College baggage

When Benjamin Braddock returns from college, he carries with him one suitcase through LAX.  When Harry Burns leaves the University of Chicago, he carries two duffel bags and a baseball bat.  Multiple images abound of students returning from college carrying very little.  What a load of crap! Maybe the difference is the era ('60s and '70s versus '90s).  When I returned from college, my car was overflowing and half of my stuff was on a moving truck.  My stuff expanded exponentially over four years.  Maybe previous generations didn't need as much stuff.  Without cable, did you need a TV?  Plus, VCRs and DVD players didn't exist.  Eight tracks weren't exactly portable.  Maybe life was just simpler then. 

Essay contest

Each year, Real Simple magazine has an essay contest for its readers.  Last year, the theme was "I knew I was a grown-up when..."  This year's theme is "I never thought I'd..."  The previous theme was too easy to blend in with all the others.  I'm going to have fun with this theme.  I'm planning to write the following: I never thought I'd have so many conversations regarding poo.  So many people are going to write about skydiving (which I refused to do when I had the chance), getting married (yawn), having kids (read that already).  I want to stand out.  I want to make an intern shoot Dr. Pepper out of his/her nose.

The winner last year just happened to be an English teacher from Phoenix.  So many people bitched about it.  Hey, I'm an English teacher; I didn't win.  Please, 6500 entries were submitted, and you think your trite narrative about paying taxes was going to win?  So what if she is an English teacher?  She wrote quite well.  It wasn't like she was J. K. Rowling or Danielle Steele.  Get over it.  It's like complaining that a person with a steady income won the lottery.

BTW, this is what I wrote.  I know it's on the maudlin side, but, in my defense, I'm really, really out of practice.  Plus, I understand why I didn't win.  I wrote one third of the recommended length.  Oops.  And, I referred to the prompt not once, but twice.  Double oops.



I first realized I was a grown-up a couple years ago, and it wasn’t because of my first job, first tax return, having my heart broken, graduating from college, getting married, changing careers, graduating again, or even giving birth. The notion hit me on a warm summer night when my eldest son was five months old.


You see, although I am deep into my thirties, I have always had a safety net. A safety net is the person who allows you to walk the metaphorical high wire without the fear of going splat: you are free to take risks without peril. I had a job in high school, but I didn’t need to have a job because I lived in my parents’ house. I did live in the dorm in college, but my folks were paying for tuition, room and board. Even my senior year, when I lived in an apartment with a roommate, savings bonds paid the rent. I was a boomeranger—moving back into my parents’ house after graduation until I married two years later. I was able to take the leap and change career paths, since my husband had a steady job that paid for the household expenses. I have never been spoiled, yet I’ve never had to be fully self-sufficient. And, although many of my actions were mature for my age (paying taxes in February, rotating tires regularly), they never made me feel like a grown-up, for they were second nature.

In the summer after my first son was born, my husband Tim and I packed up our little guy Drake and went to the drive-in. I don’t recall which movie we saw; we were just thankful to be out of the house and seeing a first-run movie. I knew Drake would nurse himself to sleep in the car. If he didn’t, we were prepared to drive home. Luckily, he slept and we enjoyed the movie. I was able to secure him in the car seat without disturbing him for the ride home.

When we reached the house, I gingerly extracted him from the seat, and, ever so slowly, made the journey into the house to place Drake in his crib. While in transit, I had a recollection of my childhood. I had the tendency to fall asleep in strange places, and yet, I magically awoke in my bed. My father always managed to carry me to my bed and never once woke me in the process. Carrying a sleeping child is a simple act, but it is one that embodies all the love, tenderness, and devotion a parent has for a child. And now, I wasn’t the child in the scenario; I was the parent. Holy crap! I’m the parent now. Me! All that fear of walking the high wire I never had for myself now engulfed me. I felt every ounce of it for this tiny, innocent person resting soundly in my arms, all the anxiety, all the uncertainty, all the unknown. He would be relying on me to care for him, to help him when he stumbled, to teach him to leave the nest. He will be looking to me for guidance, for support (emotionally and financially), for understanding. He will now be the one walking that high wire without fear because I am his safety net. That is when I realized I was a grown-up.

Jabber, jabber, jabber

Flynn is blissfully unaware that he is only 19 months old.  He tries to do whatever the rest of us are doing.  His favorite task to mimic is talking on the phone.  He loves cell phones, working or not.  A working cell phone provides the bonus of both lighting up and dialing Japan.  He holds the phone to his ear and says the following:  "Hi.  abaofhowiehfiuviawhegoiuahwoeighowihgnanjwhpviaiohewvneioaswlsdkagjhoigheidaddubdubdubdubdubd.  Bye."

Mom, what's with the ancient brick phone? 

(Among the treasures unearthed at Maria's house was my first cell phone.  My calling plan back then: 20 minutes per month.)

Drake at this age wasn't nearly as chatty as Flynn currently is.  The boy will talk your ear off and give you the what for, should to cross him.

Drake, the texting machine

Drake likes to send his daddy text messages.  It helps him during the day when Tim is at work to not feel sad that Daddy is at work and not playing with monster trucks.  Since Drake cannot spell or read, the texts consist of random numbers and letters.  But yesterday, after he sent another message, he was repeating to himself what the message said.

"Hi, Daddy.  We are being good little monkeys.  I love you. See you soon."

Melts your heart, doesn't it? :)

"Vampire Romance" is a genre at Barnes and Noble?

Am I fundamentally missing something about the whole Twilight craze?  I know I am not in the target audience, but there a legions of women out there who are my age who are quite rabid about the series (and a few closeted fans).  I do enjoy a good vampire story.  Dracula was the first epistolary novel I ever read, which lead to a lifelong infatuation with the vampire lore and the literary style. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is another favorite, both for the exquisite writing and the continuation of the lore.   I understand the lure of the mythology.  (Remember, the theme of the original story was female sexuality is evil.)  The vampire oozes sexuality and is just one smooth cat. 

I just can't bring myself to read the Twilight series.  Vampires shouldn't "glitter."  And, somehow, I'm supposed to believe that a 104-year-old vampire has been waiting around for the love of his life: a teenaged girl.  Umm...no.  (I was a teenaged girl once. No one's soul mate is a teenaged girl.)  All this wouldn't matter if the story was well written.  But, when Stephen King says your writing is horrible, I would listen.  You don't have to be a fan of his work to respect the depth and breadth of his writing career.

If anyone can give me some reasonable insight into this, I'd be happy to listen.  Until then, I'll stay away and glean the information from The Oatmeal.

Dear Innocent Motorists

Although I do not feel the need to justify my choice to be pasty, I must issue an apology.  You were just innocently driving to the store when you were struck blind.  Nothing in this area creates such a light source: lasers, lighthouses, atomic explosions.  Yet, you were subjected to it all the same.  I am sorry.  I was just taking my son for a walk.  I will issue a public warning the next time I wear shorts (which will probably be tomorrow because another 90+ degree day has been foretold).

My kingdom for a spoon

I cannot find a freaking spoon in my kitchen.  It's not that I don't own any.  And I don't mean soup/dessert spoons.  I own many spoons suitable for cooking in conjunction with my non-stick pots and pans.  Wooden spoons.  Plastic spoons.  But, no, I have to prepare Rice-a-roni with a spaghetti lifter.  It's like hammering with a small rock.

And, why, you may ask?

Because Chef Drake likes to make "Soap Soup" in the bathroom sink.  On the bright side, he is no longer using his toothbrush to stir his concoction.