My Non-Fickle Car Life in Hondas

This morning, someone on CNBC made a comment about American car customers being fickle.  I didn’t recognize him, and that doesn’t really matter.  Sometimes, I think the talking heads that flash on and off the television don’t know what comes out of their mouths most of the time, running a bit like someone who is in the throes of intestinal distress and searching for a bathroom.

I immediately disagreed, knowing I would fail to qualify for fickleness.  I’ve had a love affair with Hondas since 1975 when I purchased a brand spanking new Civic hatchback with a “Hondamatic” transmission.  I was 19 years old.  I loved that car and the responsibility of making my $84.75 monthly payment.  I think it was the first time I actually began to feel like an adult with something that belonged specifically to me.

There was a period where I was Honda-less, though.  I had a Jeep CJ-5 before Chrysler or whomever bought the company turned them into something that only looked like a Jeep.  It was fun for a while.  I learned how to drive a stick, let some air out of the over-sized tires and blast up the side of a giant sand dune — my hair bandana flapping in the hot breeze, my bikini clad skin darkening by the minute.

I never quite fit the role of desert rat I was introduced to by my first husband, but it was what lured me away from Hondas for a few years.  I could talk about things like leaf springs, and 4-wheel drive traction.  I slept in a tiny tent in desolate areas, and drove around without doors attached to the side of my Jeep on warm days.  I visited shops that smelled of grease and sparkled with chrome rims and exhaust pipes.  I also spent time stuck in the middle of nowhere with flat tires, cracked radiators, and broken u-joints.  That’s what happens when a vehicle purchased for everyday use is thrashed about on days off and vacations.  The two don’t exactly mix.

It was interesting while it lasted, but I sadly divorced the Jeep.  The radiator fan finally spinning off its track, I left it in a parking lot where a customer asked if he could buy it for his son.  I said yes, and watched as one of the more interesting parts of my life was towed away, its new teen-aged owner grinning ear to ear, leaving me with mixed memories.

And then I bought another Honda.

At that point, my two older boys were about five and six, and because the four-door gently used Civic made a strange noise when it was in high gear and reaching a particular speed, we named it the ST, for “Silver Tornado.”  It served quite a few important years getting me to and from work,  to SDSU to finish my abandoned degree, and my boys to and from school, and visits with their dad.  I have warm memories of our very own type of “car talk” revolving around the world they viewed from their backseat positions:  trees, hills, clouds…and water towers.  When I think of the topics now, they’re all that can be seen when you’re a small human seatbelted deep into a car.  Such very cute little boys.

I miss them now that they’re grown.

After I finished my credentialing program and the MoH and I married, we were able to leave behind our string of cheap apartments and purchase a condominium, creating a new home for our composite family.  Having a good monthly salary instead of the once a week check I squeezed while in school soon allowed me to donate the old ST to the local high school auto shop, and purchase a shiny new teal Honda Accord with a luxurious creamy interior and automatic windows.  Automatic transmission.  A moon roof.

I thought I’d arrived.

Although my two older boys had many years in that Honda, too, it quickly became the RT’s car.  His place to drip milk from his car seat, and then drop French fries from Happy Meals in cracks where I’d find them petrified weeks later.  His car to sit in more quietly since his brothers were so much older and often not in the car with him.  His space to have books and cars, rocks, and odd seeds he’d collect at school, calling them army men.  The creamy upholstery slowly began to age, the relentless sun in Paradise scorching it to the point where it would soon tear.

So with a mere 11,500 miles on its not quite 10 year old engine, I sold it to one of my son’s friends and bought another Honda:  an Acura 3.2 TL which still sits in my driveway today.

The plan was to give it to the RT when he was old enough to drive, and although that time is rapidly approaching, I’m not quite ready to give up my car.  Yes, there are dings in the sides of it, and the carpet is wearing in some spots.  I tire of the dust showing more quickly than it would on a lighter color, but I like it.  I like the idea that its reliability and comfort holds the remaining couple of years of driving my youngest here and there — he with his iPod earbuds in, me forgetting that when I want him to notice something out the window, forcing him to politely pull them out of his ears to listen to his mother.

No, I think I’ll hold on to this the last of my Hondas.  It has a few more memories left in it.

And then I’ll talk the MoH into one.

Get Out Your Deflector Shields

Yanno, I was going to have a lovely, quiet morning. Feh.

After a much needed eleven hours of sleep last night (evacuated relatives, non-stop fire coverage, no school, no work, and a busy Las Vegas weekend) I stretched, poured my coffee and began to plan my day. Fire coverage is dwindling (thankfully and finally), the Santa Ana winds have completely died, and fire fighters are focused on what’s remaining — still a concern, but nothing like it was even a day ago.

I was cozied up to the MoH’s laptop (instead of my beloved mac since the RT is home and is putting in iTunes time) getting ready to do a bit of research on a recipe I’m going to tackle and I came across this article.

Remember when I had the nuclear melt down over the Jeep Princess a week or so ago? Well, that was mild in comparison to the flare of heat I felt when I read it. The rush of anger, barage of razor sharp opinions, and flow of thoughts bottled for the better part of a year made their presence known. Matilda the Hun is alive and well in the smoke-filled skies of Paradise.

And to put the turd in that caustic punch bowl…

Dub-yah just landed in Air Force One to survey the burn areas.

I was going to go get paint for the RT’s room, which we’ve been sanitizing and organizing together. Miracles do happen. I was going to be physically constructive for the better part of the day instead of exercising my agile fingers and brain. But the article was a serious deterrent. And Dub-yah is guilty by association with NCLB.

Before I really get going, consider this: In his sophomore English class, the RT has to read whatever he wants — at least 100 pages a week. No big deal. He has to keep a list of what he reads and make a couple of entries in a notebook. No guidelines, just a note or two about each item he’s read. At the end of six-weeks, the teacher will go around the class, look at each list, “pick one of the items on the list” then expect the students to write about that item in class for a grade. Can the RT do this? Of course. The kid reads. He always has. And yes, he can write about what he reads, if the teacher is willing to subject herself to his tortuous handwriting. But what is the real point of the exercise? To catch the students who can’t, don’t, or haven’t read? Or to confirm the original assessment that their writing skills are seriously lacking, and that even though you haven’t taught them anything to begin to correct this problem, you’re going to test them? A test is supposed to be a measure of more than just a student’s learning. It’s a measure of the effectiveness of one’s teaching, also. Or the quality of the test. Or the material taught. Or the motivation of the students. Or the motivation of the teacher. Okay, so this is going no where fast.
This video sums things up fairly well.

Until everyone — EVERYONE stops thinking that “things” should remain the same as in the good ol’ days, and that what and how you and I were taught should be fine because “we turned out just great…” then we’re part of the problem. Unfortunately, a very large portion of the teaching force is part of the obstacle to change. A huge number of teachers are reaching retirement, and although many have had productive careers influencing countless children in positive ways, the sheer idea of having to learn radically different techniques that involve a strong understanding of how technology works is something less than attractive for many. Not all. Many.

Those interested in learning are facing obstacles caused by the dysfunctional system, the equipment, and the often less than knowledgeable quality of support staff. I’m sure I’ll burn with the politically incorrect in hell for making these statements — another problem. The world of education is quite two-faced. Face to face, it’s all peaches and rainbows. Behind the scenes, it’s all snarking and biting. It would make a terrific reality show.

There are newer, more idealistic teachers coming into the profession, some of whom are from different professions. And yes, they have much to learn from their more experienced colleagues, and should definitely listen. But it rarely works in reverse, and that’s too bad. Why is it that as we age, we close our minds? We think those younger than us, or from outside our system, lack knowledge and ability. We forget how we felt when we were their age, and what we knew. There is a very odd culture within the educational system that is unlike that of others who understand the value of working together, and sharing ideas. Individuals in the medical profession, engineers. There seems to be a fear that prevents the development of an intellectual community within the educational system. That if you gain certain heights, you’ve forsaken the masses, and are to be questioned. What is that called?

No, not all teachers exhibit that level of closed mindedness, but many.

I’ve raised three sons who are pleasant, productive people. They’ve watched some television, played some video games, played some sports, and had to endure some chores to earn an allowance. And they’ve had quite a bit of time to learn to entertain themselves with books and hobbies. To use their imaginations. To feel boredom and develop a willingness to do something about it.

Unfortunately, they’ve also had a fairly lack-luster experience at school with primarily lecture-driven instruction supported by textbooks that are so sanitized it’s a wonder the information inspires any degree of critical thought. They’ve had county schools, city schools, Montessori schools. They’ve had experienced teachers, new teachers, engaged teachers, and people who should have been encouraged out of the profession before their second year. They’ve attended low-performing schools, mediocre schools, and extremely high performing schools. It doesn’t seem to matter. We’re good at perpetuating the notion that learning occurs in a box in this country. Extremely.

It would be so easy to launch into a diatribe on parenting at this point because parents are the primary responsibility for their children. But if society acknowledges that not all parents are capable of raising their children appropriately (and they’re not because anyone can have sex, and unfortunately children can’t choose their parents), then the educational system has got to provide. (Rush Limbaugh is probably choking right now…) And what is provided can’t be the same across a district, or a county, a state, or the country. That thinking persists because it’s easy. That thinking persists because we’ve been doing it for so many years.

That thinking will persist until the people who work in the public education system work together to change their thinking.

It’s not challenging. You just have to be willing to wrap you head around the idea that things are possible instead of not. It’s called optimism. Optimists are shot down in the educational system. Those who stand out and work to achieve different possibilites are frowned upon and talked about. Surely, innovation is suspect. Negativity and snarking about “the pendulum” swinging back again inevitably begin. How nice to be able to act in such a sanctimonious way. To think that the kids are going to hell in a hand basket and that you can’t do your job because you’re not being given the same material you used to be given.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but school is supposed to be a place where you actually learn, and not show up to show what you know. Increasingly, it needs to be a place where students learn HOW to learn — impossible if someone is standing in front of the room talking and then assigning homework. When’s the last time you had to sit in a room and just listen to someone who couldn’t possibly know all he or she should know to teach you? Fun, wasn’t it? And yet we subject our kids to that.

I’m not suggesting that educators aren’t intelligent. No one in any profession can possibly contain all the information necessary to truly teach. Things have changed. Information is available everywhere. Students need their teachers to understand what and where the sources are, teach them how to discern credible information from what is faulty, and push them to develop their own hypotheses and investigate their own theories. Publish their own findings. Constructively argue the validity of their own findings.

Teachers are the key. They have to be. They can’t continue to complain about their administrators, the parents, the students, the lack of materials, lack of technology, support staff, pay, and stress on the job. All of those issues can be part of the problem, but when has complaining accomplished anything?

This rant is far from done. But it’s all over the place today, and god forbid that someone out there correct my choice of syntax and punctuation (which is much easier to do than use the questions I’ve posed to analyze and evaluate their own part of the problem).I respect the fact that anyone can stay in a profession for their entire career. That they can look back on their accomplishments and feel good about them. That they can speak as an “expert” because of that experience and make comments about “what the problem is” without considering that they, too, could have a share in being the problem.

That it can’t possibly be only the students. That it can’t possibly just be their parents. That it can’t possibly be just the administration, or the lack of funding, or the feds. That maybe. Just maybe. They are partially to blame because their thinking, their strategies, their unwillingness to become part of a solution, take action, and let go of their negativity, could be part of “the problem.”

When you examine the lives of individuals who are successful, and listen carefully to what and whom they’ve been influenced by, rarely to they say it had anything to do with their education. And if it does, it’s a dedicated teacher here or there. A coach, a professor, a dance instructor.

Ask a writer whether he or she learned to write in school. Rarely, if ever, are they able to attribute their skill, talent, and passion to any writing teacher — unless one considers a particular author a teacher — and I do. So do they.

Ask yourself to what extent your education inspired you. And not just through the K-12 years, but beyond. And then wonder what works, for whom, and why?

Or just pat yourself on the back that you made it to the end of this.

Nearly Wordless on Wednesday

The sunset was interesting last night.

The troops became even more restless.

And according to the RT, gas alerts were also something to be concerned with.

But not natural gas.

Teenagers.

Thirty-one words. Not bad for a nearly wordless Wednesday.

Okay, so now 41.

Um…

A Day of Whimsey and Frolicking Cavortingness

Salt Lamps and Earthquakes in Paradise

My oldest son gave me a halite rock salt crystal lamp ionizer last year. I was pleasantly surprised because I had seen the lamps glowing eerily in shops I’d strolled through before, wondering what they were, and thought them beautiful. I knew absolutely nothing about them however, and was fascinated to find sources that report that the lamps can improve the number of negative ions in the air of a room when lit. And that they can also assist in the improvement of respiratory allergies and other conditions such as asthma. That they can increase alertness. Create an atmosphere of calming, balancing, refreshing…clean. Clearly, this young man took one look at his mom, and detecting an impending implosion, got a salt lamp to me as quickly as possible.

A year later, I’m wondering if my son owns one. He can’t breathe, is allergic to just about everything, and has asthma. He has a job he detests and is trying to go to school. I’m thinking he needs one of these lamps.

I recently moved the lamp from our family room to my bedside table. I noticed that because I hadn’t kept it lit, it began to sweat as I had read it would — especially in humid conditions. It sweat so much, I had to place a saucer beneath it to keep it from ruining the shelf it was sitting on. Now, it serves as a night light of sorts. The amber colored light it casts is much more pleasant to fall asleep by, and since the weather is still warm enough to require all our windows be open at night, it prevents anyone from looking into our room after dark. They may wonder what the unearthly glow is, however.

I know there are sources which will contradict the stated benefits of salt lamps. I also know there are sources that will question just how the salt is mined, and whether the conditions for the workers are safe. I have to admit I wondered about those things as well. I believe many of us are just wired in that fashion. But I also know that the lamp is gorgeous, and does bring a sense of calm just by lighting it — much the same way that lighting a candle brings.

Skeptics always have and will continue to poo-poo anything that isn’t explainable by cold hard facts. They rely on logic and science for everything. I do when it’s convenient, or I feel the need to win an argument, but once in a while, it’s lovely to wonder and to give in to other possibilities. To feel grateful for a thoughtful gift from someone you love without having to think about logic.

I’m now wondering about the difference in life span between hard-nosed skeptics, and dreamers. I think that being on a cranky quest to squash everyone else’s beliefs has got to be something that creates quite a few positive ions. And in much the same way those tiny personal fans were created for individuals who wanted to blow away another’s cigarette smoke, I think tiny, portable salt lamps just may be necessary to ward off the evils of chronic naysayers.

Besides, I’ve discovered yet another benefit of using a rock salt lamp.

Yesterday, in one of my myriad toss and turn sessions during the night, I heard a distinctive sound. It was a persistent, steady light dinging — one seeming to be very close. I instantly recognized it, and after a second of recognizing, opening my eyes, stopping my breathing to rise on an elbow, knew that it wasn’t The Big scratching a flea. The salt lamp doesn’t fit quite snugly into its saucer, so it was rocking steadily to the movement of the earth. I looked at the MoH, who hadn’t removed the arm he likes to position over his face. Earthquake, I told him, and laid back down to go back to sleep.

Later in the day we did see on a news commercial that there had been a mild earthquake just off the coast where we live — with a magnitude of only 3.7… “You were right,” the MoH confirmed, granting me credit for my knowledge. The MoH is a skeptic at heart, although would disagree with that, finding it to be a criticism or flaw in his character instead of one of the many idiosyncrasies we all have as less than perfect humans. I had intended to check the US Geological Survey website earlier in the day, but forgot.

Cal Tech’s So Cal Shake Movie

After the news commercial, my father-in-law said mentioned he’d read the “big one” was coming. I remembered years ago reading Last Days of the Late, Great State of California by Curt Gentry in which much of the Left Coast breaks off and either separates from the continent, or sinks into the Pacific. My father-in-law continued by saying that the date for the occurrence had been moved up by ten years or so and we had a bit of discussion on the number and intensity of earthquakes in the Pacific Rim over the past couple of months. But the discussion wasn’t enough to distract any of the others visiting my sister-in-law’s home for a nephew’s birthday from the football game they were watching.

Later last night, I asked my middle son if he had felt the earthquake. There was an earthquake? he answered, and then told me The Big One was coming. I wondered whether he’d been talking to my father-in-law and whether I was the only one who didn’t think this was new information. I did try to find recent information about The Big One, but nothing more recent than last year came up. Somehow, I’m more concerned about getting out of this chair and getting some exercise, or reorganizing my kitchen cupboards. Or something. Put together emergency earthquake kits?

A family disaster plan? Well, we’ve talked about it.

But not today. I can breathe more easily dreaming that while my salt rock is improving the air in my bedroom, it will also let me know that The Big One has arrived before my house falls into the one within spitting distance of either next door. And increase the likelihood that I will be more calm. And alert.
More calm while alert.

I did not get in line for calm when I was being made.

It’s on my list for next time.

House Sitters and Sexy Party Gifts

I think the first trip the MoH and I took together was to Las Vegas. Neither of us had ever been, and I’m not sure what prompted it, but off we went to end up at a fairly seedy hotel and casino somewhere off The Strip and that no longer exists. We drove across the hot desert with not much on our minds but the glimmer of a possibility of hitting a jackpot — on a role of nickels per day.

Although I’ve been fortunate enough in my life to have visited and lived in a variety of places (due to a somewhat nomadic early childhood and the military) the MoH had not. And so, we have worked to take time to get away as much as we could squeeze in over the years. Rarely has our travel been exotic, as the cost alone was something challenging for us to swallow. Sometimes we took my two older boys, leaving the RT as a toddler at home, and others we’d take all three boys and throw in my mom for good measure. Often, we’d leave everyone behind, escaping by ourselves. We like each other. And although it’s lovely being together as a family when we’re traveling, the kids don’t always need to go, nor is it always fun for them. No, I’m not rationalizing.  Yes, I’m picturing that faded blue VW bug my family had chugging through Spain with either a perpetual ruckus in the back or a stony silence in the front. *memmmmmm-reeeeeeeeezzzzzzzzz…..like the corrrrrrrr-nerzzzz of my mind…misty water colored mehhhh….mreeeeezzzzzzz….of the way…we were…..*

We’ve been lucky when we’ve traveled because there has always been someone willing to keep an eye on things around the house. L-U-C-K-Y. At first, it was my mom. We all shared a home for a time, and so it was easy to take advantage of depend on her. Then as my two older boys grew, we were terrified felt comfortable leaving them to the responsibility of the old homestead. Unfortunately, that came to a screeching halt when the oldest had one of those notorious parties where people never seen or heard of before show up looking for free booze and someone else’s bed to copulate on. And barf all over. Have you ever smelled clove cigarettes? And tried to scrape damp leaves off the floor?  I’ll save you the rest of the gory details. Suffice it to say we weren’t so anxious to leave home again.

When we moved closer to the ocean, it became a bit easier because the MoH’s parents willingly, graciously, thankfully came to stay while we went on our little excursions. Although they are fairly close, being residents of North County Paradise, they used to take the opportunity to treat their stay here as a mini vacation of sorts. We were at ease knowing all was well with our home and animals, and could count on our stellar neighbors to take an unfriendly swipe or two at them over inane things in anonymously written cards left on windshields. Ahhh…the perks of living in Paradise.

That’s all more difficult now. This last vacation, I had to ask my middle son if he could keep an eye on things. He works fairly close to our house, so the possibility of saving some gas money, and an offer to pay him for his time sealed the deal. The dough will come in handy for his school books this next semester. Well, since I usually give him some money anyway, that would be rationalization.  Whatever.  There was just one glitch. He had plans to visit Magic Mountain with his friends for an entire day. Hmmm….the dog would be a huge problem, bless her barking, pooping, howling self. I thought about taking her with us on our road trip for about a second and a half. She loves riding in the car and sticking her head out the window, but the though of all that 409 I’d have to spray on the back seat every time we went around a curve…well, you understand, right?

  So I began to wonder about my older son, a lovely mix of creative wonderment, and perpetual curiosity. I should have purchased a shirt for him long ago that read “Makes Sudden Turns” because he can be on the straight and narrow path, then vanish. For days. Like he was a figment of our collective imagination right when you thought he’d be there. Where he was supposed to be. Doing something he said he’d do.

As I was mulling over these thoughts, my middle son asked whether he could put a towel down or something. You know, in case the dog peed. Uh…no. The condition of the carpet by the garage door already effectively leads one to believe a race horse enjoys a stall in our home. So, there would be no towel.

All was worked out, because upon our return, the floors were vacuumed, the pet dishes clean, the floor swept, trash emptied, patio free of dog poop, and plants watered. Dishes were done, counters were wiped and windows strategically open so air could come in, but the barking dog wouldn’t inspire our lervley neighbors to send us lerve notes.

And the refrigerator was clean. Totally. Shelves wiped — even the shelves in the door. Even the one that had a variety of jars and bottles stuck in the petrified fudge sauce I’d been meaning to clean for about three years or so. No moldy cheese. No pickle jars sporting a lonely slice and pickling spices. No out of code marinade, or radioactive peach barbeque sauce I forgot to throw out before we left. Spotless. Go Figure.

We were also left a note:

I left at 2PMish Friday. Ms. B went pee & poo 2x this morning. She likes to bark at her/your neighbors on her walks!!! (She so doesn’t do this when we walk her…) Blackitty and Precious are fine and have lots of fleas. (Oh, really? And does a chicken have lips?) (My kitties don’t have fleas and they are poor [East County Hood] kitties not rich [Paradise] ones. (We’re middle class posers) Check out Petmeds dot com for some flippin’ sweet deals. (Uh…I did apply one of those little vials of poison to the back of each of their necks on the very morning we left. I think the fleas like the way it tastes.) Thanks for the fooji. (Frozen pizza, taquitos, burritos, and the like. Oh, and ice cream. And root beer.) I cleaned up every day and [older brother] cleaned out the fridge on Saturday. He said [the RT’s] bed smells funny (You couldn’t pay me to sleep in that bed either, but the bedding was freshly washed and what would someone who frequently sleeps amongst the dirty laundry in his car know, anyway?) so he slept on the floor with Ms. B and 2 fighting, hissing kitties on the living room floor. (So maybe we’re even for the wild party all those years ago?) See you all tomorrow afternoon, RC >=B — <

And then he left this present for the RT who watched about 80 hours of Family Guy in the back seat of the car on our vacation.

Present from Big Bro

My middle son said some of the crew at work got wind of his house sitting gig and wanted to know where we lived so they could “hang out.” I’m sure they were referring to the windows. Or something. About 17 of them. Sheesh. Whatta close call. Maybe that’s why the house was so clean, now that I think of it.

Ahhh…I just love my boys. I think they’re swell.

Summer Trough in Paradise

There’s a significance about this summer: it’s the first one in about 10 years that the RT hasn’t had to attend a camp. Hasn’t “had” to. “Had.” He has attended camp because like many others, we worked, and he would have been alone at home for a good portion of the day if we hadn’t found something for him to do. No siblings his age to stay home with like we were able to when I was growing up.

No endless days of doing absolutely nothing — although I do remember being completely entertained. Hours of black and white television reruns. Dressing up in my mom’s clothes. Mixing every ingredient in the spice cupboard and daring each other to taste it. Watching my brother take the dare. Tying my sister up and chaining her to the street sign in front of our house. Like I said — fun.

So the RT’s been packed off to a variety of YMCA camps to endure popsicle stick craft projects, “special” weekly outings, and a tough kid or two who have tried to poke him in the nose. He’s been to camps that focused on mask making and rocketry. San Diego Zoo camp, and Seaworld camp. He’s had plenty of time at Camp Gramma as well, to fill in the spots between the other camps. The last two years, he’s been dropped off at UCSD, a host site for iD Tech Camps. It’s a bit pricey, but he has shown some interest in various aspects of computer technology like every other boy his age — read video games — so this was an opportunity to provide some depth learning in a couple of areas. He seemed to enjoy it, but all in all, it was still camp. No buddies to hang with. No war mongering soul mates to hunker down with and talk shop. Just camp.

This year? I guess it’s all about me. Big surprise, huh? Call it Camp Mom. Makes you all warm and fuzzy inside, and then want to yawn, right? Apple pie, baked bread…..well, not exactly. More like frozen microwavable burritos and and IV with Black Cherry Vanilla Coke flowing from its bag. Endless trips up and down the stairs from the computer in his room, to the TV, to the PS2, to his models. Oh, and there is the daily chore of walking the doggo I neglected to mention. So some movement is involved.

So what’s my role? Balancing the amoeba-like oozing I’ve illustrated above with semi-constructive “other things to do that involve learning and moving your body.” See? Camp Mom. You do understand I’m not very good at this, right? But I have been thinking about it for a couple of months now.

So the first things that come to mind are museums. You know — special exhibits. Things we could talk about. I picture the RT sort of slogging after his mom through these places, wishing he was in front of his computer, or tinkering with one of his tanks. That image doesn’t particularly sit well with me. Or art galleries. Take our sketch pads, do our own renditions of what we’re looking at. That could be interesting. Abstract nudes?

He’d shoot those flat eyebrow darts at me for that.

And the beach is five minutes away. We could rent bikes — yes, I said rent. No, we don’t own bikes. And when the RT did own a bike, he chose not to ride it. Ever. It ended up in a parent raffle at my old elementary school, scoring me many bonus points. We could ride on the boardwalk or around the bay. I think he’d like that. We could see how many rollerbladers we could crash into, or tourismos we could knock down. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a bike as well.

Or we could rent kayaks. He enjoyed it when we went to Cape Cod a couple of summers ago. Besides, Mission Bay doesn’t have the currents that Nantucket Sound does, so he wouldn’t have to worry about exerting himself, or spraining his mouse finger. Just kidding. And what about one of those boards you run, jump on, and skim across the water with before falling on your caboose? Yes, I can see myself doing that, all right. It does look fun, though. I’m thinking he’d most likely not be interested in being close enough on the beach to me that people would connect the two of us as belonging together. So maybe the better purchase is a board for him, and an umbrella for me. An umbrella, beverage, and a really juicy beach read. Except there’s soooooo not one of those in that stack of books I’m wallowing through. Wait. On second thought, I do have The Bride Stripped Bare somewhere just waiting to be read…

The library is definitely in order. Once a week should do it. Yes, he always gets to choose his books. What do you think I am? I’m only a wannabe control freak. He’s always enjoyed his books, and although I’m sure he’d like to purchase them so he can savor them over and over again, we’re on a semi “what can we save if we don’t really need to spent it” kind of quest here.

Besides, I’ve heard our local branch has quite the collection and some great events scheduled, so I’ve wanted to check it out. Has he wanted to check it out? He’s 14. He’d most likely rather rent time at Office Games over at the mall while I shop. Or hang out with the seals at Casa Beach.

The biggie is nudging him to set up his own website. He is a walking storehouse of knowledge about WWII, tanks, military vehicles, aircraft in particular, weapons, and history in general. It’s truly incredible. So in an attempt to get him to consider bringing together his knowledge, tech interests, and to sneak in some much needed writing practice — along with some graphics for good measure, I think he’d enjoy this. But I’m only the camp director, so what do I know?

And then there’s photography and Photoshop — something he learned to use this past year at school. Then he can show me how to do it so I won’t have to learn. Trick. But he does click those buttons faster than I seem to be able to.

We’ll see how that goes. Camp Mom. Like I said. I’m not great at it.
You can lead a horse to water, but… if you have to, you can push its nose in the trough.

Troughs are not quite the same as hoops. It’s easier because all you have to do is fall in — or be pushed. And if it’s big enough, you can either sink or swim.

Or get a floatie and then splash water at the person who pushed you in.