Remember that movie Big with Tom Hanks? That's one of my favorite movies. And one of my favorite scenes from that movie is when Hanks' character (a 12 year old boy "trapped" in a man's body) is at a company dinner and eats caviar (presumably for the first time). He not only spits it out, he uses a napkin to wipe off his tongue repeatedly.
Hysterical!
Well, I witnessed something very close to that this evening. I had a girl's night out with my two daughters. The "boys" are out of town, so we went out for sushi. Never mind that we had to text my son in New Orleans to inquire about the closest/best sushi bar; or that his directions were somewhat lacking and we drove up and down Westheimer; or that both of my daughters rate as "remedial" when it comes to using chop stix; or that the youngest (age 14) thought wasabi was guacomole; or that the eldest (17) nearly killed us at least twice with her driving; hands down, it was the best time I've had in months.
I would have to describe myself as slightly more knowledgable than a novice in the sushi department, having eaten it fewer than 6 times I'm sure (unless you count ceviche, but I don't think you can). I at least understand the difference between sashimi and sushi; and that the pretty, pink sliced up vegetable they stack on your plate is raw ginger and is best eaten in tiny allotments.
Anyway, when the first round of food comes out, we break out the chopsticks. I'm left-handed, but for some reason, I use my right hand for chopsticks. I was trying to show both my daughters how to hold them properly, even though my eldest insisted she has eaten sushi countless numbers of times. I suppressed a giggle initially as I watched them in moments of desperation resort to using the chopsticks more as a spear than as the "pinchers" that they are.
I hope the restaurant was clean because several chunks of food tryingto make it into our mouths landed on the glass table-top. We invoked the 3-second rule repeatedly, even pretending we weren't picking the dropped food up with our fingers and throwing it back on our plates.
Younger daughter liked the wasabi (once she knew what it was) but kept putting way too much on her bites. The range of faces, grunts and howls as she was driven to tears was hilarious.
My older daughter "texted" her facebook account to change her profile, showing me the screen, which read, "My sister and sushi; like Jon and Kate." We howled more.
Another classic moment was when the youngest picked the fish off the top of her sashimi like it was parsley and ate the rice underneath it. I explained gently to her that the fish was the "main" food item; and that fish and rice were to be eaten together; popped, if you will.
By far, the best part was the octopus. First, the argument. With each piece of fish we ate, we would say, "Hmmm, I think that was the salmon," or "that was the tuna," or "yellow tail, yuk, that was the yellow tail." When my younger daughter got to the octopus, she announced with no small amount of trepidation, "I think this is octopus." Her sister insisted it certainly was not, but I concurred with the youngest. "Look," I said, "clearly, that's a section of tentacle; you can see the sunctiony-thingies."
The youngest picked up the octopus sashimi with her chopsticks and placed most of it in her mouth, with part of the tentacle hanging out. She very delicately (that's a lie) pulled the octopus back out again and threw it on the plate. "You have to eat that part ... that's the best part," I said. She used her chopsticks to attempt to saw the piece in half then offered, "Mommy, you want to split it with me?"
"Dear God," I exclaimed, "It's been in your mouth!"
My older daughter must have missed out on that part of the conversation because she interjected that she would like to split it. I turned to her (I was sitting between them) and repeated, "It's been in her mouth! She pulled it out of her mouth!"
We were laughing so hard, tears were streaming down our faces (or was it the wasabi?) I think I blew close to $50 on the excursion, but it was worth every penny.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Favorite TV moments
There are three TV shows on my radar screen these days. Two of them are silly, even embarrassing -- Desperate Housewives and Secret Girlfriend. The third is sort of artsy and hip and edgy ... which clearly redeems me for watching the other two -- Madmen.
Here are some favorite moments from the most recent episodes of these shows, each of which is probably rated PG-13 or worse...
Desperate Housewives. (Sundays, 8 p.m., ABC) I know, totally contrived plots about over-the-top women who spend their days lying to their husbands and bosses and/or plotting against one another. Nearly every story line is built around deception. Every male character is a caricature of sorts. Let's see ... there's the emasculated one, the macho one, the super-nice one and the kinda dorky one. Each of them is married to a caricature as well: the domineering one, the conniving one, the ding-a-ling one and the super control freak one. So ... the favorite moment from last night. Domineering wife Lynette agreed to hire the senior citizen next door to do some handy work. Every job she gives him, he checks with her emasculated husband Tom first to make sure it's OK. This infuriates her. Ultimately, she fires him. So then Tom goes to see the neighbor, who says in essence, "I know times have changed, but a man is still a man!" Tom sets him straight by letting him in on a little secret: Lynette grew up with no father and an alcoholic mother. She had to be responsible for everything at a very young age. So she has this need to feel in control. Tom says, "She can't control everything, so I let her control me. That makes her feel safe and that's my job, to make my wife feel safe."
That was about the sweetest, most endearing thing I have EVER heard. While I was "awwwwing" all over the place, my husband replied, "He's a better man than me." Not true, not true.
Secret Girlfriend. (Wednesday, 9:30 p.m., Comedy Central) This is a really quirky show about a young adult (maybe college age) who has two women in his life. One is the all-American sweet girl whom he clearly has feelings for but who just wants to be his friend. The other is this psycho, neurotic sex fiend ex-girlfriend. There are also two totally slacker roommates who can best be described as John Belushi wanna-be's. The clever thing is, you never see or even hear the main character. The other characters talk to him and the camera shows his perspective, but the closest you come to knowing anything about him is through the text messages he receives and responds to from these two women. So last episode, all-American girl shows up and asks, who wants to go out? None of the three guys seem terribly interested, until she informs them she is going to a lesbian bar. Suddenly, the two loser roomies can't get out the door fast enough. One of them is determined to make at least one lesbian go "straight" by showing them what they are missing out on and convincing them to look at his unmentionables. The other dude is totally oblivious that one of the lesbians has mistaken him for a really-butch woman. They are making out behind the dance floor when suddenly, she starts yelling and punching. She is incensed to learn that he is in fact a man, confirmed by a package check. She says to him, "Didn't you realize when I told you that you had nice breasts that I thought you were a woman?" He plays the dumb card to the hilt; in fact, he IS the dumb card. They are all thrown out of the club when nearly every lesbian in the place starts beating up on all of them, with the girlfriend of one of the women the other roomie exposed himself to furious to learn, "You showed my girlfriend your junk!!" I know, so sophomoric, but strangely entertaining. The best part is when they are all riding home together and one lesbian says, "My girlfriend said seeing your stuff made her 10% more gay." Gotta love the "in your face" approach!
Madmen. (9 p.m. Sundays, AMC) "Critically acclaimed" and "award winning" are the phrases that usually accompany TV and web ads for this show. If you have never watched it, OMG, what planet are you from? It's about the NYC advertising industry; only it's set in the 60s. Everyone drinks and smokes all day long -- yes, at the office especially. Whether it's the office politics, the personal lives of the principles or the ad campaigns they are trying to develop for various clients, the show is hands-down engaging, entertaining, funny, poignant and outrageous. Most favorite episode THIS season featured an office party celebrating the "restructuring" of the ad agency (Sterling Cooper). SC was bought out by a British firm the previous season and the ugly Americans are trying their best to adjust to the penny-pinching, uptight British overlords. So in this episode, one of the ad execs has John Deere for a client. He manages to borrow a John Deere riding lawn mower for a shoot or something. During the party, a very-drunk secretary follows this ad exec's earlier lead and begins driving the mower through the office like she's Debra Winger riding the bull at Gilley's. Everyone is standing around drinking and smoking and making their usual lewd comments about all the secretaries when here comes idiot drunk secretary on the John Deere. The Johnny-come-lately Brit who has just been christened heir-apparent is standing around with the fellas when the secretary actually runs OVER his foot. Foot guts and blood go shooting across the room, painting the walls and fronts of everyone's shirts. Then she drives it straight through a plate glass wall.
Outrageous with a capital O!
But the best part is when the other British execs are later evaluating their injured comrades future, shaking their heads and agreeing that his career in advertising is over. After all, they conclude, he'll never play golf again! GOTTA love it.
Ok, Ok, truth be known, there is a fourth show we watch, but I refuse to claim that I like it. It's that new Courtney Cox sitcom called Cougar Town. The premise and title are so offensive, I do my best to act "put off" the entire time it's on. (Wednesdays, 9 p.m., ABC?) If you enjoy insepid, pathetic humor at the expense of 40-something women, tune in this one next week.
Here are some favorite moments from the most recent episodes of these shows, each of which is probably rated PG-13 or worse...
Desperate Housewives. (Sundays, 8 p.m., ABC) I know, totally contrived plots about over-the-top women who spend their days lying to their husbands and bosses and/or plotting against one another. Nearly every story line is built around deception. Every male character is a caricature of sorts. Let's see ... there's the emasculated one, the macho one, the super-nice one and the kinda dorky one. Each of them is married to a caricature as well: the domineering one, the conniving one, the ding-a-ling one and the super control freak one. So ... the favorite moment from last night. Domineering wife Lynette agreed to hire the senior citizen next door to do some handy work. Every job she gives him, he checks with her emasculated husband Tom first to make sure it's OK. This infuriates her. Ultimately, she fires him. So then Tom goes to see the neighbor, who says in essence, "I know times have changed, but a man is still a man!" Tom sets him straight by letting him in on a little secret: Lynette grew up with no father and an alcoholic mother. She had to be responsible for everything at a very young age. So she has this need to feel in control. Tom says, "She can't control everything, so I let her control me. That makes her feel safe and that's my job, to make my wife feel safe."
That was about the sweetest, most endearing thing I have EVER heard. While I was "awwwwing" all over the place, my husband replied, "He's a better man than me." Not true, not true.
Secret Girlfriend. (Wednesday, 9:30 p.m., Comedy Central) This is a really quirky show about a young adult (maybe college age) who has two women in his life. One is the all-American sweet girl whom he clearly has feelings for but who just wants to be his friend. The other is this psycho, neurotic sex fiend ex-girlfriend. There are also two totally slacker roommates who can best be described as John Belushi wanna-be's. The clever thing is, you never see or even hear the main character. The other characters talk to him and the camera shows his perspective, but the closest you come to knowing anything about him is through the text messages he receives and responds to from these two women. So last episode, all-American girl shows up and asks, who wants to go out? None of the three guys seem terribly interested, until she informs them she is going to a lesbian bar. Suddenly, the two loser roomies can't get out the door fast enough. One of them is determined to make at least one lesbian go "straight" by showing them what they are missing out on and convincing them to look at his unmentionables. The other dude is totally oblivious that one of the lesbians has mistaken him for a really-butch woman. They are making out behind the dance floor when suddenly, she starts yelling and punching. She is incensed to learn that he is in fact a man, confirmed by a package check. She says to him, "Didn't you realize when I told you that you had nice breasts that I thought you were a woman?" He plays the dumb card to the hilt; in fact, he IS the dumb card. They are all thrown out of the club when nearly every lesbian in the place starts beating up on all of them, with the girlfriend of one of the women the other roomie exposed himself to furious to learn, "You showed my girlfriend your junk!!" I know, so sophomoric, but strangely entertaining. The best part is when they are all riding home together and one lesbian says, "My girlfriend said seeing your stuff made her 10% more gay." Gotta love the "in your face" approach!
Madmen. (9 p.m. Sundays, AMC) "Critically acclaimed" and "award winning" are the phrases that usually accompany TV and web ads for this show. If you have never watched it, OMG, what planet are you from? It's about the NYC advertising industry; only it's set in the 60s. Everyone drinks and smokes all day long -- yes, at the office especially. Whether it's the office politics, the personal lives of the principles or the ad campaigns they are trying to develop for various clients, the show is hands-down engaging, entertaining, funny, poignant and outrageous. Most favorite episode THIS season featured an office party celebrating the "restructuring" of the ad agency (Sterling Cooper). SC was bought out by a British firm the previous season and the ugly Americans are trying their best to adjust to the penny-pinching, uptight British overlords. So in this episode, one of the ad execs has John Deere for a client. He manages to borrow a John Deere riding lawn mower for a shoot or something. During the party, a very-drunk secretary follows this ad exec's earlier lead and begins driving the mower through the office like she's Debra Winger riding the bull at Gilley's. Everyone is standing around drinking and smoking and making their usual lewd comments about all the secretaries when here comes idiot drunk secretary on the John Deere. The Johnny-come-lately Brit who has just been christened heir-apparent is standing around with the fellas when the secretary actually runs OVER his foot. Foot guts and blood go shooting across the room, painting the walls and fronts of everyone's shirts. Then she drives it straight through a plate glass wall.
Outrageous with a capital O!
But the best part is when the other British execs are later evaluating their injured comrades future, shaking their heads and agreeing that his career in advertising is over. After all, they conclude, he'll never play golf again! GOTTA love it.
Ok, Ok, truth be known, there is a fourth show we watch, but I refuse to claim that I like it. It's that new Courtney Cox sitcom called Cougar Town. The premise and title are so offensive, I do my best to act "put off" the entire time it's on. (Wednesdays, 9 p.m., ABC?) If you enjoy insepid, pathetic humor at the expense of 40-something women, tune in this one next week.
The competition
I admit that I am very competitive. I can keep my competitive side under wraps most of the time, but if someone starts trying to compete with me, I confess it rears its ugly head.
Sunday morning, my husband was taking his blood pressure with our digital blood pressure monitor. He smiled satisfied with the result: 127/81.
Not bad.
I said, let me check mine, which turned out to be 113/79. "Hmm ... that's sort of high for me," I said, "Oh well, it's better than yours."
And THAT is where I made my mistake. He took the monitor from me, took a deep, "cleansing" breath and tried again. 117/74.
"Oh no you didn't," I thought. Mimicking his relaxation technique, I strapped the monitor back on my wrist for a second time, switching to the left wrist, which was the side he had been measuring on. 93/61.
Yeah baby, now THAT'S what I'm talking about.
He insisted it was a false reading.
Oh yeah? Oh YEAH? OK, suckah -- I'll do it again!
Apparently, we had worn the little monitor out by this time. It started to squeeze my wrist, then suddenly petered out and gave the "error" message.
Hmmm ... better try again.
Same result ... ERROR.
OK, whatever, even if you don't count my "supposed" false reading, I still won. That's all that really matters...
Sunday morning, my husband was taking his blood pressure with our digital blood pressure monitor. He smiled satisfied with the result: 127/81.
Not bad.
I said, let me check mine, which turned out to be 113/79. "Hmm ... that's sort of high for me," I said, "Oh well, it's better than yours."
And THAT is where I made my mistake. He took the monitor from me, took a deep, "cleansing" breath and tried again. 117/74.
"Oh no you didn't," I thought. Mimicking his relaxation technique, I strapped the monitor back on my wrist for a second time, switching to the left wrist, which was the side he had been measuring on. 93/61.
Yeah baby, now THAT'S what I'm talking about.
He insisted it was a false reading.
Oh yeah? Oh YEAH? OK, suckah -- I'll do it again!
Apparently, we had worn the little monitor out by this time. It started to squeeze my wrist, then suddenly petered out and gave the "error" message.
Hmmm ... better try again.
Same result ... ERROR.
OK, whatever, even if you don't count my "supposed" false reading, I still won. That's all that really matters...
Friday, October 23, 2009
Not raffle
Today our church is hosting its Fall Fling, our annual fall celebration. Something new this year is a raffle. No wait, I mean it is not a raffle. I am not in charge of it. No wait, I mean I am in charge of it.
It's not a raffle, but I am in charge of it.
I am in charge of the not-raffle.
We have 3 different door prizes we are offering, but it's a not-raffle.
You can donate money to receive a door prize ticket, but it's a not-raffle.
We will pull door prize tickets to award the prizes, but it's a not-raffle.
Even more hilarious, two of the three prizes weren't even donated, even though the not-raffle tickets state that they were.
Not-donated prizes for a not-raffle.
I believe it states somewhere in the Methodist discipline that the Methodist church does not condone raffles. I wonder if the Methodist church would condone a not-raffle?
Because of this inconvenient little "rule," we started referring to the raffle as a not-raffle and the not-raffle tickets as door prize tickets. You see, there are pharisees among us who would froth at the mouth to know we would dare to hold a raffle.
Yes, it's definitely a not-raffle.
Jesus was more about the "heart" of the rule than the rule itself. Perhaps the Methodist church does not condone raffles because any game of chance has the potential of victimizing the poor.
Not this not-raffle. It's a one-time chance (I mean not-chance) and I assure you 99% of those who "donated" money for the not-raffle tickets are reasonably affluent. No one's children will go begging bread because of the not-raffle.
I'm still betting that someone will give me an earful of their pious opinions before it is all said and done. Next year, I will be the not-chair of the not-raffle. That will keep it all simpler.
It's not a raffle, but I am in charge of it.
I am in charge of the not-raffle.
We have 3 different door prizes we are offering, but it's a not-raffle.
You can donate money to receive a door prize ticket, but it's a not-raffle.
We will pull door prize tickets to award the prizes, but it's a not-raffle.
Even more hilarious, two of the three prizes weren't even donated, even though the not-raffle tickets state that they were.
Not-donated prizes for a not-raffle.
I believe it states somewhere in the Methodist discipline that the Methodist church does not condone raffles. I wonder if the Methodist church would condone a not-raffle?
Because of this inconvenient little "rule," we started referring to the raffle as a not-raffle and the not-raffle tickets as door prize tickets. You see, there are pharisees among us who would froth at the mouth to know we would dare to hold a raffle.
Yes, it's definitely a not-raffle.
Jesus was more about the "heart" of the rule than the rule itself. Perhaps the Methodist church does not condone raffles because any game of chance has the potential of victimizing the poor.
Not this not-raffle. It's a one-time chance (I mean not-chance) and I assure you 99% of those who "donated" money for the not-raffle tickets are reasonably affluent. No one's children will go begging bread because of the not-raffle.
I'm still betting that someone will give me an earful of their pious opinions before it is all said and done. Next year, I will be the not-chair of the not-raffle. That will keep it all simpler.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Pretty
"I am a beautician, not a magician."
That's a sign that hangs in the shop of the woman who cuts my hair. It's similar to a statement another stylist made to me once: people with Volkswagen hair think I can give them Mercedes hair.
Ouch!
Regardless, I plopped down in my beautician's chair on Friday and stared hopelessly into the mirror five feet in front of me. As she always does, she started running her fingers through my hair and playing with it. "OK, what are we doing today?"
Obviously, she's been in this business long enough to know that she'll make more money if she follows directions than if she actually does what looks good. People (esp woman) can be so freaky about their hair!
So when she asked, what are we doing today? I responded rather timidly, "Make me pretty."
She cocked her head to one side and dared to grin.
I said it again. "I just need to look pretty."
She asked what I had in mind. That's when I got a little frustrated. I mean, isn't she the expert? Maybe the reason I find myself so dissatisfied with my hair is because I keep behaving like the stylist when I should just sit there and keep my mouth shut.
And that's about what I told her ... "Look, you know what looks good and what doesn't. When I dictate how you should style my hair, I keep ending up with THIS," running my hands through my hair for added emphasis.
I gave her a few parameters: Shorter, layers, less droopy.
I wonder when the last time was she actually was given permission to exercise her creativity and artistry instead of trying to make the best of bad instructions?
At one point, she snipped a certain area and it was as if my entire head was transformed. And I told her so ... "OMG. That last cut just changed everything!"
So today I feel a little less frumpy. I feel a little bit younger. I feel a little more sassy.
I feel ... pretty.
That's a sign that hangs in the shop of the woman who cuts my hair. It's similar to a statement another stylist made to me once: people with Volkswagen hair think I can give them Mercedes hair.
Ouch!
Regardless, I plopped down in my beautician's chair on Friday and stared hopelessly into the mirror five feet in front of me. As she always does, she started running her fingers through my hair and playing with it. "OK, what are we doing today?"
Obviously, she's been in this business long enough to know that she'll make more money if she follows directions than if she actually does what looks good. People (esp woman) can be so freaky about their hair!
So when she asked, what are we doing today? I responded rather timidly, "Make me pretty."
She cocked her head to one side and dared to grin.
I said it again. "I just need to look pretty."
She asked what I had in mind. That's when I got a little frustrated. I mean, isn't she the expert? Maybe the reason I find myself so dissatisfied with my hair is because I keep behaving like the stylist when I should just sit there and keep my mouth shut.
And that's about what I told her ... "Look, you know what looks good and what doesn't. When I dictate how you should style my hair, I keep ending up with THIS," running my hands through my hair for added emphasis.
I gave her a few parameters: Shorter, layers, less droopy.
I wonder when the last time was she actually was given permission to exercise her creativity and artistry instead of trying to make the best of bad instructions?
At one point, she snipped a certain area and it was as if my entire head was transformed. And I told her so ... "OMG. That last cut just changed everything!"
So today I feel a little less frumpy. I feel a little bit younger. I feel a little more sassy.
I feel ... pretty.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Saturday rant
It's Saturday morning. I slept 10 hours last night, just finished breakfast, downed a handful of vitamins and am working on my second cup of coffee. So why am I so tired?
I tried to be "noble" this week and donate platelets for a friend of a friend who has leukemia. I flunked the iron test. I wasn't even close. To donate, your score has to be 12.5; mine was 10.3. I don't really know what those numbers mean except that the technician said to me, "Wow, that's really low."
So now I have convinced myself that there must be something medically wrong with me; except I am fighting this conclusion, fighting becoming my Father, a life-long hypochondriac who only quit going to the doctor because he got a real disease -- Alzheimer's -- and forgot that he thought he was sick all the time.
My husband is outside fixing the fence. I can hear him pounding away right outside my office window. The implication is that I should be doing something productive as well (though it should be noted that the finger-pointing is being done by me and not him). I made the bed, but now am regretting that. Frankly, I'd like to climb back between the sheets.
My husband has just called me outside to inspect the fence. It seems he needs to brace it up with a 2x4, which will require me to relocate one of my vines. Seeing my flat response to this announcement, he formulates a plan b. So I wander back inside to my coffee and laptop.
I am 10 pages shy of finishing a novel that, up to 30 pages ago, I was enjoying. The plot has turned depressing. It is inevitable that the ending will be sad, destructive. What's the point of reading that? The author writes in a style pretty close to what I am writing in now, narrating matter-of-factly the lives of her tragic characters (except she is a much better writer).
I know I am also tired from all the triangles I found myself trapped in yesterday. My younger daughter is running cross country and playing a role in the UIL one act play at her school. The problem is that the play practice and meets are overlapping. I tried to get the two advisers talking to each other, but ended up as the go-between in this argument of which activity is the most important and has received my daughter's irreversible, undying vow of total commitment. Suffice to say that emailing the drama teacher is enough to exhaust anyone. (Clearly, she is in her called field.) Exasperated, I tell my daughter that I am jumping out of the triangle; she will have to resolve this situation herself. She states rather poignantly, "So don't get involved in the first place." Ouch.
My second (least) favorite, recurring triangle involves my two daughters. The moment I stepped foot out of the house yesterday to go to the dry cleaners, I begin receiving texts from the elder of the two, insisting that I make her little sister do this and do that. My refusal brings accusations that I am failing in my motherly duties. Oh well. After questioning the younger daughter about the accusations being laid at her door, I tell her, fix it. I almost stayed out of that triangle...
I don't have a clever, snappy ending for today. (Perhaps that's how the author of the novel I'm reading also felt...)
I tried to be "noble" this week and donate platelets for a friend of a friend who has leukemia. I flunked the iron test. I wasn't even close. To donate, your score has to be 12.5; mine was 10.3. I don't really know what those numbers mean except that the technician said to me, "Wow, that's really low."
So now I have convinced myself that there must be something medically wrong with me; except I am fighting this conclusion, fighting becoming my Father, a life-long hypochondriac who only quit going to the doctor because he got a real disease -- Alzheimer's -- and forgot that he thought he was sick all the time.
My husband is outside fixing the fence. I can hear him pounding away right outside my office window. The implication is that I should be doing something productive as well (though it should be noted that the finger-pointing is being done by me and not him). I made the bed, but now am regretting that. Frankly, I'd like to climb back between the sheets.
My husband has just called me outside to inspect the fence. It seems he needs to brace it up with a 2x4, which will require me to relocate one of my vines. Seeing my flat response to this announcement, he formulates a plan b. So I wander back inside to my coffee and laptop.
I am 10 pages shy of finishing a novel that, up to 30 pages ago, I was enjoying. The plot has turned depressing. It is inevitable that the ending will be sad, destructive. What's the point of reading that? The author writes in a style pretty close to what I am writing in now, narrating matter-of-factly the lives of her tragic characters (except she is a much better writer).
I know I am also tired from all the triangles I found myself trapped in yesterday. My younger daughter is running cross country and playing a role in the UIL one act play at her school. The problem is that the play practice and meets are overlapping. I tried to get the two advisers talking to each other, but ended up as the go-between in this argument of which activity is the most important and has received my daughter's irreversible, undying vow of total commitment. Suffice to say that emailing the drama teacher is enough to exhaust anyone. (Clearly, she is in her called field.) Exasperated, I tell my daughter that I am jumping out of the triangle; she will have to resolve this situation herself. She states rather poignantly, "So don't get involved in the first place." Ouch.
My second (least) favorite, recurring triangle involves my two daughters. The moment I stepped foot out of the house yesterday to go to the dry cleaners, I begin receiving texts from the elder of the two, insisting that I make her little sister do this and do that. My refusal brings accusations that I am failing in my motherly duties. Oh well. After questioning the younger daughter about the accusations being laid at her door, I tell her, fix it. I almost stayed out of that triangle...
I don't have a clever, snappy ending for today. (Perhaps that's how the author of the novel I'm reading also felt...)
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Other Chris
While I was attending a conference in LA last Thursday-Monday, I met many new people. Most of these people were "collected" by my room mate and fellow church staff member, Michelle.
We would agree to meet up for dinner or sight seeing or going to the youth specialties store, or whatever, and without fail, some new person would tag along with her. "This is Garrett ... this is Jason ... this is Chris" ... and so on.
On Sunday, we decided to ride the underground metro to Hollywood before the late afternoon sessions started. "Nice" Chris, Miguel and the "other" Chris went along with us.
"Other" Chris looked to be about my age. I asked him and found out that sure enough, he was ... 40; six years my junior. This other Chris talked a great deal; almost as if he liked the sound of his voice (well, OK, not almost ... definitely liked it). I had attended several sessions that "other" Chris also attended, where I noticed his penchant for interrupting the speakers or questioning them without even raising his hand. Hmm, pretty sure of himself!
In one open forum, we were discussing hell. It seems "other" Chris is a Presbyterian. After you shared your opinions on the topic at hand, the facilitator would ask, "And what is your denominational background?" When I replied "Methodist," other Chris added, "Oh, a reformist in the group."
Whatever.
On the way to the metro, other Chris never stopped expressing his opinion. Every so often, I would challenge him, sort of making fun of him without him even realizing it. He was telling a story about a "successful attorney" in his congregation that didn't act anything like the usual high-powered lawyer. I asked him, "Exactly what does a high-powered lawyer act like?" I smirked while I said this, withholding from him the fact that my husband is an attorney.
He had a real habit of categorizing people; constantly. After one Methodist comment too many, I finally said, "Can we all just be ourselves instead of this or that?" He agreed -- or so I thought.
We stopped at McDonald's for a quick lunch before continuing on our sedate adventure to Hollywood. I was the last to get my food and when I arrived at the table, "other" Chris was just saying, "Where is Mother? Getting napkins?"
I was flabbergasted.
WHAT did you just say? I asked. Did you say, "Where is mother" ????
What was that comment supposed to mean? I know I had mentioned at some point that I needed to get a couple souvenirs for two of my kids, but other than that, I was certain I had not acted particularly motherly.
I confess he hit a nerve with me. I mean, I was quite aware that I was significantly older than most of the individuals attending this youth conference; in fact, I probably could have been many of their mothers. But I wasn't; and that was my point.
I remarked snidely, "I'm going to ignore that comment, because I know you're into labeling people; I get that about you..." He apologized for offending me. I sniffed my acceptance.
That night, a friend from high school picked me up for the evening. Michelle told me later that when I failed to show up for dinner (yes, her gaggle of new found friends were clinging fast), "other" Chris asked for me repeatedly, saying he wished I was there so he could ask me my opinion of this or that.
I found that interesting.
I suppose everyone just wants their mother...
We would agree to meet up for dinner or sight seeing or going to the youth specialties store, or whatever, and without fail, some new person would tag along with her. "This is Garrett ... this is Jason ... this is Chris" ... and so on.
On Sunday, we decided to ride the underground metro to Hollywood before the late afternoon sessions started. "Nice" Chris, Miguel and the "other" Chris went along with us.
"Other" Chris looked to be about my age. I asked him and found out that sure enough, he was ... 40; six years my junior. This other Chris talked a great deal; almost as if he liked the sound of his voice (well, OK, not almost ... definitely liked it). I had attended several sessions that "other" Chris also attended, where I noticed his penchant for interrupting the speakers or questioning them without even raising his hand. Hmm, pretty sure of himself!
In one open forum, we were discussing hell. It seems "other" Chris is a Presbyterian. After you shared your opinions on the topic at hand, the facilitator would ask, "And what is your denominational background?" When I replied "Methodist," other Chris added, "Oh, a reformist in the group."
Whatever.
On the way to the metro, other Chris never stopped expressing his opinion. Every so often, I would challenge him, sort of making fun of him without him even realizing it. He was telling a story about a "successful attorney" in his congregation that didn't act anything like the usual high-powered lawyer. I asked him, "Exactly what does a high-powered lawyer act like?" I smirked while I said this, withholding from him the fact that my husband is an attorney.
He had a real habit of categorizing people; constantly. After one Methodist comment too many, I finally said, "Can we all just be ourselves instead of this or that?" He agreed -- or so I thought.
We stopped at McDonald's for a quick lunch before continuing on our sedate adventure to Hollywood. I was the last to get my food and when I arrived at the table, "other" Chris was just saying, "Where is Mother? Getting napkins?"
I was flabbergasted.
WHAT did you just say? I asked. Did you say, "Where is mother" ????
What was that comment supposed to mean? I know I had mentioned at some point that I needed to get a couple souvenirs for two of my kids, but other than that, I was certain I had not acted particularly motherly.
I confess he hit a nerve with me. I mean, I was quite aware that I was significantly older than most of the individuals attending this youth conference; in fact, I probably could have been many of their mothers. But I wasn't; and that was my point.
I remarked snidely, "I'm going to ignore that comment, because I know you're into labeling people; I get that about you..." He apologized for offending me. I sniffed my acceptance.
That night, a friend from high school picked me up for the evening. Michelle told me later that when I failed to show up for dinner (yes, her gaggle of new found friends were clinging fast), "other" Chris asked for me repeatedly, saying he wished I was there so he could ask me my opinion of this or that.
I found that interesting.
I suppose everyone just wants their mother...
Friday, September 25, 2009
LA Woman
This is my second day in LA . OK, I can't speak about all of LA because I am based in downtown LA. I have experienced about 4 square blocks of downtown LA.
It is very clean. I feel very safe walking around at 10pm at night. It is very bright. They have large, lighted, building-sized billboards and video billboards and light billboards. It is somewhat like Time Square on a tamer level.
I know they say New York is the city that never sleeps, but I think LA is trying to give them a run for their money. Tonight, I counted six (SIX!!!) sports cars with buxom young ladies and "Red Bull" signs plastered on the sides handing out free Red Bulls to people. Yeah, that should get everyone good and jacked up. They'll all be up for hours ... not this girl, though.
Fashion is interesting. Who wears short-shorts? These girls wear short-shorts. And short skirts. I have seen my fill of skin-tight skirts that are so short, if the wearer missteps, you would be able to confirm their gender. Wow. I could never have pulled that off at 20. Just the idea of standing up for an entire evening makes it seem impossible right there.
Our hotel is an old, vintage place. It has character. I like it. There is no room service, but the ala carte breakfast buffet is pretty awesome. I got scrambled eggs, 3 links of sausage and a cup of coffee for $4.39 (including tax). I guarantee you that was the cheapest meal I will have while I'm here. For dinner, my friend and I had cheeseburger and french fries. I think the total for both of us was about $17. Not bad, not bad.
One of the "trendier" spots at lunch is the ESPN restaurant. It's a sport's lovers dream. I have never seen so many screens of so many different sports. Wow. The food wasn't bad either. I had a steak salad (yum, the best of both worlds -- steak and salad). And "reasonably" priced at $13.
More conference tomorrow, including the promise of a concert by the David Crowder Band. (You either know who he is or you don't) Then on Sunday we will play a little -- attending the first workshop (aptly titled "What about hell") and then head to Hollywood and all the tourist traps. it seemed beautifully ironic to me that we would go to a seminar about our conceptions of hell and then go to Hollywood. I dunno -- am I the only one who thinks that is funny?
I have an old friend from high school who is picking me up in the afternoon on Sunday for hang out time and dinner. She lives in Hermosa Beach and I am hoping we will actually get to see some beach. That would be great.
There is something about this place that is making me terribly dehydrated. I got up twice last night for glasses of water! It must be related to being here in the desert.
I'm sure by the time I leave on Monday morning, I will have reached the conclusion most travelers reach at the end of their journey: It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.
It is very clean. I feel very safe walking around at 10pm at night. It is very bright. They have large, lighted, building-sized billboards and video billboards and light billboards. It is somewhat like Time Square on a tamer level.
I know they say New York is the city that never sleeps, but I think LA is trying to give them a run for their money. Tonight, I counted six (SIX!!!) sports cars with buxom young ladies and "Red Bull" signs plastered on the sides handing out free Red Bulls to people. Yeah, that should get everyone good and jacked up. They'll all be up for hours ... not this girl, though.
Fashion is interesting. Who wears short-shorts? These girls wear short-shorts. And short skirts. I have seen my fill of skin-tight skirts that are so short, if the wearer missteps, you would be able to confirm their gender. Wow. I could never have pulled that off at 20. Just the idea of standing up for an entire evening makes it seem impossible right there.
Our hotel is an old, vintage place. It has character. I like it. There is no room service, but the ala carte breakfast buffet is pretty awesome. I got scrambled eggs, 3 links of sausage and a cup of coffee for $4.39 (including tax). I guarantee you that was the cheapest meal I will have while I'm here. For dinner, my friend and I had cheeseburger and french fries. I think the total for both of us was about $17. Not bad, not bad.
One of the "trendier" spots at lunch is the ESPN restaurant. It's a sport's lovers dream. I have never seen so many screens of so many different sports. Wow. The food wasn't bad either. I had a steak salad (yum, the best of both worlds -- steak and salad). And "reasonably" priced at $13.
More conference tomorrow, including the promise of a concert by the David Crowder Band. (You either know who he is or you don't) Then on Sunday we will play a little -- attending the first workshop (aptly titled "What about hell") and then head to Hollywood and all the tourist traps. it seemed beautifully ironic to me that we would go to a seminar about our conceptions of hell and then go to Hollywood. I dunno -- am I the only one who thinks that is funny?
I have an old friend from high school who is picking me up in the afternoon on Sunday for hang out time and dinner. She lives in Hermosa Beach and I am hoping we will actually get to see some beach. That would be great.
There is something about this place that is making me terribly dehydrated. I got up twice last night for glasses of water! It must be related to being here in the desert.
I'm sure by the time I leave on Monday morning, I will have reached the conclusion most travelers reach at the end of their journey: It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.
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