One + One

Conversation snippet from yesterday Afternoon:

George the Younger:  If I had a curfew what time would it be?

Me:  I have no idea, but it will surely be earlier than you will ever like.


Conversatoion snippet from last evening.....

George the Younger:  Tomas and I are going out shopping on black friday.  We're going to buy a mini fridge.

George the Elder:  What would you do with a mini fridge?

George the Younger:  Isn't the question really, what couldn't you do with a mini fridge????


In isolation - simple questions from a 15 year old boy taking place hours apart.  Put them together and I have to wonder.   Maybe he's craftier than we think.

Medium to Fair

This morning I'm sitting in Starbucks nursing a steaming hot grande cup of awake when I am approached by a dapper looking young early-thiry-ish man in a suit.  He has just rushed in the door, but does not head towards the counter to place his order.  Instead, he sits down directly across from me on the edge of the nice large cushy leather chair, leans forward towards me conspiratorially and says...

"I was wondering whether you had a little face powder that I could borrow?  I ran out of the house this morning and forgot to put mine on."  (this is said while he is stroking his face in a manner, which I suspect is supposed to have me notice his uneven skin tone)

The way I see it,  shouldn't every meterosexual male who is worth his salt carry his own personal pressed powder compact?  Sadly, I had none to lend.  Not a face powder kind of girl (which he would have surely noticed if he had take a second to look at the uneven skin tone of the person that he was addressing).

And, for what it's worth, we didn't even have the same skin tone.

On a different Page?

I've been noodling lately that perhaps George the Elder and I ought to start watching our waistlines. You know drop those 10 pounds or so that have stealthily crept up on both of us over the last several years. Was imagining that we should start a Mediterranean Diet or some such nonsense.  But over the last two weeks, it's become obvious that perhaps George the Elder and I might not be on the same page.

Behold.  The last three cookbooks that George the Elder has added to his vast cookbook collection....

Donuts.  Milkshakes.  Ice Cream.  Nuff said.

Two Teens and the Art of Thank You

I'm certain that I've mentioned this before, but George the Younger and Henry share a birthday.  No, they're not twins.  No, they are also not biological siblings (unless by some incredibly weird coincidence their birth mother moved countries and changed nationalities between one birth and the next - doubtful).  No, we do not celebrate both birthdays on one day.  Yes, we do a birthday-palooza kind of thing that spans across two days.

Day One = celebrator #1 selection of birthday dinner and dessert.

Day Two = celebrator #2 selection of birthday dinner and dessert.

All presents are opened on Day one.  It would be cruel to have to wait 24 hours for your presents just because it wasn't "your year" to eat first.

This year we decorated mightily and left those streamers and balloons up for the whole two days.  For those of you who know me - - this was torture!  But, a shout out to my favorite place to buy stuff, "Target!"  Adored the little "party set" with streamers, balloons, and banners!  All for some ridiculously low price of "who-cares!"  You can leave out the sparkly confetti next time.  Confetti is only used by stupid people who want to clean it up out of their homes for the next decade.  I'm just saying.

This year means we transition forever in to no-longer-having-a-less-than-teenager-in-our-lives.  Henry 13.  George 15.  Next birthday = potential driver's license.  Time is marching on.  and on.  and on. 

Henry is Celebrator #1 in 2011.
Dinner:  Porcupine Balls (not from real porcupines)
Dessert:  Creme Brulee

George the Younger is Celebrator #2 in 2011
Dinner:  Shannon's Island Pork Tenderloin
Dessert:  Classic Baskin Robins Mint Chip Ice Cream Cake

Just a couple of observations re:  dinner and dessert selections;

• Henry chose Creme Brulee this year.  He is getting to be the King of unique birthday dessert choices.  Last year we did Boston Cream Pie.  This year we had to buy a blow torch.  Having now used a blow torch, I believe that there should be an entire cookbook dedicated to cooking things with small hand held fire makers.
• Creme Brulee is tasty.  It has a couple of problems when used as birthday cake.  One: inserting candle into recently bronzed sugar is impossible.  Two:  Do not try to light candles with blow torch (even though it's going to be right on the counter calling to you).  Candle Wax burns much more quickly than sugar.  A lot more quickly.  Puddle of blue wax on top of beautifully browned sugar is not aesthetically appealing.
• George the Elder was personally insulted that George the Younger chose one of Shannon's recipes for his birthday dinner.  Historically, George the Younger selects some pasta dish made by Dad.  George the Elder took his decision personally.  Dad did, however, choke down the delicious Island Pork Tenderloin while nursing his broken heart.

Shannon came to celebrate again this year.  HURRAH!

I try to make the boys write thank you notes for the gifts that they receive from others.  They've been writing these a few years now.  First we started them off with the fill-in-the-blank variety.  You know:

Dear ____,  Thank you for the _____.  Love, _______

They used a template that looked just like this and had to write them out as soon as they could manage it - - 5ish, I think.

This morphed in to a more sophisticated template of:

Dear ___,  Thank you for the _____.  It was the perfect gift because _____.  Love, ______

These days, there is no template.  They are simply reminded over and over and over and over again to write their notes.  Saturday, I finally got out their notes out of the boxes, placed them on the dining table and announced that NO-one was doing NO-thing the entire weekend unless the damned notes were done.  Amazingly, faced with missing fun-with-friends or just sitting on the couch watching Mythbusters - - the notes were written!  Huzzah!!!

[SPOILER ALERT:  If you are my mother, my sister, my father-inlaw or my daughter and do not want to read your thank-you note PRIOR to receiving it in the mail in two short days...STOP READING RIGHT HERE.  If you are not my mother, my sister, my father-in-law or my daughter, please continue reading to get a glimpse of what years of thank you note writing has morphed in to...]

Remember, the template is:  Dear X.  Thank you for X.  Insert personal sentence regarding the gift or that person.  Love, X....

Hello Sailor.

And, nothing says "old lady" quite like no lips at all....

My grandma used to always say that putting on a little lipstick would make everything better.  I thought she was speaking metaphorically.  A little lipstick = a happy day.  Turns out that she was actually simply articulating an indisputable truth of the aged.  A little lipstick = bona fide visual lips.  Nuggets of wisdom by older women are usually a little tricky that way. 

Perhaps the metaphor aspect was just an illusion. A happy coincidence to lure you dreamily in the harsh reality that lies deeeper and darker.  I mean at any age a women could have a happy day without lipstick.  And they could have a happy day with lipstick.  It's just that as you get older, without the lipstick other people have no way to know you are happy because they are entirely unable to discern whether you are smiling or not.  They cannot see your lips. Because they have merged seamlessly into your face.  So, OF COURSE wearing lipstick makes everything better.  Or something like that.  Whatever.  What I'm getting at here is that I have no lips and I feel like my Grandmother didn't exactly spit it out that without lipstick you have no friggin lips at a certain age.

Of course, "I have no lips" is simply figurative.  I still have some lips.  If I had no lips I would have nothing to apply lipstick upon.  What I have are reduced-mostly-invisible-to-the-naked-eye-50+-year-old-lips.  The kind my grandmother doubtlessly had when she spoke her words of "wisdom."

Something must be done.  What I need to do now are two things.

1. I must now never leave the house without lipstick when doing any activity that does not require a leash, a dog and a baseball hat.  I fear that should I do this, I may find myself in a matter-of-life-and-death situation where only I have the information necessary to stop the tragic death of a child - - and the only person capable of physically saving the dying child is a deaf person who can only read lips.  In a face devoid of readable lipage - - the child would certainly perish.  I can't have that on my conscience.  (And yes, if you are paying attention I am clearly going to accept that risk while walking the dog.  I don't know why.  Just lazy I guess.)
2. Go and buy some better everyday lipstick.  This, sadly, requires a visit to the make-up counter.  I detest the make-up counter.  All that youth with all that make-up spackled on - judging us old folks with wrinkles and aversions to 27 individually applied layers of water-proof mascara.  It's hellish.  But, I need some "normal lip color."  Dismally, I suspect that this not an available shade choice:  Normal Lip Color.  Instead, I will be forced to consider and slog through various varieties of berries, a smattering of spices and most likely a standard fruit or two before , finally, in utter frustration I just roll-over and buy what the lady says looks good.  Subsequently, I will discover that I hate it.  This will happen while I am driving the car and pull down the little mirror at a stop light to apply slightly more "Dazzling Berry" to my non-existent lips and I will notice that in the light of day the color makes my lips look like semi-dried earth worms instead of lucious berries.  But I will wear it because if not children could die and all that.  Sheesh.

 Oh yes -- and that last thing - - I will now begin reciting the  lie wisdom-of-the-aged to all my younger relatives - - daughter, cousins, nieces - -

"A little lipstick makes everything better"

Let's see how damn long they think it's simply a metaphor.... 

Emmy's 2011 - better late than never....

Watched the Emmys the other nite.  Of course I did.  Sucker for those awards shows and all that I am.  Set the DVR, planned pick-ups and deliveries of two teenage boys to coincide with the viewing.  Even set the DVR to include the pre-show red carpet so I could check out all that glamor, all that glitz, all those poor fashion choices.  Best laid plans and all that.

Thanks to the poor sportsmanship of the network (not to mention the 49'ers and the Cowboys) seems that there is a definite heirarchy to what American wants to watch.  Red Carpet vs. sweaty large men pushing and shoving each other in to over time.  Me?  I'm for the red carpet.  The rest of America?  Heavily padded freakishly large men and a ball.  I lost.

Still, when I'm wrong I say I'm wrong and 20 minutes in to the truncated version of "Red carpet by Fox", I sadly admitted that the network was absolutely right in their  choice.  I didn't have a single clue who Fox's red carpet announcers were, and worse - - they were horribly bad.  Were they behaving badly because they also felt usurped by the game coverage?  Who knows, but I am SO glad that I was in the position to fast forward.  Yuck.  20 minutes of nuttin honey.  Disappointment.

So, on with the show:

• Jane Lynch was an adroit host.  Thought she'd get a little more "Gervaise", but heard that the network pulled in her reigns a scosh in rehearsals.  Too bad.  She can be very funny with the right material.  Given a little more leash and I think she would have been fabulous!
• What was with the cut-down-to-there dresses this year?  Julie Bowen (modern family), Anna Panquin, Kristin Wigg, and yes, even the daughter from modern family (Ariel Winter) was showing was too much of her tender 13 years.  And, while Julie Bowen claims that she just naturally has the figure of a 14 year old - - I still think a couple o'snickers bars a day ought to help with the bony-breast plate thing she's got going between her wee breasts.
• What in tarnation was Julianna  Margulies wearing?  Resembled a mid-century lampshade with a pleather diner bench skirt. Tragic.  And I LIKE mid-century.  Just not furniture as clothes.
• Dear Zooey Deschanel - - Did you miss your prom as a child?   And I might suggest that using the ribbon from your last year's xmas gift from your mom might as a belt not have been the best choice no matter how "recycle/reuse" you were going for.
• It it probable that many people had to run to look up the word, "grandiloquent" used in Julian Fellowes acceptance speech.  If you were one of them, be aptly forewarned.  Only brits can say that word and not be considered total knobs.  Same with the word "dodgy." Oh and the word "knob."
• Did Guy Pearce borrower Martin Scorses' glasses?  The proof in in the photos....

• Who doesn't love the song Hallelujah?  Sung by 4 Canadian tenors.  Teared up a little at all the Moms we lost this year. 
• Whether spur o' the moment or planned far in advance, the contestants for the lead actress comedy were spot on and jeepers they are all funny.  I was kinda hoping Melissa would win.  And so pleased she got a tiara.  Who doesn't want a tiara?  I don't watch Mike and Molly, so  I like to pretend she was winning for Gilmore Girls.  I was in love with that show.  I watched all 7 seasons in the year that Big George was working in London and we were stuck in Germany.  Kept me away from the schnitzel...
• And last, for those of you, older than say 20, who were totally perplexed by the musical number of the night starring Lonely Island and Michael Bolton......the one that included a somewhat terrifying mommy-make-the-bad-men-stop segment with William H Macy....  I have a 15 year old that explained it all to me.  Here is the Lonely Island video upon which the farce was based.  This doesn't explain away the lap dance for William H - - or the "for everyone who's had sex in the last millennium", or the "better with three" parts - - but it helps.

In or Out?

There's a scene in "A League of Their Own" when Tom Hanks finally steps out of his drunken stupor and decides to start managing the team.  He and Genna Davis simultaneously give "Marla Hooch" conflicting hand signs from the dugout about what she should do at the plate.  Marla steps in the batters box.  She steps out of the batters box. She steps in the batters box.  She steps out of the batters box.  Finally, she swings away.

I was reminded of this film clip, not because I just saw the film again the other day AND cried at the end again the other day (so sue me) - - but because the whole concept of stepping in and stepping out of something- - or more precisely WHEN to step in and WHEN to step out of something was I've been wrestling with these past two days.

The story goes like this.  George the Younger texts me on his way home from soccer practice on Tuesday night with these words, "mom!  I didn't make the team!"  I text back casually, "Which team?"  Not that I'm an idiot - - of course I knew he was at soccer practice so I was referring to A SOCCER team-- but the question was more of did he not make the Varsity team (a looooong stretch since he is first a freshman and second he's no Pele) or did he not make the JV team?  He texts back "I didn't make any team."

I found the context of this text confusing.  Why, you might ask?  Kids get cut from sports teams all the time.  And didn't I just say he's no Pele?  This kid is a baseball player.  He only plays soccer every summer at camp.  End of story.  The basis of my befuddled state was the advertised "no cut" sports policy his newly attended high school.   The basic philosophy is that the boys get to try lots of different things.   It means your kid gets on the team.  It doesn't mean he gets to play in games, in fact he could ride the bench hard all season long - but he does get to attend practice with the team and if in some weird "Rudy" moment he actually triumphantly takes the field, more power to him.

So George the Younger gets home from soccer practice thirty minutes later.  He walks in the door with devastation embedded in his very being.  He's shell shocked.  This boy is an athlete.  This boy has never before been cut by a team.  He just got named MVP of Color War at camp for his athletic contribution by his fellow campers.  He didn't know what to do with himself.  So, the face of this terrible news, combined with the emotional stress of starting a new school, exacerbated by the lack of sleep given his new schedule (no red-blooded human teenager should have to get up at 6:00a.m.) - - and well dang, I had a living breathing basket case on my hands.  He didn't understand how he had been cut.  Cue the tears.  "I picked this school so I could try different stuff."  Giant angst.  "I'm not going to play on the baby team!!!"  What baby team?  What was he talking about??

As it turns out, there was going to be a "baby team."  The non-upset-wounded-pride-14-year-old title for this team is technically the "Developmental Team."  How did I find this out?  Well, here's the stepping IN part:  I sent a very nice email to the director of athletics and the head of school.  [Yikes!  Was this the first step in "helicopter parenting" during my son's high school years???  Egad, I hope the hell not.  I hold distain for those kind of parents.]  But, I needed to understand if we misunderstood the school policy - - its sports philosophy - as it were.  Kindly, the school responded quickly - first a nice email from the athletic director (containing a forwarded email that had been send out the weekend before describing how they needed to have a 3rd developmental squad because they had an unprecedented number of boys go out for the soccer team this year.  I didn't get this email because George the Younger gave them the wrong email address) and then I had a nice phone call from Shuja (not the head of school, but the admissions guy who we knew from applying) - - swell guy!  All was well  - - no philosophy changes.  All good., except I still needed to deal with my son's disappointment on being assigned to the "Development Team" - - a team that would still play a couple o' games, and who's members would be able to move up to the JV as their skills increased.  But it's still a bitter pill to swallow when you're the only boy in your carpool not to have made the JV or Varsity teams.  That stings, but he would survive it.

Now for the stepping OUT part.  I told George the Younger I was going to ask the school about philosophy -- which I did.  But, to get the answer to the "what the heck happened to me and why didn't I make the team???" question - well, that was something only the coach would know.  The coach conversation was something he needed to do.  I don't talk to coaches.  He's not my coach.  He's his coach.  If players have questions or want to talk - - the player needs to do it  The mom (or dad) needs to stay the heck out of it.  He said he would do it at the next practice.

Yesterday, I head to the school for a meeting on an entirely different subject.  George the Younger is waiting there in the courtyard - - still looking a tad dejected - - but now he's obviously been bolstered up by his new group of homies who are similarly incensed that George did not make the team (I'm beginning to "get" the whole boy-brotherhood thing.  They're like tiny little packs of wolves they way they already hang together).  I told him what I had found out from my research and we talked about how he was going to couch his comments to the coach (i.e. don't be a whiny baby - ask what skills you need to improve to make the team - find out what he's looking for - be mature about it).  Just then his phone buzzes.  And seconds later a smile the size of the world appears on his face....

Why?  The text is from a fellow freshman soccer player currently getting ready to start the first JV game of the season out at Treasure Island (where George the Younger is NOT since he didn't make the team).  What does the text say?  Something to the tune of "WHERE R U???  You're supposed to be starting!!!" (I'm sure the full words were not spelled out- - but I got no skills in text-ish.).  My reaction to the text?  WTF?  (non-verbal of course)

Turns out that the coach had meant to put George the Younger's name on the list.  He just forgot.  He didn't transfer the names correctly from one sheet of paper to another.  So at 4:15 we head across the Bay Bridge to Treasure Island.  The normal 15 minute ride - - stretches to 40 minutes or beyond with traffic - - but we're pretty lucky and make it in 30.   George the Younger has no soccer gear with him, he cannot play in the game.  But he's there to talk to the coach.  Which he does.  Which makes him smile.  Cause yes, he was on the team.  The world, in his estimation, had righted itself.

I remember now - - this High School parenting thing.  The still-having-to-step-in for the "administrative stuff" and the needing-to-step-out while they learn to take care of their own business.  All of this would have been a non-issue if George the Younger had simply "stepped-UP" the night the team announcements were made and talked to the coach right then and there.  A little life lesson learned.  He still might have gotten the news that he was on the "developmental squad" - but he would have had facts to deal with instead of his imagination gone wild ("I will prolly NEVER be able to play sports at SH until my senior year when they HAVE to take me even if I SUCK", "I'm not going to have any friends since ALL my friends are on the team and I am NOT!").  But that is hard to do.  Hard for an adult.  Especially hard for a 14 year old faced with bad news.

So, my time in the batting box begins.  Step in.  Step out.  It would be a whole lot easier if I were getting hand signals from the dugout.