Remember when we were kids, and the local radio station would offer free tickets to the hottest concert to caller number (fill in the blank)? We'd frantically grab the phone, and pray for the perfect combination of speed and accuracy to get through. Time after time, our reward was only the busy signal. Even when the latest new technology brought us the "redial" button, still we were thwarted.
Today, I'm back in that place, only it's not a rockin' concert ticket I'm after. It's a slot in summer camp. Yep, it's barely February, there's a foot of snow on the ground, school's out for the day, and instead of doing the work that keeps food on the table, I'm mindlessly hitting the "reload" button in my browser, praying that I'll get the content I seek and not that freaking "service unvailable" message.
Isn't technology fabulous? Not only can I repeat the exact same behavior of my early teens, but I can do it many more times over using just two little muscles in my index finger. Doesn't change that sense of helplessness and growing anxiety though. This time it's not just a night of partying on the line — it's up to three weeks of parental sanity when school's not in session. The technology is faster, but the stakes are much higher.
There is one good aspect to it all, I suppose. Technology also gives me the ability to flaunt my frustration to anyone and everyone who happens to browse across this blog. And because I'm certain I'm not the only parent who in the coming months will be repeatedly poking that "refresh" button while simultaneously banging my head against the table, I don't feel quite as alone as I did back in the 70s, listening to that ominous, "beep...beep...beep."
Having your camaraderie during this time is .... Oh, look! I just got through! Gotta go!
Monday, February 1, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Vasectomy Ninjas
Last night, several of my women friends —terribly stressed, all — gathered at my house for wine, food and LOTS of conversation. As often is the case with gatherings of this sort, the talk quickly turned to sex.
Not who's having it, or who's not, or how or even why. No, we discussed the single most important question among women nearing, immersed in, or just past their 4th decade: vasectomies. Specifically, whose husbands have had them and whose have not. This is our most critical issue when it comes to marital relations, because as much as we all love and treasure our children, we're DONE with that craziness.
To be fair, I know of no husband who gleefully and willingly takes that plunge. Several of the wives assembled had convinced their spouses to go under the knife by threatening to withhold sex. One threatened that she wanted many more babies. (Talk about a persuasive argument!)
But I'd guess about half of the husbands represented have yet to take that important step. Too bad. There's nothing like the absence of extra hormones, the loss of latex and virturally no chance of pregnancy to foster wild sexual abandon. Guess some husbands miss that point.
But then, I realized there IS a way to help those reluctant men overcome their fears, or hang ups or whatever and get past the question and into the promised land. The answer: vasectomy ninjas.
Here's how it would work: Wife convinces husband to throw a party at their home. Wife helps ensure that husband imbibes copious amounts of alcohol or similar substances. Wife conspires secretly with highly trained and skilled medical doctor - the vasectomy ninja - to show up at the party and quickly perform the procedure. (After all guests have left, of course. We're not barbarians. ) Husband wakes up in the morning with a bag of frozen peas on his crotch, a mild hangover and no trauma. Problem solved.
Of course, REALLY crafty wives will say to their newly-awakened husbands, "Baby, you were incredible last night. Let me know when you're ready to do that again."
It's kind of like that urban myth where the college student goes to a party, gets bombed, and wakes up in a bathtub full of ice to find he has a kidney missing.
Could it ever really happen? Of course not. But I wonder after reading this, how many non-vasectemized husbands will shy away from throwing parties.
Not who's having it, or who's not, or how or even why. No, we discussed the single most important question among women nearing, immersed in, or just past their 4th decade: vasectomies. Specifically, whose husbands have had them and whose have not. This is our most critical issue when it comes to marital relations, because as much as we all love and treasure our children, we're DONE with that craziness.
To be fair, I know of no husband who gleefully and willingly takes that plunge. Several of the wives assembled had convinced their spouses to go under the knife by threatening to withhold sex. One threatened that she wanted many more babies. (Talk about a persuasive argument!)
But I'd guess about half of the husbands represented have yet to take that important step. Too bad. There's nothing like the absence of extra hormones, the loss of latex and virturally no chance of pregnancy to foster wild sexual abandon. Guess some husbands miss that point.
But then, I realized there IS a way to help those reluctant men overcome their fears, or hang ups or whatever and get past the question and into the promised land. The answer: vasectomy ninjas.
Here's how it would work: Wife convinces husband to throw a party at their home. Wife helps ensure that husband imbibes copious amounts of alcohol or similar substances. Wife conspires secretly with highly trained and skilled medical doctor - the vasectomy ninja - to show up at the party and quickly perform the procedure. (After all guests have left, of course. We're not barbarians. ) Husband wakes up in the morning with a bag of frozen peas on his crotch, a mild hangover and no trauma. Problem solved.
Of course, REALLY crafty wives will say to their newly-awakened husbands, "Baby, you were incredible last night. Let me know when you're ready to do that again."
It's kind of like that urban myth where the college student goes to a party, gets bombed, and wakes up in a bathtub full of ice to find he has a kidney missing.
Could it ever really happen? Of course not. But I wonder after reading this, how many non-vasectemized husbands will shy away from throwing parties.
Monday, January 4, 2010
My Kind of Brownie Troop
Those of you who know me will no doubt come close to developing seizures from laughing when I admit that I've allowed myself to be coerced into being a co-leader of sorts for my daughter's brownie troop.
But before you completely pass out, I should say that I've only agreed to handle the money. While I'm confident in my abilities to keep a modest checking account in balance, I'm not sure I'm what Girl Scouts of America has in mind for the perfect troop leader.
See, the Girl Scouts and I have a long history. It started when I was a brownie myself. I was in a perky little troop that wore full uniform regalia to meetings and did mind-numbing activities like learning to crochet. I was a proud tomboy and always wore my shorts under my brownie dress, which my troop leader overlooked. But I also wanted to do what my older brother was doing in boy scouts — camping, canoeing, generally running amuck.
So, on the day we were supposed to be making lovely photo frames from Bell jar tops, I chose not to bring in my picture. My troop leader called me a "lazy daisy." I told her in no uncertain terms what I thought of the project she'd planned, and her annoyingly condescending vocabulary.
She told my mother in no uncertain terms that I needn't bother to come back.
Times have changed a great deal, and no self-respecting eight-year-old would sit through a brownie meeting circa 1972. Instead, the Girl Scouts have developed a curriculum focused on self-esteem and positive emotional and social development. That's all good, but I'm thinking I might give the girls in my daughter's troop an even better head-start on life skills.
Martini-mixing merit badge? You bet. But of course, I'll be the only official taster.
There's also the clean-my-grown-up-kitchen merit badge, sort-the-recycling-so-my-husband-the-eco-nazi-won't complain merit badge, the what-can-we-weave-from-all-this-dog-hair-on-the-floor merit badge and (my favorite) the babysit-the-three-year-old-boy-but-don't-let-him-destroy-anything-while-I-go-shopping merit badge.
Think of everything those girls would know! Who wants to sign up for my troop?
But before you completely pass out, I should say that I've only agreed to handle the money. While I'm confident in my abilities to keep a modest checking account in balance, I'm not sure I'm what Girl Scouts of America has in mind for the perfect troop leader.
See, the Girl Scouts and I have a long history. It started when I was a brownie myself. I was in a perky little troop that wore full uniform regalia to meetings and did mind-numbing activities like learning to crochet. I was a proud tomboy and always wore my shorts under my brownie dress, which my troop leader overlooked. But I also wanted to do what my older brother was doing in boy scouts — camping, canoeing, generally running amuck.
So, on the day we were supposed to be making lovely photo frames from Bell jar tops, I chose not to bring in my picture. My troop leader called me a "lazy daisy." I told her in no uncertain terms what I thought of the project she'd planned, and her annoyingly condescending vocabulary.
She told my mother in no uncertain terms that I needn't bother to come back.
Times have changed a great deal, and no self-respecting eight-year-old would sit through a brownie meeting circa 1972. Instead, the Girl Scouts have developed a curriculum focused on self-esteem and positive emotional and social development. That's all good, but I'm thinking I might give the girls in my daughter's troop an even better head-start on life skills.
Martini-mixing merit badge? You bet. But of course, I'll be the only official taster.
There's also the clean-my-grown-up-kitchen merit badge, sort-the-recycling-so-my-husband-the-eco-nazi-won't complain merit badge, the what-can-we-weave-from-all-this-dog-hair-on-the-floor merit badge and (my favorite) the babysit-the-three-year-old-boy-but-don't-let-him-destroy-anything-while-I-go-shopping merit badge.
Think of everything those girls would know! Who wants to sign up for my troop?
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Americana Weekend
This past weekend, I sliced deeply into some American pie. I dredged up some of my Deep South roots from so far down, I should have worn some protective caving gear — or at least a helmet, because I was at the roller skating rink.
My friend Teesha, supermom that she is, hosted a skating party for her daughter's birthday. And since there's no mini-van alive that will fit nine excited girls, I volunteered my services as chauffeur and chaperone. (I should point out that 3 of the 9 girls were Teesha's, and that's not even all of 'em. Hence, her automatic "supermom" status. Something must be incredibly satisfying at her house. That's all I'm saying.)
Turns out, Teesha, me and our friend Cate were just about the only chaperones there in a rink full of teenagers. And boy, did it bring back some memories. Although we all hail from different parts of the South, we realized that early teen roller skating was something we all shared.
And then we wondered, is this a universal truth in the American adolescent psyche? Is roller skating as much a part of Americana as Friday night football and apple pie? When you move up north, do you just replace your wheels with blades and keep on sliding around the rink?
For us, it was a valuable opportunity for cultural reflection. For our daughters, it was a different kind of learning experience. At one point, my 8-year-old and her friend came up to me with very serious looks on their faces and said, "These teenagers move way too fast, and teenage boys like to show off a LOT."
There's a life lesson, no matter what culture you're from! Hopefully it will sink in.
And I'm not above a few more turns around the rink if anyone wants to go.
My friend Teesha, supermom that she is, hosted a skating party for her daughter's birthday. And since there's no mini-van alive that will fit nine excited girls, I volunteered my services as chauffeur and chaperone. (I should point out that 3 of the 9 girls were Teesha's, and that's not even all of 'em. Hence, her automatic "supermom" status. Something must be incredibly satisfying at her house. That's all I'm saying.)
Turns out, Teesha, me and our friend Cate were just about the only chaperones there in a rink full of teenagers. And boy, did it bring back some memories. Although we all hail from different parts of the South, we realized that early teen roller skating was something we all shared.
And then we wondered, is this a universal truth in the American adolescent psyche? Is roller skating as much a part of Americana as Friday night football and apple pie? When you move up north, do you just replace your wheels with blades and keep on sliding around the rink?
For us, it was a valuable opportunity for cultural reflection. For our daughters, it was a different kind of learning experience. At one point, my 8-year-old and her friend came up to me with very serious looks on their faces and said, "These teenagers move way too fast, and teenage boys like to show off a LOT."
There's a life lesson, no matter what culture you're from! Hopefully it will sink in.
And I'm not above a few more turns around the rink if anyone wants to go.
Monday, November 23, 2009
The Best Thanksgiving Recipes You'll Never Get
Secret recipe
Guarded for generations
But blabbed on the Web
Ah, Thanksgiving, the carbo-holiday!!
Debby and I are planning a team effort this year. As we've planned our menu and divvied up the work, we realized that we both have "non-negotiable" side dishes that must make their annual command appearance.
Hers include sweet potatoes and stuffing. Mine are butternut squash souffle and sour cream green beans.
Fortunately for us, these dishes have stood the test of time and become family favorites.
Sadly for you, dear readers, I can't share mine, under penalty of death and disownment from my own mother. See, we come from a place and time before the Internet age, before television - heck, maybe even before radio, when recipes were almost a form of identity.
Think you've got a cool Twitter handle? Check out my top-secret rhubarb pie. The word spread and the reputation grew in the same manner it does now, only much more slowly, so you could savor every bite. My mother honors this tradition religiously. Holding these recipes close is perhaps a way of holding the memory of the women who shared them close as well.
But that leaves me in an Internet age with an eager (I hope) audience that is hungry for both posts and recipes. So here's another recipe that I've made the past few years and like a LOT. And because I've forgotten where it came from, I'd say the likelihood of blowing anyone's secret tradition is pretty slim.
Cranberry Chutney
2 cups fresh cranberries
2 cups sugar
3 tablespoons water
1 chopped apple (I like Granny Smith for this)
2 ribs celery, chopped
1 tablespoon grated orange rind
1 cup orange juice
1 cup golden raisins
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
Cook cranberries, sugar and water over medium heat for about 5 minutes, until sugar is completely dissolved. Add remaining ingredients and simmer for 35 minutes, stirring frequently.
Remove from heat and chill. Store in the refrigerator in an airtight container for up to 3 weeks.
Makes 2 1/2 cups.
Guarded for generations
But blabbed on the Web
Ah, Thanksgiving, the carbo-holiday!!
Debby and I are planning a team effort this year. As we've planned our menu and divvied up the work, we realized that we both have "non-negotiable" side dishes that must make their annual command appearance.
Hers include sweet potatoes and stuffing. Mine are butternut squash souffle and sour cream green beans.
Fortunately for us, these dishes have stood the test of time and become family favorites.
Sadly for you, dear readers, I can't share mine, under penalty of death and disownment from my own mother. See, we come from a place and time before the Internet age, before television - heck, maybe even before radio, when recipes were almost a form of identity.
Think you've got a cool Twitter handle? Check out my top-secret rhubarb pie. The word spread and the reputation grew in the same manner it does now, only much more slowly, so you could savor every bite. My mother honors this tradition religiously. Holding these recipes close is perhaps a way of holding the memory of the women who shared them close as well.
But that leaves me in an Internet age with an eager (I hope) audience that is hungry for both posts and recipes. So here's another recipe that I've made the past few years and like a LOT. And because I've forgotten where it came from, I'd say the likelihood of blowing anyone's secret tradition is pretty slim.
Cranberry Chutney
2 cups fresh cranberries
2 cups sugar
3 tablespoons water
1 chopped apple (I like Granny Smith for this)
2 ribs celery, chopped
1 tablespoon grated orange rind
1 cup orange juice
1 cup golden raisins
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
Cook cranberries, sugar and water over medium heat for about 5 minutes, until sugar is completely dissolved. Add remaining ingredients and simmer for 35 minutes, stirring frequently.
Remove from heat and chill. Store in the refrigerator in an airtight container for up to 3 weeks.
Makes 2 1/2 cups.
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