Like a champ

I was paralleling parking today in the Heights and I thought to myself, damn, I can parallel park like a champ! How many people can say that? Reverse, cut it, straighten it, pull forward, BAM, I'm in. And I'm not talking about parking a VW or Camry. I'm talking about a Ford Explorer.

When I was taking driver's ed, you actually had to take the test with the DPS guys -- none of this driving school stuff like the kids do now. If you couldn't parallel park, you were NOT going to pass your test. I remember people in my car in driver's ed who just couldn't get parallel parking. Every time they'd hit the cone, the instructor would say, "You just had a collision. That's failing your driving test!"

My eldest brother could not parallel park to save his life. In fact, I believe this forced him to take his driving test at least twice.

It must be something about going in reverse. When I was in high school and college, I would goof around in parking lots by driving backwards. I was fascinated with going in reverse. Don't ask me what that was all about, I just thought it was fun.

Of course, this fascination was later put to the test when my husband and I were working with the church youth group in our 20s. Our church had a 14-passenger van that was kept on the rec center. So at the end of youth, I had to back that sucker back through the gate, into the rec center. I remember breaking out into a sweat on more than one occasion doing that, but as long as I had my rear view mirrors and someone directing me, I could eventually pull it off.

Now, our church has 2 14-passenger vans and a 14-passenger bus. The bus is slightly longer and wider than the vans. It's a little freaky to drive because there is no rear view mirror -- only side mirrors, but they still don't show you what's going on behind you, which is unnerving to me. No, I have never parallel parked the bus, but at UM Army last summer, the teens in my van were pretty impressed with how well I maneuvered the vans (especially when it came to turning around, which we did a lot of, as my sense of direction comes nowhere close to my parallel parking skills.)

A few months ago, my winning streak with backing up finally came to a screeching halt. I was driving our church vans and bus back and forth to the gas station to fill each one up with gas. It was tight quarters pulling out of the gas lane and making the 90 degree turn required to get back out onto the street. It was challenging enough in the vans, but with the bus, I thought, "Shoot, I've finally met my match." I was going to have to throw the bus in reverse and perform a 3-point turn in order to get out of the parking lot. Not a problem when you have a rear view mirror to peer into, but ...

I got out of the bus and looked back, guestimating the distance I had to work with. Then I threw it in reverse and started backing up, little by little by little. I'd go a little more ... pause ... go a little more ... pause ... go a little more. Just when I thought, "OK, I got it," I heard and felt "SMACK." I had backed into the poll that was strategically placed to "guard" the gas pumps. Of course, I did what any chicken would do -- I threw the bus into drive and got the heck out of there!

When I got back to the church, I jumped out of the front seat to assess the damage. Thank you Lord Jesus for this steel bumper, I thought. There wasn't a scratch on it. I didn't know if the same was true for the pole at the gas station, but I decided not to sweat the small stuff.

At some point, I suppose I should try my hand at parallel parking that bus. If I could pull THAT off, bump and smack free, I could truly claim the title of parallel parking champ...

Hopeless

My brother Jeff and I are both hopeless romantics; both dreamers. We like corny movies. We like to memorize the lines to corny movies. Just tonight, we were texting the lines back and forth to one of our mutually favorite movies, You've Got Mail.

MY favorite line from the movie is when Meg Ryan is about an hour away from meeting her chat room mystery man, whom she doesn't know is Tom Hanks. Hanks plays her business nemesis, the evil Joe Fox, owner of chain store Fox Books. Meg Ryan plays small bookstore owner Kathleen Kelly. His chain has put her quaint Little Shop Around the Corner out of business; and for that, she holds a mighty grudge against him.

Hanks is trying to charm his way into her life while continuing to play chat room mystery man; playing it from both ends if you will.

So their last meeting before she finds out who he really is, Hanks says, "How can you forgive this guy for standing you up and not forgive me for this tiny little thing of ... of putting you out of business?" You can tell she is thinking about it, feeling herself more drawn to him. And then he adds sweetly, "Oh, how I wish you would..."

That's my favorite line, that "Oh, how I wish you would," because by now everyone but Meg Ryan is in on the big plot secret. We are cheering for Hanks. And there's just enough twinkle in Meg's eye to tell us, maybe she really can forgive him; maybe she can see him in a new light.

My brother, on the other hand, just loves the ending. He loves it when the band strikes up with "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and Meg Ryan is waiting at the agreed upon meeting spot and Hanks is approaching. His dog runs ahead; Meg knows mystery man has a dog named Brinkley. Hanks yells, "Brinkley" as he is coming aroung the bend. Meg is all perked up looking, craning her neck. And then that magical moment when she sees him and she is overwhelmed; so much so that I think it even surprises her.

She begins to weep and he pulls out a hanky, dabs tenderly at her eyes and says my second-favorite line: "Don't cry, shop girl, don't cry." (This is her online moniker.) And she whispers softly, "I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly..."

And then slowly, just like the closing frames in A&E's Pride and Prejudice, there faces approach and turn at awkward, unfamiliar angles for that very first kiss.

I could watch the last 10 minutes of that movie over and over and over again. It's just that good. I imagine my brother probably could too.

Yes, we are hopeless.

Lies, all lies...

So today I read a short article on the Internet about the 5 behaviors of manipulative people. I took great offense!! I mean, really, such harsh words for those of us who are clear on what we want and what YOU need to do in order to stand and deliver.

Here are the 5 behaviors and my insight into each. Clearly, you will all see the light after reading this and realize that so-called manipulative people are being slandered unfairly ...

1) Buttering you up. To make you feel good, so-called "manipulators" will make you feel good so they can ask you to do something they want.

Oh, so now complements are against the law? I mean, just because I tell a friend that her black sweater is extremely slimming and add equally sincerely that her bad perm has nearly calmed down completely, it doesn't mean I am trying to butter her up. She probably wouldn't have the ability to drag herself out of bed in the morning if I didn't constantly prop up her self-esteem in this manner. I am constantly looking for little ways to make people feel good about themselves. Constantly. It's not buttering up. It's ... well, it's just part of my whole, big charming package, you know? Can I help it if those two sentences are followed by, "BTW, I could sure use your truck this weekend ... could you meet me across town at 8 a.m. on Saturday morning to pick up some furniture??" That was PURE coincidence.

2) Guilt. The so-called "victims" who succumb to this tactic will do something for you not because they want to but because they feel they have to.

Is it guilt if you happen to remind someone of all the nice things you have done for them? I mean, if you loaned a friend money back in college 20 years ago so she could make rent, what's the harm of keeping them humble?? I never stop giving selflessly to everyone I know; and usually, heck rarely, heck never do I ask for ANYTHING in return. Never. Except, of course, every so often, but really ... after all I have done for the countless thousands of people who have crossed my path in my lifetime, do you REALLY have to make a federal case out of it if I were to wonder out loud if anyone could EVER do something even the tiniest bit NICE for ME??? Sorry, didn't mean to imply that anyone should be bothered on any level just because I have needs too. What was I thinking? I am SO insensitive!!!

3) Broken record. This so-called tactic has the so-called manipulator asking for the same thing repeatedly, using slightly different words, until the so-called victim gives in to the so-called manipulative request.

Are you serious? Just because I ask more than once I'm manipulating? Maybe they forgot. Maybe they were multi-tasking and didn't really hear what I said the first 10 times. Maybe they were in a bad mood and taking it out on me. Maybe they had a fight with their boyfriend and projected their anger onto me by refusing to even consider my more than reasonable request that any supposed friend would do for someone else if they REALLY cared about them. I am EXTREMELY patient with people and it doesn't bother me in the least to ask again and again and again until I am absolutely certain, without a shadow of a doubt, that they have not only heard my request but have given it the careful consideration it deserves; and have acquiesced, of course, because I wouldn't ask in the FIRST place if it wasn't really, really important. What kind of an insensitive lunkhead do you take me for???????

4) Selective memory. This supposed tactic involves the so-called victim thinking that everyone has agreed to a certain plan and then the so-called manipulator sharing the way they remember it all.

Oh sure, claim one person in the group has "selective memory" just because the other 10 got it wrong. I am CONSTANTLY having to serve as the gatekeeper for the groups I am involved in, taking meticulous notes and keeping everyone in line. My notes are so meticulous and detailed, I don't actually KEEP them. But I certainly commit them to memory -- my memory, which is always infallible, accurate and unbiased. Has it ever occurred to the rest of the world that some people have better attention to detail than others?? Can I help it if everyone else in the room is pushing their own agenda and muddies the waters with what THEY want instead of what was CLEARLY the decision of the group?? Isn't it SOMEBODY'S job to keep everyone else honest? Sure, punish the messenger AGAIN just because I have the courage to set the record straight!!!!

5) Bullying. When so-called manipulators use this approach, they supposedly make you out to look like the bad guy just because they don't get their way.

What kind of a spoiled, immature person would have the nerve to suggest that I am bullying them just because they are being a complete idiot (not to mention unreasonable dolt) when it comes to giving just a tiny bit of consideration to my humble desires. I am so sick of all the selfish, self-centered people I know who are SOOOO out of touch with their own human frailty that they have to PUSH their SICK and TWISTED assessments of ME onto the rest of the idiots around them when they can't handle the pressure of doing the RIGHT thing for fear that their PATHETIC, EGOMANIAC friends may see them in a less than favorable light. By all means, throw ME under the bus instead, the INNOCENT person in all of this, since you obviously get some SICK THRILL from behaving in this BRUTAL manner!!!!

So really, people, I hope you will help me in setting the record straight on just how ridiculous these claims really are!!! Stop punishing the so-called manipulators in your life and just give them what they want already! I for one would be MUCH happier (wink).

What a racket!

My $17 year-old daughter has just handed me my MasterCard and receipts totaling $280. Oh, I know what you're thinking -- shoes, face wash, make-up, purses, hair gel, nail polish, jeans and countless other teenager amenities, right?

Wrong.

That's the tally for applying to 4 colleges.

Yes, really.

My daughter is a senior. She has been working quite diligently on her college applications and accompanying essays. If I were to add up all the receipts for sending transcripts, taking entrance exams and filing applications, the bill would be upwards of $1,000.

Yes, really.

Not even accepted to a school yet and already we have plunked down $1,000 for college.

How much effort could go into reviewing a college application? The kids submit it all electronically. Could it take more than an hour? Maybe two hours? Let's say 2 1/2 hours. At $70 a whack, that's $28 an hour just to potentially reject my kid. Doesn't that seem a little outrageous?

Think about the students who apply and don't even come close to meeting the college's minimum standards. For those kids, the admissions office is really making a killing. One glance at the manuscript and five minutes later, it's, "Dear ____, we regret to inform you that..."

How could I turn this into some kind of viable business, that's the real question. Could I work as an applications consultant for a local university, helping them weed through the undesirables to the cream of the crop applications? I'd be more than happy to allow someone with more discernment to make the final decision on the upper echelon of applicants. But I wouldn't mind earning $50 or so an hour just to glance and reject, glance and reject, glance and reject.

If a university has the nerve to charge $50,000 a year for a student to walk through the doors of their esteemed institution, shouldn't' they offer some sort of application refund at least if they accept you? Or maybe volume discounts where you and a friend send in your applications together and the second one is half off or something?

Sure seems like a racket, that's all I have to say.

More Damn Dog Diaries

A few days ago, I returned from an outing and glanced out onto the patio to see my two dogs playing tug of war. That would have been a heart-warming sight if the object they were tugging over had not been a plastic zipper bag.

Perhaps I should explain.

It snowed in Houston last Friday. As the temperatures dropped during the day, I thought about my poor dog, Ruby, who lives outside. I was at Walgreen's and saw a dog cushion for $10. That seemed like a reasonable price to pay to keep my pupster warm, so I bought it.

Of course, Ruby wouldn't lay on the cushion, so I propped it up near her, to create a barrier of sorts from the wind.

The next day, the damn dog (aka Ginger, our little house dog) was outside using the rest room. She instantly tore a hole in the cover of the cushion, ripped through the liner and began pulling out the stuffing and dragging it all over the yard. When I discovered what she was doing, I retrieved the cushion and brought it inside.

The next day, I remembered that the cushion had come in a zip-up plastic bag. I dug through the kitchen garbage to find it, wiped off the coffee grounds and banana peel remnants and stuffed the liner of the cushion inside the protective plastic. I zipped it up and then placed it inside the cover for the cushion. I reasoned that the damn dog would not be able to get to the liner/filling now. The plastic was reasonably thick and the "crinkle" sound it made when pushed on seemed to terrify her. (I confess I pushed on it several times in her presence, just to watch her scamper away in terror.) Good, I thought.

Yes, so I thought.

After a few days of keeping the cushion on a chair in the house, I took it back outside when the temperatures started cooling off again. I rubbed my hands all over the outside of the cushion reasoning that if Ruby smelled my scent, she would be more likely to use it.

Oh, she used it all right. They both did.

And so now I return to the original image -- that of my dogs playing tug-o-war.

There was pillow filler all over the patio and yard. The cover was pulled to shreds. And the dogs were playing tug-o-war with the plastic zipper bag.

I was totally flabbergasted. How did that damn dog (for i was certain dear, sweet Ruby was innocent in all of this) get the inner pillow out of the plastic??

In utter disgust, I turned away from the scene.

In the end, the venture cost me $15. $10 for the cushion, $5 for my son to clean up the mess and throw it all away.

Next time, I'll remember the words of my husband when the weather turns cold: that's why dogs have fur.

Barbie is now selling raisins...

When I got online this morning, the "top news story" was about the changed image of the Sunmaid Raisin Girl. You know, the girl with long black hair, peasant shirt and bonnet that dons the red box?? Well ... here's what she looks like now, at left.

Yep, Barbie's selling raisins.

Exactly what is up with this? It looks more like a shampoo commercial than a label for raisins. "Now that I eat Sunmade raisins, my hair is just gorgeous ... see? Oh, let me hold a cluster of grapes up for you so you can admire my breasts..."

I think it's interesting that we are using sex appeal to sell a food item consumed mostly by toddlers. Is this some kind of aggressive marketing move? "Honey, I'm going to the pharmacy to pick up my Viagra prescription; think I'll get some raisins, too, while I'm there..."

I suppose these are the things food manufacturers must do in today's economy...

Sorting

We got a huge Christmas tree this year. (Fat is probably a better description.) It's about 7 feet tall and possibly 5 feet wide at its "fattest" It's quite impressive.

Today, I was hanging ornaments on that impressive, fat tree. I guess I'm not feeling terribly sentimental this year, because I began "sorting" through the ornaments. I had two stacks -- "not ever again" and "not this year." If the ornament didn't make it on the tree, it was tossed onto one of these two stacks.

Not this year -- these were mostly "ornaments" of my kids at various ages. In other words, pieces of construction paper with glitter, gold pipe cleaners and a bad photo of my kid in some sort of demoralizing attire.

There was one with my youngest child wearing this felt "stoll" decorated with red and gold glitter. I looked at that photo and thought, could they have made my kid look any wimpier? He practically had "pick on me" tattoed on his forehead.

There was another with my eldest daughter in a UT Longhorns sweatshirt that nearly swallowed her whole and some sort of dorky crown on her head. She was my premature baby, so she was quite small until about the age of 6 or 7. In fact, in this photo, she looked more like a child I might have adopted from Compassion International than my own flesh and blood.

Nope, not getting on the tree this year either.

The "never again" stack consisted of the ornaments that we have way too many multiples of. One of the in-laws used to make us ornaments every year. Yeah, sweet, but after year 5 or 6, would you please stop? I reasoned that the one large gold star with one of the kids' names written on it and "Love, So-and-so and So-and-so" was more than enough. I did not need its cookie-cutter twins that had been crafted for each of my children.

Hardened? Perhaps...

Another on the "never again" stack was a pathetic angel somehow fashioned out of shells. The shells were coming loose and the "fastener" on it was so badly bent, the angel looked like it had the latter stages of scoliosis.

A few made it on the tree that really should have been tossed, like the tin cow painted gold with a purple bow. I actually made this one myself and I remember very clearly making it with my stepmom and stepsister one Christmas, when my stepmom had the stomach flu and was sick in bed. I suppose she gets a gold star for making ornaments with us in the first place, but it looks so silly at this point.

There are others that actually mean a great deal to me, yet I wonder if they will end up in my kids' never again stack, like the ornament made by my grandmother out of an egg shell. The egg shell is cut in half and decorated with gold brocade, beads and velvet. On the inside of the shell, there is an angel figure surrounded by fluffly stuff ... guess that was supposed to be clouds at some point.

When the ornaments were all up, my younger daughter saw the "never again" stack. "Why didn't you hang these?" she asked. I tried to evade her question, then replied, "Just how many large, purple wire stars do we need on our tree?" She wandered from the room and I bee-lined to the trash can.

The storage box was whisked away to the attic and I was "safe." More than likely, no one will even notice that I sorted the ornaments.

Seriously, no hug?

Our eldest son headed back to the Big Easy today for a few more weeks of school before Christmas break. His flight took off from Hobby Airport and as my husband had picked him up on Tuesday night, I felt I should take him back.

It's interesting the change that comes over your kids when they go away for the first time. I recognized myself from years ago in his caged-animal behavior at home. He seemed happy to be here and yet ready to leave again. I'll bet he said at least 10 times in the course of various conversations, "...I don't live here anymore."

When he headed out the door, suitcase in hand, I was already sitting in the driver's seat. I could see him hug and kiss his younger sister and then also my husband.

We made awkward small talk on the way to the airport. I had that horrifying realization that he is no longer 3; that he is not impressed with me anymore. In fact, I wonder if he barely tolerates me, just as I barely tolerated my own mother at his age.

I managed to miss the "departing flights" ramp at Hobby Airport. We both agreed it was confusing and I don't think he was patronizing me. I drove a half mile down the road and did a u-turn. Working my way back, I made sure to get in the correct lane this time.

I could see him getting more and more anxious as the car idled in line. The right lane was not moving, so I turned sharply into the far left lane leading up to the terminal drop off. As I was nearly "even" with the entrance doors to the right, he said, "Well ... are you going to let me out?" I assured him as soon as I got to the 4-way stop, I would.

He bolted from the seat ... I swear he did. "What, no hug?" I called out. But he was already miles away, unable to hear me. He took his suitcase from the back of the car and I half-wondered if he would have the presence of mind to tap on the driver's side window and at least offer his cheek.

He didn't.

And so off he went, my happy go lucky child. My free bird. I brushed back a few silly tears, chastised myself for taking the "no hug" thing so personally and made my way to I-45.

In January, I'll likely repeat the entire process.

Recipe for Disaster

At our staff meeting on Tuesday, Michelle the 20-something youth director passed around these amazing cranberry shortbread bars. I mean, I could have eaten 10 without even blinking an eye. Instantly, there were clamors of "Give us the recipe, give us the recipe!"

Later that day, the recipe arrived in my inbox. Only instead of a four to six lines of "here's what's in it" and "here's how you assemble it," there was a link. I clicked the link and got a recipe that was 11 pages long, thanks to the photos demonstrating what a cup of flour looks like, or foil in a baking pan.

Hmmm, ok, I'm just a little suspicious.

First thing off the bat ... "Melt 21 Tbs of butter...." WHOA. 21 Tbs of butter? Can that be right? I flip through the illustrated pages to the last page, where there is an actual list of ingredients set in 6 pt type. Yep, 21 Tbs of butter. OK.

I peruse the photos to decipher the remaining ingredients for the shortbread crust -- 2 eggs, 3 cups plus 3 tbs of flour, 1 cup sugar.

So I do what I always do -- I start grabbing measuring cups and spoons and bowls and ingredients. I open the sugar canister. Empty. (Well, OK, probably there's 1/2 tsp there if I scrape really carefully.) I look in the cupboard. Ah yes, under the 1/2 bag of flour, there's a bag of sugar; only it's not sugar, it's more flour.

Great. 8 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning and I am out of sugar. I know in my Better Homes cookbook there's a page listing emergency substitutes. And I'm pretty certain you can use brown sugar or confectioner's sugar in place of granulated sugar, but since this is dough, there is a texture issue to consider. So ... returning to the cupboard, I see there is a box of sugar packets left over from our last party. I eyeball the contents and conclude that surely, there's a cup's worth of sugar in there.

56 packets of sugar later (and now you know -- 56 packets of sugar equals a cup), I am ready to continue with the recipe.

Once the dough is mixed, I spread it out on the foil-lined baking sheet "like so," which is exactly what it says in the caption underneath the photo of spreading dough on a foil-lined baking sheet. Then I put it in the refrigerator to chill.

I'm looking over the recipe again to start the filling. You're supposed to boil the fresh cranberries with ANOTHER cup of sugar for 5-8 minutes. (This time I sub brown sugar; I need those remaining sugar packets for a squash casserole I am baking...) But there is not indication of how much water. I look at the photo that shows a cup of sugar and some other measurement of water. I reason, well, if that's a cup of sugar, that must be about ... 1/4 cup of water?

Close enough!

I also realize at this time that the shortbread dough called for two egg yolks, not eggs. I turn back to the photo ... two yellow yolks in a little cup. It never occurred to me that they were sans egg whites. (I'm sure shortbread connoisseurs reading this are gasping in horror at the thought of egg whites in the dough.) Oh well, guess I'll see what happens when you don't separate the whites out...

The timer has just sounded that the dough is chilled and ready to put in the oven. That's when I realize I have not turned on the oven. I turn to the last page of my recipe "booklet," but don't see anything regarding the oven temperature. Great, bake 20 minutes, but at what temperature?? Oh wait ... there it is, clear as day in on one of the photos -- an oven depictingthe numerals "325" on the digital display. What was I thinking?

The dough is in the oven now (and my goodness, that was one heavy pan). Within the hour, this baking adventure will be over. I make a "note to self" to retype the recipe so an "old" person can comprehend it. I suppose I'll have to post a follow-up as to whether they were edible...