kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Family

  • Teenagers and Circus Hoops

    “Mom…MOM,” the RT rumbled yesterday morning, slinking around the corner to the kitchen in his new size 12 tennies. Do they even call them that anymore? And how can a 14-year-old have feet that big? His feel are suddenly the size of very large bricks.

    “Huh? I responded, fumbling with the coffee grinder and looking at him cautiously, knowing he was going to ask for something that was going to be challenging for me with only three minutes left until carpool time. Something that may require I had to put clothes on to do. And I was already going to have to do that as the day wore on because I had a dentist appointment. Ugh. I am underwhelmed about ever going to the dentist, but they all know it and take very good care of me.

    “When you get a chance today, can you go to Staples and get me a calculator?” he continued.

    “What happened to the three we have? I asked patiently — well, it felt patient. Sort of.

    “You mean this one?” he said, holding up an old Texas Instruments business calculator that the MoH used in college. Yes, it still works. “It doesn’t have tan, sine, or the other functions I need for math.”

    “You have two of those already. Where are they? I saw you using one the other day, adding up stuff for your Warhammer game.”

    “Imperial Guard,” he cut in.

    “Huh? What guard?”

    “You know, my game. Not Warhammer.”

    “Uh…can we get back to the calculator, please? What’d you do with it?” He had that flat look he gets when his patience is being tried — like when I could never get Sun-jay’s name correct and he had to remind me every single time what the correct pronunciation of the former American Idolness‘ name was. “Sanjaya. Not Sun-jay.”

    I could feel the beginnings of steam rising over this nonsense of the calculator, like it was something that really mattered — which it wasn’t. But it was an opportunity to make another point about his lovely bedroom. Dirty play by Mom sticking it to the RT again over one of his biggest challenges. “When do you need it? You don’t have a test today, do you? If your room was clean, you’d be able to find your stuff when you need it — like now. See what I mean?”

    “Mom. I need it by Monday. Okay?” he said quietly before walking to get his backpack. It was time for the carpool and it was our day.

    “You need to spend some time in your room today when you get home and find the calculator. It’s here. Are you going to need it in class today? Do you have a test?” I persisted because maybe it didn’t compute the first time I said it.

    “Mom. No. I. Do. Not. Have. A. Test…Okay?” he said, looking right at me, and with the utmost control, as one might display when communicating with something which had little or no capacity for language. A boiled potato, maybe.

    He’s such a good kid, but The Geometry Teacher’s class has been an up and down challenge all year, and this business of him being loosey-goosey about her drill sergeant tactics is getting old. He has conformed to some extent, and that actually makes me a bit sad because he has given in to someone who, in my opinion, should not be in a classroom with kids. She has sharp teeth and anti-productive hoops she’s installed for students to jump through like circus animals instead of actually teaching something. The fact that he was actually asking me to get something for him for the class was significant. It must be the excellent “B” he got on her last test that has perked him up. Her test, not his. It’s all about Her. In the past, we hadn’t found out he needed something until it was too late, and then we were forced to get out our “DORK PARENTS HERE” sign and stand under it for making it seem too challenging for the RT to ask us a simple question. Lecture avoidance technique strategy armed and ready.

    Yesterday, when I was at the dentist’s office, a woman came in with her own teen-type. I think that’s what it was — a lanky sort of unhappy looking thing who had his attention glued to his cell phone. He must have been playing games on it or something, because at one point, the thing’s mom told him to turn it off, and he completely ignored her. Four times. Four. Then said, “What?” quite loudly in the small room, like she was some obnoxious creature who had slimed in from the swamp and had soiled his air space. I was dying to look at their expressions but was mortified for her and wanted to verbally wring his skinny neck myself with a terse, “Can you step outside for a minute, please?” just to see what he would do. But it was only a fleeting fantasy. To her credit, she persisted, and told him he had to turn off the cell phone because there were signs posted in the office. “Where? What sign?” he barked at her as he slid off his chair to glance over my shoulder at the sign. “That’s for when you’re back there, not here,” he finished, not looking at her. She sighed and picked up a magazine, and I carefully kept my attention on mine, even though I couldn’t see a damn thing because I’d left my glasses at home. All three pair.

    The experience reminded me of just how pleasant our son is. By the time I got home from the dentist, he had found his calculator. He said it took him an hour to find it, wedged behind his bed, against the mattress and the wall. I got to hear all the colorful details of the closet and under the bed, too, where he said he spent ten whole minutes. Yes, I know. I’ve been there myself, far too many times, and for much longer.

    So with the calculator tucked safely where he can find it himself next time (Yes! All children can learn!) we drove off to Friday morning at L-T-DHS, with no chance of sunshine, and a high chance of rain. But the car crew was bubbly this morning, with the princess grousing about an AP Euro exam like it was a badge of honor, and the two boys talking about the cold and a crash involving two semis being announced on the radio and hypothetically discussing what would happen if one was filled with fish and the other with chips. It’s not funny, but the RT is. His brain sees the world in comic strip form. At any moment, he breaks into dialog, or an announcement, or narration of some unseen event, reported in some accent that he’s picked up from Monty Python or somewhere. Half the time, I can’t understand him, but he clearly entertains himself. And he makes me smile every day.

    So I’m off to my mom’s. You guys may have to live without me for a day because she lives in the serious sticks east of Paradise and has……Dial….Up. It should be illegal for anyone to have to suffer from a dial up connection. My sister is visiting from VA, and we have work to do on the house she hasn’t sold here yet. Anyone out there want to move to East Paradise? It has a swell pool, good schools, and a kitchen with a face lift.

    On the home front, tax season is over, so the my husband is a human again. The Momolator or whatever the hell he’s calling our dog this week is happy to have him back, for obvious reasons. The Yack Star Fresh Face Prince Ass Fuzz Bag Flea Incu-Bus hasn’t graced us with a hairball in a week, and I finally completed one food blog obligation last night, with more to come this morning (or perhaps not).

    A million thanks to a techie who, in response to a question I asked, put up a great post about transferring my blogs to my own domain, Thought Sparks. If you remember the laughing baby I linked in a previous post, that is courtesy of him, too. Such a nice guy!

    Have a splendiferous weekend searching for something besides Sanjaya on Google. And then let me know so I can join in!

  • Sudden Waning Interest Syndrome

    Teeter Totter In our local paper, Ruben Navarette Jr. writes with fair weather passion about “Judging the ‘Idol’ judges.” In a recent post in Parenting Teens, an overly-protective author writes about the “courage, commitment, and determination” of the “plucky” teenage performer, Sanjaya. In “Chinks in the ‘Idol’ armor?” Verne Gay puts on a spin worth considering about the change in AI’s rankings. It doesn’t matter, because as the television world turns…

    …the RT, MoH and I have reached the tipping point — that funny intangible place in our house where, after a couple of years of watching something together on television to unwind, the fascination is suddenly gone. We don’t need to know what happens next because Elvis has left the building. (more…)

  • Loving but cheap Birthday Present

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Today is my sister’s birthday. You know. The one who was smart enough to leave Paradise and move to VA where the leaves actually turn colors and fall off the trees. On the Right Coast where there’s weather? That one. And in spite of her abandoning me, right when I am actually beginning to have a real life as a stay-at-home mouse potato, and could have influenced her in a variety of tainted ways, I still love her and want to wish her a Very Happy Birthday. Here’s a brief trip down memory lane to celebrate in a very cost effective way (even though you bought me that cool bag packed full of pajamas, unmentionables, and smelly bath items for my last birthday).

    Key West, FL 1962

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Key West, Florida. 1963. You can tell it would be difficult to love someone who had a scowl on her face until she was about 6 years old. I mean look at the little one in this picture of swell kids. What is her problem? Does she just need sunglasses? A bonnet? Who is her mother, anyway? And whose idea was it to have an Easter Egg Hunt in the rocks?

    You probably don’t remember, but this is the place where Mom used to make us wear our tennis shoes in the water because there were so many crabs, they’d pinch our toes — especially your chubby morsels.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Chipiona, Spain. 1964. Maybe it’s because she was abandoned on the beach as a young girl, left with other, non-scowling girls with untangled hair who were bound to be simply gorgeous when they grew up and were destined to live in Paradise, bab-i-fied and married to Prince Charming. Poor urchin. Where is her mother?

    Do you remember that bathing suit? It was red with a little skirt and had white turtles on it, or something, didn’t it? And you loved to roll in the sand until you were covered in it. I think this is the only picture that exists where you weren’t cranky about having your picture taken. No wonder the nuns smacked you around in that Spanish school.

    But clearly she came out of such a painful childhood caused by years of tolerating vinegar rinses after community, mixed gender bathtub shampoos, and monotonous lunches of “only baloney” and peanut butter without the jelly. Developing a passion for modeling poor eating behavior for the children at the dining table by playing with her mashed potatoes has assured all of us, that she is just fine.

    Today, she’s a serious butt-kicking name taker. Don’t even think about approaching her at a gas station while she is on her cell phone and interrupting a serious conversation with her gorgeous older daughter, who, like a good daughter, calls her mother 12 times a day. She will snap you up one side and down another. You will be toast. And be glad that you were not the woman behind the counter at the DMV in VA who made the mistake of asking her far too many questions about her seemingly incomplete paperwork. What was that innocent government employee’s name?

    She’s a fierce mom of a competitive cheerleader and gymnast girls, who, after showing everyone she could graduate summa cum laude with a degree in Accountancy and nail a job from an international firm, turned her back on it all to stay at home and boss her family around while her husband has been off fighting wars and stuff. She’s really good at it.

    She’s also good at remembering all of our birthdays and I never remember theirs — or get them royally mixed up. They tolerate me with flat expressions and murmurs of, “What do they feed her?”

    She’s a tiny thing, but she’s scarier than hell. And I’m thinking that I’d really love to get old with her in VA some day before we can’t walk, talk, or eat salsa on everything anymore.

    This is your Birthday Song…It isn’t very long…

    Cheers my sister!

    Now just for hoots, watch this and have a splendiferous day and indulge yourself somehow. It’s swell.

  • Suburban Posers Get Nailed

    Suburban Posers Get Nailed

    The highpoint of carpool duty today was seeing 10–yes, 10 city motorcycle cops looking buff and spiffy in their black boots and uniforms standing on the side of the road during the morning carpool jam. An Urban Commando Unit* car-pooler most likely cracked one of her NUTs and called the city of Paradise’s Finest to rat on non-rule-following car-poolers.

    If someone had actually planned this particular area of road, you might be able to call it an intersection. Imagine a capital X with the center being offset. Then try to picture two traffic lights so close together that only two cars can actually sit between them. Now for entertainment value, add a bike lane. That would be the real reason the cops were out today and holding a ticket pad instead of a donut. They were giving out citations for Flagrant Display of Egocentric Behavior.

    The morning dance of the carpools is the result of a middle and high school sitting within spitting distance of one another, and a huge number of parents who drive their kids to school. That’s about 3,000 teenagers. Why aren’t students walking to school like their parents — through the snow without shoes, carrying all their books, and a healthy lunch? Because a large number of them live more than five miles away, and those miles are anything but flat. Why not let them take the bus? In Paradise, if you live in the geographical boundaries set for a particular school, there is no transportation provided by our urban school district. Well, that is unless your child lives outside the boundaries, and attends a school classified by No Child Left Behind as “under-performing.” Then transportation is provided so your child can escape the horrors of his own hood and attend L-T-D Middle or High School instead. There’s another group involved in the mix: the uber smart people who live in a McNeighborhood outside of L-T-D Land, and who somehow have found a way to “get in” by joining one of those school boundary laundering houses that create phony utility bills and other documents that will help authenticate that their Prince or Princesa really does belong in the local schools. It is this last class of car-poolers who, after coming quite the distance and are so close to their final destination that they can smell it, make use of the bike lane to whiz past the rule-following, tolerant, resigned to this morning ritual, car-poolers. And today, these suburban posers got nailed.

    The coppers stopped the bike lane hemorrhage by halting the interlopers and spreading down the line like they were taking remote orders for In-and-Out burgers and shakes. And would you like that with grilled onions? Bah-dah-Bing! Oops! Gotcha!

    The second group that were, like, well, so totally caught today were the entitled folk coming down the hill from one of the more the exclusive neighborhoods in Paradise. They like to block the first intersection by swinging their au-tos around the commoners already in line to cruise through the bike lane because, well, their time is more valuable than mine and the 45 cars behind me.

    I’m thinking Paradise took in some serious cash today.

    *Urban Commando Unit (UCU) — A vehicle that seats more than four passengers, more than one of whom be seen putting make-up on, or finishing homework, and usually transporting the family dogs, which has either a car or truck chassis, sits above a normal car’s height, and sports a number of stickers on its posterior, advertising everything the occupants are advocates of or interested in. Driver is predominantly female (about 90%), blonde with hi-lites (about 85%), and usually on a cell phone, blocking traffic with merge turn signal on, but is more engaged in talking and not merging. Car-poolees are spewed out into the street, so as not to lose premium space in traffic by pulling over to curb. Is extremely adept at being focused on not being focused.

  • My NUTs. And Yours?

    It’s chilly here today, making getting out of bed a bit more challenging in the feeble light coming through the windows above the blinds. But I can hear the RT in his bathroom, and after a quick glance at the clock, know that if I don’t get up, I will miss seeing him off for school. As he passes by our bedroom door, I notice that although he is sporting a different green tee than he did yesterday, he is wearing the same brown cargo shorts, and has yet to don socks.  I know, with very little analysis, that he will recycle the socks he wore yesterday, slung over his shoes where he left them yesterday .

    I make it downstairs on this non-carpool day, and am rewarded by the RT’s Mom smile– a warm and honest gesture that is often accompanied by a hug. Nice. Ten more minutes before he goes out for his ride into this grey and wet day. I know before opening the patio door that Ms. Jones is not going to want to pee on a wet patio, and I’m probably going to have to venture out in front of the neighbors so she can pee on the wet grass instead. Dog logic? She surprises me by pushing through the partially opened door and gingerly stepping across the flagstones and around the corner to take care of her duty.

    I call up to the RT who has gone to get in a few minutes on the Internet even though I’ve graced him with my presence, “You’re going to need your sweatshirt today.” I know that he wears it most days because it’s soft and comfy, and probably makes it easier for him not to pay attention to The Geometry Teacher, but I have to remind him. One of our cats is trying to rush for the door about now, paranoid that I’ll close it on his tail like I did last week, and makes it through only to realize that it’s wet outside. He backs up, sits near my feet and looks at me as if to say, “What the hell is this all about?” and consigns himself to the view from the back of a chair. Today he’ll have to settle for looking through the window at the birds in the jasmine and stalk their movements with flattened ears and that low “cackling” sound he reserves for moving targets on his radar.

    The RT is out the door about now, 50 lb. back pack hoisted over one shoulder, and the notebook I’ve asked him twice to organize in the past two days, tucked under an arm, still sporting the signs of complete disaster from its edges. I tell him to have a good day, hoping it will be better than yesterday. The two of us decided then that a 50% on The Geometry Teacher’s test was better than what we thought it would be, but getting an F on a test never feels great. I’ll have to put “Giving Geometry Another Chance” on my mental NUTs list. NUTs, you say?

    Nagging Unfinished Tasks, according to Michael F. Roizen, M.D., are things that we could fix, but don’t, thereby causing you and I “aging stress,” which is far more harmful than breaking a bone, because we learn to deal with that. He says those kinds of events are “important, but manageable.” Okay, so let me get this straight. In other words, I’ll just adapt to the circumstances of hmmm…. I know — having a humongous cast on my leg that sticks straight out, forcing me to be in a wheel chair; I’ll be able to get in my compact car, drive myself to the grocery store, carry my crying toddler around while trying to get dinner on the stove. Bathe. Go to the bathroom. Of course, there is absolutely no stress involved in any of that. My malleable demeanor will simply adjust. Instead, what will really get to me while the cast is on my leg, is the items on my NUTs list — the items I don’t take care of that are silently driving me crazy, creating unhealthy levels of adrenaline, cortisone, and other hormones in my system, and leaving me susceptible to myocardial ischemia, and at greater risk of a heart attack. What might those more pressing, driving me nuts, NUTs be if my leg actually was in a cast? Shaving my legs? Reaching that dust ball under the wall unit? Painting the chipped polish on the big toe protruding from my cast? The author cannot be serious.

    But back to reality here, and my current state of angst. In an attempt to embrace the concept of Roizen’s NUTs (no pun intended whatsoever) to identify my own NUTs (anatomically impossible) and add “Relearning Geometry” to the list, I can combine my smarts with those of the RT, and thereby assist him in improving his understanding of Geometry. Bear in mind that because the RT is almost 15, and should be learning to employ skills which will last a lifetime, I actually believe he would be better served taking advantage of the student-run tutoring center at school. However, I also believe I can’t take him there and make him do it. He has to want to do it himself. But that’s because I’m a relentless, suck-it-up-and-get-it-done, erstwhile educator.

    My NUTs: 1) Get a job; 2) Complete filing papers; 3) Call the local charity to get rid of things in the garage so my husband can park in it, too; 4) Complete unfinished upholstery job on two bedroom chairs; 5) Complete stain and seal of outside furniture; 6) Paint unfinished patch over downstairs bathroom door; 7) Truly clean refrigerator

    What are your NUTs?

  • Matilda the Hun Lacks the Uber Gene

    Matilda the Hun Lacks the Uber Gene

    Can a teenager’s toilet ever be truly clean? I mean, think about it. And if you had two other bathrooms you could use, would you ever go in the teenager’s bathroom? No way. You sort of cruise by his area on your way from the office to other areas of the house and wonder how many words you could have saved over the years telling him (and his older brothers who are no longer living here — much to their chagrin) how to clean the bathroom, when to clean the bathroom, what to clean the bathroom with, when to flush the toilet, what not to flush down the toilet, and most importantly, when to report you’ve flushed your shorts down the toilet. You purchase nice towels, plush rugs, and let him pick out prints to hang on the wall so that the bathroom is a pleasant place to be. Now that I think of it, he doesn’t spend much time in there at all, so the whole point of making it look pleasant is a lost cause from the start. I’m thinking, now that I have this remarkable opportunity, that he probably just makes it to the toilet before letting loose, and then is moving away from the porcelain before he’s quite done, or is flushing while finishing, or something. And the shower? Record showers. We’re pretty certain he’s wetting his hair instead of washing it. Are you having a wet dog sensorial moment about now? You get the idea.

    I made the mistake this morning of suggesting to the Resident Teen (RT) that, “when you clean your bathroom this weekend, can you please take extra time to do a good job on the toilet, because it’s pretty gross right now.” Yes, that is how I said it, with absolutely no tone of sarcasm or derision what so ever. These conversations occur with me looking up from the first floor, to him after he hears me and finally graces me with his physical presence instead of just his ears. This is done begrudgingly. He’s pretty cautious about his expression most of the time when these exchanges occur, because he knows I’ll nail him for having an evil thought about his mother. I notice it’s easier to gauge his expression this morning because the ex Mr. Mom took him for a hair cut a few days ago and now we can see his face completely. I can tell he’s condoning my instructions at this point so let him interrupt, which is pretty difficult since I rarely take a breath when I talk.

    “Mom. Mom. I DO clean my toilet….” he begins, but of course, I cut him off because I can which isn’t very nice.

    “Well you need to go look at my toilet then, because it needs to be cleaned, too, and at least I can tell it’s white. If you want, I’m happy to come up there and show you how to do it the right way.” One of his eyes has that flat look going on about now and is sort of twitching. Really.

    None of this discussion has taken place with the slightest raising of voices. He usually wins, because he’s a nice kid who is genetically wired to make his parents feel totally crappy if they’ve actually expressed that they’re disappointed in him. It completely sucks. He has no idea he always wins these little battles, and ends up back in his room tinkering with his thousands of tiny warrior figurines, and more than likely creating a new battle scenario where they rally the troops and launch a full attack on the Huns and their fierce leader, Matilda.

    How have I managed to raise three — T-H-R-E-E — incredibly passive resisters? There has to be a person in my family somewhere who has a passive resistance uber gene and my boys are the only recipients. They’re lives just seem so much more peaceful than mine, except that I’m their mother and they’ve had to deal with me. Remarkably, they seem like they like me most of the time.

    It’s time to salvage the day and speak to the RT. But I am NOT cleaning his bathroom. People who stand up to pee just need to clean their own toilets. Besides, it builds character, right?

  • Carpool Flunky

    Carpool Flunky

    My husband used to be Mr. Mom in our family before I dropped off the face of the working planet. Yes, he works too, but somehow over the years as I became more and more involved in my career, he took on more of the domestic responsibilities. No one had to ask — it was by osmosis. He’s like that.

    (more…)