In a two-minute conversation with Jim Fusilli at Thrillerfest, my writing changed forever. “Setting will anchor your story,” he said.
All I can think about now is setting.
Yesterday, Toni McGee Causey posted a beautiful essay about her life growing up in Cajun Louisiana. Setting.
And this morning, Bill Cameron responded by posting a poignant story about his nomadic life growing up following his mother’s inclinations. Setting.
But, my experience of my surroundings will never be the same as it was when I was growing up. Not since February of last year, when I suddenly and inexplicably lost most of the hearing in my left ear to have it replaced by a constant ringing sound.
Go find a piano and hit high “G.” Now imagine that note as a ringing tone in your ear. Constant. Night or day. 24/7. 365.
And medical science has no idea why, nor any clue how to fix it.
Deafness, even partial deafness, is an isolating experience. I listen to jokes, but miss a lot of punch lines. When more than two people talk at once, I can’t hear a word anyone is saying, making conversations with two or more a challenge. And at large tables of people having dinner together, I can only comfortably converse with one or two people on my right, since I can’t hear much of what anyone else is saying. Unless they shout. And that just annoys everyone.
I've never liked a lot of attention, so I don't usually tell people lest I make them feel they have to treat me like a princess. Instead, I'd rather feel stupid. And I often do. Because I know I'm missing important points in conversations.
And once in a while, I'll meet someone with a voice I simply can’t hear at all. Then I'm brave, I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath, I boldly tell them I have a hearing problem and what it is and what it means. But people don't really understand. So, after saying "huh?" a hundred times, I'll give up and smile and nod and hope they don’t ask me something that will reveal I haven’t heard a single word they’ve said. I don't want people to think I'm not interested. I am. I just can't hear so much.
I long at times for what I once had, but I still have much to be grateful for. I have two friends who are completely deaf. They grew up deaf and know nothing else and are happily married to each other in their own silent world. They've never heard the sounds I’ve heard and they never will and they don't care. They don't think they are missing anything at all.
The world is rich with sound, and the story of sound plays an integral role in my strongest memories of the places I’ve lived.
Setting again. All i can think about right now is setting.
The sound of the ocean waves crashing rhythmically against the beaches of Long Island Sound, playing in the cold water until our lips turn blue, salt air tickling my nostrils, cool breezes against our damp skin, the setting sun turning the water a cool grey-pink. Setting.
The constant hum of a busy urban city punctuated by sirens, honking cars and the distant shouts of pedestrians, the gritty scent of New York City’s air, the dark that's never really dark because there are so many lights…I always think of New York City first at night. Setting.
The pure silence of the Arizona desert in the ‘70s, before everyone on earth started moving here. My friends and I would ride our horses out a few miles and stop in the middle of nowhere and marvel that we could hear nothing. Nothing but the sound of our horses breathing and the warm dry wind in our hair. No planes. No cars. No hum of heaters or air conditioners or anything else from the modern world. And in the middle of a hot desert day, not even a bird. Nothing.
And that is what I miss.
I still hear birds and crickets and frogs. I still hear ocean waves. I can hear the hum of a city, blues music on the radio, and if I listen really hard and overcome my fear of calling attention to myself, I can still hear a lot of what people say.
But never again will I hear the sounds of silence.
In a two-minute conversation with Jim Fusilli at Thrillerfest, my writing changed forever. “Setting will anchor your story,” he said.
All I can think about now is setting.
Yesterday, Toni McGee Causey posted a beautiful essay about her life growing up in Cajun Louisiana. Setting.
And this morning, Bill Cameron responded by posting a poignant story about his nomadic life growing up following his mother’s inclinations. Setting.
But, my experience of my surroundings will never be the same as it was when I was growing up. Not since February of last year, when I suddenly and inexplicably lost most of the hearing in my left ear to have it replaced by a constant ringing sound.
Go find a piano and hit high “G.” Now imagine that note as a ringing tone in your ear. Constant. Night or day. 24/7. 365.
And medical science has no idea why, nor any clue how to fix it.
Deafness, even partial deafness, is an isolating experience. I listen to jokes, but miss a lot of punch lines. When more than two people talk at once, I can’t hear a word anyone is saying, making conversations with two or more a challenge. And at large tables of people having dinner together, I can only comfortably converse with one or two people on my right, since I can’t hear much of what anyone else is saying. Unless they shout. And that just annoys everyone.
I've never liked a lot of attention, so I don't usually tell people lest I make them feel they have to treat me like a princess. Instead, I'd rather feel stupid. And I often do. Because I know I'm missing important points in conversations.
And once in a while, I'll meet someone with a voice I simply can’t hear at all. Then I'm brave, I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath, I boldly tell them I have a hearing problem and what it is and what it means. But people don't really understand. So, after saying "huh?" a hundred times, I'll give up and smile and nod and hope they don’t ask me something that will reveal I haven’t heard a single word they’ve said. I don't want people to think I'm not interested. I am. I just can't hear so much.
I long at times for what I once had, but I still have much to be grateful for. I have two friends who are completely deaf. They grew up deaf and know nothing else and are happily married to each other in their own silent world. They've never heard the sounds I’ve heard and they never will and they don't care. They don't think they are missing anything at all.
The world is rich with sound, and the story of sound plays an integral role in my strongest memories of the places I’ve lived.
Setting again. All i can think about right now is setting.
The sound of the ocean waves crashing rhythmically against the beaches of Long Island Sound, playing in the cold water until our lips turn blue, salt air tickling my nostrils, cool breezes against our damp skin, the setting sun turning the water a cool grey-pink. Setting.
The constant hum of a busy urban city punctuated by sirens, honking cars and the distant shouts of pedestrians, the gritty scent of New York City’s air, the dark that's never really dark because there are so many lights…I always think of New York City first at night. Setting.
The pure silence of the Arizona desert in the ‘70s, before everyone on earth started moving here. My friends and I would ride our horses out a few miles and stop in the middle of nowhere and marvel that we could hear nothing. Nothing but the sound of our horses breathing and the warm dry wind in our hair. No planes. No cars. No hum of heaters or air conditioners or anything else from the modern world. And in the middle of a hot desert day, not even a bird. Nothing.
And that is what I miss.
I still hear birds and crickets and frogs. I still hear ocean waves. I can hear the hum of a city, blues music on the radio, and if I listen really hard and overcome my fear of calling attention to myself, I can still hear a lot of what people say.
But never again will I hear the sounds of silence.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Writing paradise
The monsoons have come to Phoenix: towering thunder clouds and psychedelic sunsets, dust storms and distant lightning, and thunderclaps so loud I bolted out of bed at 2:30 a.m. last night wondering who dropped the bombs. Somehow, our wild weather seems like the perfect way to end the first ever conference of the International Thriler Writers, Thrillerfest 2006.
I've attended all kinds of conferences in my various and sundry professional positions, but never, EVER, have I attended one where the camaraderie between attendees was so instant and complete; never, EVER, have I talked so much, laughed so much and slept so little; never, EVER, have I met so many industry stars who were so eager to lend a hand to newbies like me; never, EVER, have I attended a closing conference lunch with so many red-rimmed eyes and gigantic smiles; and never, EVER, have I left so fully and completely inspired on so many levels.
I attended because it was cheap, set in my hometown of Phoenix and I knew I'd get to meet Clive Cussler. I left with 350 new best friends and a brain so full of ideas it's about to explode.
To the founders of the International Thriler Writers and the intrepid organizers of Thrillerfest 2006, a giant thank you!!
I've attended all kinds of conferences in my various and sundry professional positions, but never, EVER, have I attended one where the camaraderie between attendees was so instant and complete; never, EVER, have I talked so much, laughed so much and slept so little; never, EVER, have I met so many industry stars who were so eager to lend a hand to newbies like me; never, EVER, have I attended a closing conference lunch with so many red-rimmed eyes and gigantic smiles; and never, EVER, have I left so fully and completely inspired on so many levels.
I attended because it was cheap, set in my hometown of Phoenix and I knew I'd get to meet Clive Cussler. I left with 350 new best friends and a brain so full of ideas it's about to explode.
To the founders of the International Thriler Writers and the intrepid organizers of Thrillerfest 2006, a giant thank you!!
Sunday, June 25, 2006
The temperature's risin'
It’s 11 a.m. in the desert in an era of global warming.
It’s sunny and hot. VERY hot.
What else did you expect?
Not much happens in Phoenix in the summer. We cover our steering wheels with special reflective fabric in the hope of avoiding the searing pain of burning flesh when we climb into our cars at lunchtime. For a few moments of relief, we head to ice rinks, water parks, and desert lakes - even if we don’t like these places. If we’re endurance athletes, we train at 4 a.m. when, if we’re lucky, the temperature dips to 90 degrees. We try not to think too much, lest our brain energy raise the temperature one iota more.
We giggle with amusement when the national chains introduce fall fashions replete with wool skirts and leather jackets. In August. When the temperatures hit 115.
And the biggest excitement of the season? The introduction of the summer’s latest frappuccino drinks at Starbucks.
Hence, I believe there must be a story behind holding Thrillerfest, the International Thriller Writers conference, here in Phoenix next week, although no one will tell me for certain. Could this be a ploy by some enterprising author to research an adventure story set in the searing heat of a Phoenix summer while simultaneously indulging in pails of gin with her fellow writers at a storied resort whose hallways are filled with ghosts and skeletons?
It’s the only reasonable explanation.
Nonetheless, as hospitality is my nature, I’ve been encouraging all the writers coming to Phoenix next week. After all, it’s a dry heat. Last week’s forecast had the temperature hovering around 105 degrees for this first ever conference of the International Thriller Writers. Just another balmy day in paradise.
And Phoenix is celebrating this august occasion with book signings and news stories and bookstore displays galore. Thrillerfest is the hippest, coolest thing happening in Phoenix all summer long.
Except the good folks on the Weather Channel are, as I write this, discussing at great length the “amazing heat in the West.”
Except they just forecast a temperature of 113 degrees in Phoenix today.
Except my air conditioner is on the blink.
Just another balmy day in paradise.
Really.
Phoenix summer Weather writers thrillers daily life humor writing diary Blogs
Photo art above by the excellent photographer, Steve Strauss.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
So you say you want an evolution?
As I'm sure many of you have noticed, blogs often evolve beyond their original scope. Mine has not...well not exactly.
Originally, I sought only to share stories with my family and friends. I never, ever anticipated making so many new and inspiring friends in the writing community: my very first blog friend, the hilarious Bonnie Wren whose Monday Morning Mojo is the only thing that gets me to work; the talented and funny M.G., who was kind enough to be my first blog friend to invite me to her home, and her fellow bunions, especially E. Ann Bardawill; the amazing writers Cheetarah, Buffy Holt, Jamie Ford, Jess Riley and Sandra Ruttan; Adam Hurtubise, who first inspired me to post about my grandfather; Plant at Chasing the American Dream, who I've never met but who feels like a brother to me; the talented writers and thinkers who visit Barry Eisler's engaging forum, Heart of the Matter, especially Brett Battles and David Terrenoire; the steady and generous Bonnie Calhoun; Jessie, my kindred spirit in painting, writing and coffee; the amazing artist Katharine Tyrell who inspired me to start a blog featuring just my artwork; Robert Tolone, my high school friend who first introduced me to blogging and hasn't blogged since (y'all, go get on his blog and give him trouble, will ya!); and my newest inspirations thanks to Killer Year 2007, JT Ellison and Toni McGee Causey.
So, why am I telling you this?
Three years ago, with the advice of two mentors, one a dear friend and well-respected author with several published books to his credit and the other a former publishing house editor, I tried to hammer my first book proposal into the mold of narrative military history. I desperately wanted to sell it, and they convinced me this would make it sellable. I believe they are both absolutely correct. But this book isn't, and never was, the book I craved to write. So, what have I done with my finely-honed book proposal for the past three years?
Nothing. Never started the first chapter. Never sent even a single query out.
Now, entirely through your encouragement and inspiration, I am thrilled to tell you that I am revamping my book concept. Instead of writing a narrative military history, I will instead write the book I wanted all along: a book about my family, about my grandfather and his amazing spirit, about WWII, about the Battle of the Atlantic, about heroism and patriotism and spies and secret missions, about the love affair between my grandfather and his wife, about his conflicted relationship with God, about the men who drowned in the Arctic Ocean on a frigid night in February 1942, about the men who survived and about the men who saved them. It won't be in any genre, it probably will be a tough sell - if it sells at all - but it will honor my grandfather and the people he served.
Much like my blog, this book seeks to share a story with my family and friends. I can only imagine where that story will lead.
Thank you all, so very much, for your sincere friendship, for your inspiration and for helping me find my way in the world of writing! You're all the cat's meow!!
publishing books new writers daily life humor writing diary Blog Blogs Blogging Weblogs
Originally, I sought only to share stories with my family and friends. I never, ever anticipated making so many new and inspiring friends in the writing community: my very first blog friend, the hilarious Bonnie Wren whose Monday Morning Mojo is the only thing that gets me to work; the talented and funny M.G., who was kind enough to be my first blog friend to invite me to her home, and her fellow bunions, especially E. Ann Bardawill; the amazing writers Cheetarah, Buffy Holt, Jamie Ford, Jess Riley and Sandra Ruttan; Adam Hurtubise, who first inspired me to post about my grandfather; Plant at Chasing the American Dream, who I've never met but who feels like a brother to me; the talented writers and thinkers who visit Barry Eisler's engaging forum, Heart of the Matter, especially Brett Battles and David Terrenoire; the steady and generous Bonnie Calhoun; Jessie, my kindred spirit in painting, writing and coffee; the amazing artist Katharine Tyrell who inspired me to start a blog featuring just my artwork; Robert Tolone, my high school friend who first introduced me to blogging and hasn't blogged since (y'all, go get on his blog and give him trouble, will ya!); and my newest inspirations thanks to Killer Year 2007, JT Ellison and Toni McGee Causey.
So, why am I telling you this?
Three years ago, with the advice of two mentors, one a dear friend and well-respected author with several published books to his credit and the other a former publishing house editor, I tried to hammer my first book proposal into the mold of narrative military history. I desperately wanted to sell it, and they convinced me this would make it sellable. I believe they are both absolutely correct. But this book isn't, and never was, the book I craved to write. So, what have I done with my finely-honed book proposal for the past three years?
Nothing. Never started the first chapter. Never sent even a single query out.
Now, entirely through your encouragement and inspiration, I am thrilled to tell you that I am revamping my book concept. Instead of writing a narrative military history, I will instead write the book I wanted all along: a book about my family, about my grandfather and his amazing spirit, about WWII, about the Battle of the Atlantic, about heroism and patriotism and spies and secret missions, about the love affair between my grandfather and his wife, about his conflicted relationship with God, about the men who drowned in the Arctic Ocean on a frigid night in February 1942, about the men who survived and about the men who saved them. It won't be in any genre, it probably will be a tough sell - if it sells at all - but it will honor my grandfather and the people he served.
Much like my blog, this book seeks to share a story with my family and friends. I can only imagine where that story will lead.
Thank you all, so very much, for your sincere friendship, for your inspiration and for helping me find my way in the world of writing! You're all the cat's meow!!
publishing books new writers daily life humor writing diary Blog Blogs Blogging Weblogs
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Would I do it all again?
Today is not just Father’s Day, it is also my parent’s 51st anniversary. Instead of a big, loud Father’s Day affair replete with kids, noisy grandkids and noisier great-grandkids, they instead chose to celebrate with a quiet dinner at an elegant restaurant and only each other for company. After 51 years, they’re still in love.
Hah, you say. In this era? Impossible.
Think again.
This past Friday evening, I called my parents to make arrangements to drop some things off at their house. They were in the middle of making dinner and, as I had no particular plans, they invited me to join them. My mother had set a lovely table, as she does every evening, with candlelight, china and Waterford crystal--all for a simple supper of hamburgers and French fries.
After our meal, as we were waiting for coffee to brew, Mom plopped a large, gold-ribboned gift bag down in front of Dad and, with a coy little smile, announced that, since they were driving to Sedona to pick up the keys for their new vacation condo tomorrow, Dad had to open his Father’s Day present right now.
She hovered over him, wringing her hands with excitement, as he pulled a bright red toolbox out of the gift bag. Forgetting entirely that I was there, they whispered and smiled and cooed over each high-tech gadget and shiny tool as my Dad dug deeper and deeper into his new toolbox. He smiled at her, she smiled at him, they looked in each other’s eyes and cooed some more.
This was a side of my parents’ married life I’d rarely glimpsed: here were my stoic dad and my practical mom, both now in their 70s, acting like 14-year-olds giggling over their first kiss.
Mom remembered the coffee and disappeared into the kitchen, just as Dad gasped as he realized he hadn’t opened her card.
He looked at me with the puppy-dog eyes of a boy who knows he’s about to get into trouble, and I said, “Quick, open it before she gets back!”
As he read it, I watched his face visibly soften and his eyes grow full with wetness.
“This is really sweet, would you like to read it?” he said, barely able to speak, and handed me the card.
The cover of the card said: “Father’s Day: If I had it to do all over again, would I?”
The lengthy poem inside continued the question: “Would I go through the hurts and the laughs, the crying and the happiness…,” and so on. I think it ended with something like “…absolutely, I would,” but I can’t be sure; by the time I reached the end, my eyes, too, were blurry with tears.
My own romantic life has been radically different from my parents. At some critical point in our relationship, my son’s father, Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw, and I realized that we were not meant to live together, much less be married, begging a far more somber version of the question, “Would I do it all again.”
Would I go through the years of fun before our son was born, the exhilarating joy of childbirth, the agony of splitting up, watching Dad roll around on the living room floor with his six-month-old son like a couple of puppies at play, the first day of kindergarten when our Pumpkin got on the bus and never looked back and Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw tenderly put his arm around me and walked me home while I cried, the torturous nights of second-grade homework, the years when neither of us could agree on ANYthing, the day we stood together at the airport and watched our son swagger off an airplane like a 9-year-old adventure hero after spending two weeks backpacking through the Swiss Alps with his grandfather, the lonely summer weeks when the Teenager-Formerly-Known-As-Pumpkin went away for summer camp for the first time, the bullying of junior high, the first agonizing days of high school, the sleepless nights after the Teenager first got his driver’s license, his second place finish at a triathlon, his debut as stage manager over a $10,000 set design for his high school musical, the mad dash to the hospital when he had a concussion, the California college tour when we both chewed our tongues near through as we watched the Teenager interview with admissions counselors, the day this week when our son proudly came home to announce he’d received a 4.8 GPA for this past semester….
Would I do it all again?
In a heartbeat.
Thank you, Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw, for 17 of the very best years of my life.
parenting teenagers Family daily life humor writing diary Blogs
Hah, you say. In this era? Impossible.
Think again.
This past Friday evening, I called my parents to make arrangements to drop some things off at their house. They were in the middle of making dinner and, as I had no particular plans, they invited me to join them. My mother had set a lovely table, as she does every evening, with candlelight, china and Waterford crystal--all for a simple supper of hamburgers and French fries.
After our meal, as we were waiting for coffee to brew, Mom plopped a large, gold-ribboned gift bag down in front of Dad and, with a coy little smile, announced that, since they were driving to Sedona to pick up the keys for their new vacation condo tomorrow, Dad had to open his Father’s Day present right now.
She hovered over him, wringing her hands with excitement, as he pulled a bright red toolbox out of the gift bag. Forgetting entirely that I was there, they whispered and smiled and cooed over each high-tech gadget and shiny tool as my Dad dug deeper and deeper into his new toolbox. He smiled at her, she smiled at him, they looked in each other’s eyes and cooed some more.
This was a side of my parents’ married life I’d rarely glimpsed: here were my stoic dad and my practical mom, both now in their 70s, acting like 14-year-olds giggling over their first kiss.
Mom remembered the coffee and disappeared into the kitchen, just as Dad gasped as he realized he hadn’t opened her card.
He looked at me with the puppy-dog eyes of a boy who knows he’s about to get into trouble, and I said, “Quick, open it before she gets back!”
As he read it, I watched his face visibly soften and his eyes grow full with wetness.
“This is really sweet, would you like to read it?” he said, barely able to speak, and handed me the card.
The cover of the card said: “Father’s Day: If I had it to do all over again, would I?”
The lengthy poem inside continued the question: “Would I go through the hurts and the laughs, the crying and the happiness…,” and so on. I think it ended with something like “…absolutely, I would,” but I can’t be sure; by the time I reached the end, my eyes, too, were blurry with tears.
My own romantic life has been radically different from my parents. At some critical point in our relationship, my son’s father, Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw, and I realized that we were not meant to live together, much less be married, begging a far more somber version of the question, “Would I do it all again.”
Would I go through the years of fun before our son was born, the exhilarating joy of childbirth, the agony of splitting up, watching Dad roll around on the living room floor with his six-month-old son like a couple of puppies at play, the first day of kindergarten when our Pumpkin got on the bus and never looked back and Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw tenderly put his arm around me and walked me home while I cried, the torturous nights of second-grade homework, the years when neither of us could agree on ANYthing, the day we stood together at the airport and watched our son swagger off an airplane like a 9-year-old adventure hero after spending two weeks backpacking through the Swiss Alps with his grandfather, the lonely summer weeks when the Teenager-Formerly-Known-As-Pumpkin went away for summer camp for the first time, the bullying of junior high, the first agonizing days of high school, the sleepless nights after the Teenager first got his driver’s license, his second place finish at a triathlon, his debut as stage manager over a $10,000 set design for his high school musical, the mad dash to the hospital when he had a concussion, the California college tour when we both chewed our tongues near through as we watched the Teenager interview with admissions counselors, the day this week when our son proudly came home to announce he’d received a 4.8 GPA for this past semester….
Would I do it all again?
In a heartbeat.
Thank you, Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw, for 17 of the very best years of my life.
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Friday, June 09, 2006
The nuclear family has a new pet
A mongrel dog with brown shaggy hair, smelly feet and puppy-dog eyes lumbered into my house yesterday afternoon, growled, snatched a pair of jeans from the dirty laundry pile, and lumbered back out leaving dog-slobber all over the front door knob.
About an hour later, the very same brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog lumbered back in snarling something that sounded like: "grrrrGGASSS grrrrMMMONNEY." Oddly for a brown shaggy-haired mongrel, he was wearing a pair of filthy jeans that looked vaguely like something I'd once purchased at REI for my teenage son.
Shortly afterward, I received an urgent phone call from Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw. Shockingly, the very same brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog had lumbered into The-House-of-Dad.
Now, there is only one hard-and-fast rule in The-House-of-Dad, and it's quite simple: no shoes on the cream-colored carpet.
Too lazy to take off his shoes, the brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog had skirted the law by crawling on hands...er, paws...and knees through Dad's house. The mongrel dog's front paws were fully covered with dirt all the way up past his elbows and his fingernails...er, claws...closely resembled the La Brea Tar Pits thereby eliminating, in one fell swoop, all benefit gained from said "no shoes" rule.
The brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog was snarling something at Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw...something that sounded sort of like: "gggrrrrrSAT grrrrSSCOORRES."
A few moments later, Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw reported that the brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog had brought him a ragged piece of dog-slobbered, chewed-up paper in his teeth. At the top of this paper was printed something that started with the words, "College Boards."
The rest was obliterated by dog slobber and chew marks.
I wonder if we'll ever know how the Teenager scored on his SATs.
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About an hour later, the very same brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog lumbered back in snarling something that sounded like: "grrrrGGASSS grrrrMMMONNEY." Oddly for a brown shaggy-haired mongrel, he was wearing a pair of filthy jeans that looked vaguely like something I'd once purchased at REI for my teenage son.
Shortly afterward, I received an urgent phone call from Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw. Shockingly, the very same brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog had lumbered into The-House-of-Dad.
Now, there is only one hard-and-fast rule in The-House-of-Dad, and it's quite simple: no shoes on the cream-colored carpet.
Too lazy to take off his shoes, the brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog had skirted the law by crawling on hands...er, paws...and knees through Dad's house. The mongrel dog's front paws were fully covered with dirt all the way up past his elbows and his fingernails...er, claws...closely resembled the La Brea Tar Pits thereby eliminating, in one fell swoop, all benefit gained from said "no shoes" rule.
The brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog was snarling something at Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw...something that sounded sort of like: "gggrrrrrSAT grrrrSSCOORRES."
A few moments later, Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw reported that the brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog had brought him a ragged piece of dog-slobbered, chewed-up paper in his teeth. At the top of this paper was printed something that started with the words, "College Boards."
The rest was obliterated by dog slobber and chew marks.
I wonder if we'll ever know how the Teenager scored on his SATs.
Family parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary Blog Blogs Blogging
Sunday, June 04, 2006
The 2005-2006 Phoenix Suns: What a story, what a season, what a ride!
To the Phoenix Suns,
You took Steve Nash, a 6'3" injured Mavs reject and made him NBA season MVP for the second year in a row. You took Atlanta cast-off, Boris Diaw, and made him Most Improved player in the NBA this season. And, after Amare Stoudemire went down for the season, and everyone thought the Suns would become bottom-feeders, you gave us a 54-28 record.
Your coach, Mike D'Antoni, took this rag-tag team of short, skinny, rejects with bad backs and sore joints, and single-handedly changed the face of basketball with his style of play. And even though no one dreamed we'd get into the playoffs, you clinched the division title and home court advantage in the first round.
As though a stellar season weren't enough, after falling into a 1-3 hole against the Lakers, you clawed your way back with a vengeance and a 31-point win in a Game 7 played so perfectly it was more like watching a well-produced movie than an NBA playoff.
And just to make sure the nation stood up to take notice, when no one thought we'd get past the Clippers, you played like heroes in every game of the second round and landed us a slot in the conference finals.
We, your fans, were swept up into your gritty determination like trees in a tornado. Just as you raised the entire game of basketball a notch, you raised our game, too. We cheered, we screamed, we cried, we stayed through every game to the end and past, win or lose. You brought grown men to their knees and turned women into maniacs.
You rose from the ashes and showed us what wits, guts and a whole lot of heart can accomplish.
You didn't just make us fans again, you made us believers.
Thank you, Phoenix Suns, for the season of a lifetime!
Photos courtesy of the Phoenix Suns 2006 playoffs photo gallery and NBAE photos.
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You took Steve Nash, a 6'3" injured Mavs reject and made him NBA season MVP for the second year in a row. You took Atlanta cast-off, Boris Diaw, and made him Most Improved player in the NBA this season. And, after Amare Stoudemire went down for the season, and everyone thought the Suns would become bottom-feeders, you gave us a 54-28 record.
Your coach, Mike D'Antoni, took this rag-tag team of short, skinny, rejects with bad backs and sore joints, and single-handedly changed the face of basketball with his style of play. And even though no one dreamed we'd get into the playoffs, you clinched the division title and home court advantage in the first round.
As though a stellar season weren't enough, after falling into a 1-3 hole against the Lakers, you clawed your way back with a vengeance and a 31-point win in a Game 7 played so perfectly it was more like watching a well-produced movie than an NBA playoff.
And just to make sure the nation stood up to take notice, when no one thought we'd get past the Clippers, you played like heroes in every game of the second round and landed us a slot in the conference finals.
We, your fans, were swept up into your gritty determination like trees in a tornado. Just as you raised the entire game of basketball a notch, you raised our game, too. We cheered, we screamed, we cried, we stayed through every game to the end and past, win or lose. You brought grown men to their knees and turned women into maniacs.
You rose from the ashes and showed us what wits, guts and a whole lot of heart can accomplish.
You didn't just make us fans again, you made us believers.
Thank you, Phoenix Suns, for the season of a lifetime!
Photos courtesy of the Phoenix Suns 2006 playoffs photo gallery and NBAE photos.
Phoenix Suns basketball writing diary Blog Blogs Blogging
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