It is sad and pathetic when your own parents can out-party you.
As Tim and I and my parents rang in the New Year, then toddled off to bed, exhausted, my father reminisced about how they used to spend the holiday, when he and my mother were our age.
Then: Every year, my parents hosted the same six couples for dinner. Per our Irish heritage, somewhere in the hour or so before they arrived, there was at least one really loud "discussion" about how much ice we needed for cocktails, whether the roast should be rare or well-done or how many different kinds of bread should be served with dinner. All vitally important matters upon which the fate of the free world hung.
Now: We don't eat red meat, we only eat whole grain bread, and the only one using ice is the dog, but she's a mean drunk, so we cut her off after one cocktail.
Then: After a fairly raucous dinner, the midnight toast, and enough alcohol consumed to keep Charlie Sheen making YouTube videos until his kids are all old enough to collect social security, the real fun would start. Charades. Boys against the girls.
The guys would stay in the TV room, while the girls retired to the living room to come up with their clues. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. What were we girls thinking??? TV room??? Where the TV guide was??? Left to their own devices, the guy's clues would have been easy to guess. In those days, there were only three channels plus PBS, so how hard could it have been to guess all the sports shows?
But no, with access to information provided by the guide, they cheated their pants off.
"Oh ho! You girls couldn't get Two Mules for Sister Sarah? Starring Shirley MacLaine? How could you not have come up with that one right away? It's a classic. And everyone knows Dora's Dunking Doughnuts featuring the always adorable Shirley Temple. That one was a gift. The Amazing Dr. Clitterhouse is so a movie. It stars Edward G. Robinson. Gheesh. You girls really should get out more."
We finally figured out how they were able to come up with a movie title besides Planet of the Apes, and began removing the TV guide earlier in the day when we were cleaning. And that was the end of their vast movie knowledge. Thank goodness they never tumbled to the fact that there was an entire set of encyclopedia in the room. They might have actually won a game or two.
At first, we girls were coming up with book titles we were sure they hadn't read like Gone With the Wind, or The Old Man and the Sea, or musical groups like The Beatles or The Rolling Stones, you know, obscure stuff. After we thwarted their little crime ring however, they had nowhere to turn but to the world of sports. They began throwing at us the names of every athlete whose name exceeded eighteen letters, only one of which was a vowel. In retaliation, we mined my mother's knowledge of music and began throwing dead Russian composers at them. That went over well.
As some of the arguments got fairly heated, it was a good thing that my parent's house was bordered on one side by woods and another by a cemetery. Actually, in retrospect, it was probably a miracle that on the first of the new year, we didn't have a crime scene unit scouring the woods and excavating a freshly dug grave. It was also a miracle that the divorce rate among the couples didn't skyrocket.
Somewhere around 4am, after losing five or six games in a row, the sore losers, er I mean guys, would have sobered up enough to drive the girls home, then, we would all tumble into bed, hungover and exhausted.
Now: Somewhere around 5pm, we began consuming our bodyweight in food, ending around 10pm when we threw ourselves in front of the TV and, realizing that with 800 channels, nothing good was on, flipped back and forth between American Pickers and the food network until 11;30. At that point, we roused ourselves from our food-induced comas, wiped the sleep from our eyes, the drool from our chins and the crumbs from our sweatshirts and tried to stay awake until midnight.
No sooner had the ball dropped then we all dragged ourselves to the stairs, stumbled up them and tumbled into our beds, totally drained from our rigorous workout. Fork to mouth. Wipe mouth with napkin. Repeat. Paaaaartay!!! Woo-(four-letter word beginning with f)--hoo!
Yep. That was a trip down memory lane I could have lived without.
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Waaaay Too Much Information
What would the holidays be without family...relaxing?...enjoyable?...stress free? Oh, did I say that out loud? I meant boring, sad and stressful .
I love my family. Really. But based on last week and Christmas of last year, I am thinking of joining the witness relocation program. I hear Antarctica is lovely this time of year.
You see, the problem is that my parents have thankfully enjoyed good health, my father in particular. He prides himself on the fact that he has not needed a doctor since he was in the navy, so last Christmas, when tragedy struck, it was, well, tragic.
The day after Christmas, my dad was literally blown off his feet by an unexpected gust of wind and thrown to the ground. Fortunately, he just ended up with a boo boo on his bottom and a pulled muscle, according to the ER doctor. And our doctor five days later. And the x-rays. And Web MD. And Marcus Welby. And the entire cast of Gray'sAnatomy, and The Practice.
But no matter what everyone told him, he was convinced he might never walk again...and have to live with us instead of flying back to Florida with my mom.
For an entire week, we had to hear, in great and excruciating detail, about his boo boo. We were treated to vivid descriptions of the size, location and severity of the bruise. We lived through his brave attempts to walk five feet without the walker, cane, forklift, or tow-line. We grinned and bore hearing about the indignity of sitting on a glorified whoopee cushion for meals.
We tried to distract him with the Food Network, Angry Birds and his granddaughter, but nothing captured his attention or imagination the way his boo boo did. He just knew the doctors were all wrong and he had broken something. He was sure that he had at least torn a ligament or severed a tendon. It was the beginning of the end. He would end up bedridden for the rest of his days, eating gruel and making macrame potholders.
So, to ease the pain (ours), we gave him drugs. The doctor had prescribed pain pills and muscle relaxants, but the man who was never sick or injured a day in his life didn't want to take them. We told him it was him or us, but those drugs were going to put someone out of their pain.
This, of course, opened up a whole new set of issues.
While I am totally consumed with my dog's poops--size, frequency, form and texture--I really, really, really do not need to even know about my father's.
"Do you know that it says here this medication can cause constipation?" he demanded, waving the sheaf of papers at me that now come with every prescription.
"It also says it can cause you to cluck like a chicken or spontaneously break into the dance of the sugar plum fairy, but hey, let's look on the bright side, and maybe it will just make you feel better and your biggest worry will be finding a six-fingered glove for the new thumb that will sprout."
Every day, we got a potty update, along with dire predictions of being unable to board the plane for home when the holiday ended.
"I'm fine flying back alone," my mother chirped, seeing a light at the end of her tunnel.
I believe our response was something along the lines of, "Look, we love dad to death, but he is getting on that plane if we have to buy an extra ticket and strap him to our back like a piece of carry-on luggage."
Fortunately for everyone involved, he got on the plane.
Last week, it was my mother's turn. She had a doctor's appointment here, so she flew in the Sunday before Thanksgiving.
Monday morning, I drove her to the doctor, and waited for her. After about a half hour, she came out, looked surreptitiously around the empty waiting room, and said, "I'll tell you what the doctor said later."
Thinking she meant in the privacy or the car or back at the house, I nodded in agreement. No such luck.
As we entered the elevator, the crowded elevator, she launched into a blow-by-blow account of her visit...which would have been fine had we been at the eye doctor, but we had unfortunately been to a doctor for women's issues.
I am still waking up at night in a cold sweat.
At first, I tried to pretend I was just some poor, random stranger this woman had targeted to share intimate details with. "Uh huh," I murmured half-heartedly as she used the V word for, like, the forty-seventh time in three minutes. I wondered what the penalty was for pulling the fire alarm. I even briefly contemplated actually setting myself on fire. My mother, oblivious to the lack of response, chattered on.
"So you thought the doctor was nice?" I desperately tried to nudge the subject onto a path strewn with less personal information when I could no longer pretend I didn't know her.
"Oh, yes. She said..." And she was off and running again with things that had people bailing out of that elevator like it was a 70's disaster movie, and the director had just called "Action!".
And the best part of it was, it never ended. Not in the lobby, not in the elevator down to the garage, not in the car, not at Toys R Us where we did some Christmas shopping. I kept hearing about parts of my mother that I don't even want to know exist. And there was no escape.
By the time she flew back to Florida, I was waxing nostalgic over my father's boo boo and ensuing poop issues.
Can't wait for Christmas this year.
I love my family. Really. But based on last week and Christmas of last year, I am thinking of joining the witness relocation program. I hear Antarctica is lovely this time of year.
You see, the problem is that my parents have thankfully enjoyed good health, my father in particular. He prides himself on the fact that he has not needed a doctor since he was in the navy, so last Christmas, when tragedy struck, it was, well, tragic.
The day after Christmas, my dad was literally blown off his feet by an unexpected gust of wind and thrown to the ground. Fortunately, he just ended up with a boo boo on his bottom and a pulled muscle, according to the ER doctor. And our doctor five days later. And the x-rays. And Web MD. And Marcus Welby. And the entire cast of Gray'sAnatomy, and The Practice.
But no matter what everyone told him, he was convinced he might never walk again...and have to live with us instead of flying back to Florida with my mom.
For an entire week, we had to hear, in great and excruciating detail, about his boo boo. We were treated to vivid descriptions of the size, location and severity of the bruise. We lived through his brave attempts to walk five feet without the walker, cane, forklift, or tow-line. We grinned and bore hearing about the indignity of sitting on a glorified whoopee cushion for meals.
We tried to distract him with the Food Network, Angry Birds and his granddaughter, but nothing captured his attention or imagination the way his boo boo did. He just knew the doctors were all wrong and he had broken something. He was sure that he had at least torn a ligament or severed a tendon. It was the beginning of the end. He would end up bedridden for the rest of his days, eating gruel and making macrame potholders.
So, to ease the pain (ours), we gave him drugs. The doctor had prescribed pain pills and muscle relaxants, but the man who was never sick or injured a day in his life didn't want to take them. We told him it was him or us, but those drugs were going to put someone out of their pain.
This, of course, opened up a whole new set of issues.
While I am totally consumed with my dog's poops--size, frequency, form and texture--I really, really, really do not need to even know about my father's.
"Do you know that it says here this medication can cause constipation?" he demanded, waving the sheaf of papers at me that now come with every prescription.
"It also says it can cause you to cluck like a chicken or spontaneously break into the dance of the sugar plum fairy, but hey, let's look on the bright side, and maybe it will just make you feel better and your biggest worry will be finding a six-fingered glove for the new thumb that will sprout."
Every day, we got a potty update, along with dire predictions of being unable to board the plane for home when the holiday ended.
"I'm fine flying back alone," my mother chirped, seeing a light at the end of her tunnel.
I believe our response was something along the lines of, "Look, we love dad to death, but he is getting on that plane if we have to buy an extra ticket and strap him to our back like a piece of carry-on luggage."
Fortunately for everyone involved, he got on the plane.
Last week, it was my mother's turn. She had a doctor's appointment here, so she flew in the Sunday before Thanksgiving.
Monday morning, I drove her to the doctor, and waited for her. After about a half hour, she came out, looked surreptitiously around the empty waiting room, and said, "I'll tell you what the doctor said later."
Thinking she meant in the privacy or the car or back at the house, I nodded in agreement. No such luck.
As we entered the elevator, the crowded elevator, she launched into a blow-by-blow account of her visit...which would have been fine had we been at the eye doctor, but we had unfortunately been to a doctor for women's issues.
I am still waking up at night in a cold sweat.
At first, I tried to pretend I was just some poor, random stranger this woman had targeted to share intimate details with. "Uh huh," I murmured half-heartedly as she used the V word for, like, the forty-seventh time in three minutes. I wondered what the penalty was for pulling the fire alarm. I even briefly contemplated actually setting myself on fire. My mother, oblivious to the lack of response, chattered on.
"So you thought the doctor was nice?" I desperately tried to nudge the subject onto a path strewn with less personal information when I could no longer pretend I didn't know her.
"Oh, yes. She said..." And she was off and running again with things that had people bailing out of that elevator like it was a 70's disaster movie, and the director had just called "Action!".
And the best part of it was, it never ended. Not in the lobby, not in the elevator down to the garage, not in the car, not at Toys R Us where we did some Christmas shopping. I kept hearing about parts of my mother that I don't even want to know exist. And there was no escape.
By the time she flew back to Florida, I was waxing nostalgic over my father's boo boo and ensuing poop issues.
Can't wait for Christmas this year.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Parents Say the Darndest Things
The other day, I called my parents from Bed, Bath and Beyond to ask what color wood, walnut or black, was the furniture at the condo.
For the last few years, they have had one lonely little collage frame on a rather large, otherwise blank wall, so I thought I'd pick up a variety of frames to fill the empty space. Sort of like a giant collage.
"Don't get too many," my dad warned me. "I don't think I have that many really good pictures of Cait from this year."
Umm. Hellooooo. I am aware that Cait, your only grandchild, otherwise known as the cutest, most perfect, smartest, best child of all time on the face of the earth is the main focus these days, but aren't you forgetting something? Something like, gee, I don't know, your three children?
I mean, I know we can't even begin to compare with Cait, but maybe you could include us in at least one picture? Just a group picture perhaps, where we're all standing around looking at Cait. Maybe you could photoshop her into the center of daVinci's Last Supper painting and do it as a mural on the whole wall. The rest of us can be in the background somewhere, or hey, we could be the wait staff.
I have come to accept that gradually, over the last three years, our old photos have been replaced with ones of Cait. Sometimes, I have even been grateful for the Caitmania that has gripped my parents.
I really don't need to be confronted with photos of me from the 80's looking like a linebacker in drag. And who wants to be reminded of those unfortunate years before braces, contacts and clearasil had worked their magic? And did we really need to have the ghosts of Christmases past photos keep haunting us year after year? Wheee! Look at us frolicking in the snow with our tacky winter sweaters and smiles that make us look like we're trying to pass kidney stones!!
It was beyond time to say good-bye to those photos, but I didn't know that also meant we were being cut out of the family tree as though we had dutch elm disease.
Ahh, but this is just the most recent affront to our vanity. The last attack was about a month ago.
Tim had had his back surgery and Pat had undergone surgery on her shoulder. My dad and I were talking about how small their scars were and how good they looked considering the amount of work that had been done, when he said, "Well, it's not as if we have to worry about either one of them winning a beauty contest anyway at their ages."
Slam!!! An unprovoked attack where he picked off the two of them with one shot. The best part is, he wasn't even trying!
"I mean, not that they're ugly or old, or anything," he began to backpedal. "I meant because of the scars. Not that they're bad, they're not. You can hardly notice them."
Wow. Maybe we should just shoot those two poor humpbacked wildabeasts and put them out of their misery. Maybe we could borrow the elephant man's cover-up and they could take turns wearing it when they go out in public. You know, so they don't send poor little children running screaming into the night.
Knowing that no force on the planet would be able to keep me from cheerily repeating his comment to said wildabeasts, he kept trying make it better, but it was too late. It was out there. In the universe. And I was texting even as we were speaking. Hehehe.
Not to be outdone in the faux paux department, my mother has had a moment or two of her own. The one that sticks out the most was last year when we were throwing Pat a birthday party.
We decided to gather up a bunch of old photos of her and run a slide show during the cocktail hour. Since my mom had years ago divided up our childhood pictures (to each his/her own), we asked Paqt to bring the photos over to the house for us to pick what we wanted to use.
As we sat at the table, sorting through the pictures, my mom held up one from many years earlier and reminisced, "This was when you were thin."
As Tim and I fell howling on the floor, Pat huffed with indignation. "Thanks. When I was thin. Before I became Tillie the elephant. Hang on, P.T. Barnum is calling to ask which of the three rings I'd like to perform in tonight."
My nother tried to mount a defense, but at that point, anything she said just made it worse.
"No, you were young then." she protested.
"As opposed to the old, fat whale I am now?" Pat sputtered.
Tim and I, of course came to her defense. NOT! And like any good, older sister, I still remind Pat of this any chance I get. Hehehe.
Can't wait for the holidays to see what they come up with this year.
For the last few years, they have had one lonely little collage frame on a rather large, otherwise blank wall, so I thought I'd pick up a variety of frames to fill the empty space. Sort of like a giant collage.
"Don't get too many," my dad warned me. "I don't think I have that many really good pictures of Cait from this year."
Umm. Hellooooo. I am aware that Cait, your only grandchild, otherwise known as the cutest, most perfect, smartest, best child of all time on the face of the earth is the main focus these days, but aren't you forgetting something? Something like, gee, I don't know, your three children?
I mean, I know we can't even begin to compare with Cait, but maybe you could include us in at least one picture? Just a group picture perhaps, where we're all standing around looking at Cait. Maybe you could photoshop her into the center of daVinci's Last Supper painting and do it as a mural on the whole wall. The rest of us can be in the background somewhere, or hey, we could be the wait staff.
I have come to accept that gradually, over the last three years, our old photos have been replaced with ones of Cait. Sometimes, I have even been grateful for the Caitmania that has gripped my parents.
I really don't need to be confronted with photos of me from the 80's looking like a linebacker in drag. And who wants to be reminded of those unfortunate years before braces, contacts and clearasil had worked their magic? And did we really need to have the ghosts of Christmases past photos keep haunting us year after year? Wheee! Look at us frolicking in the snow with our tacky winter sweaters and smiles that make us look like we're trying to pass kidney stones!!
It was beyond time to say good-bye to those photos, but I didn't know that also meant we were being cut out of the family tree as though we had dutch elm disease.
Ahh, but this is just the most recent affront to our vanity. The last attack was about a month ago.
Tim had had his back surgery and Pat had undergone surgery on her shoulder. My dad and I were talking about how small their scars were and how good they looked considering the amount of work that had been done, when he said, "Well, it's not as if we have to worry about either one of them winning a beauty contest anyway at their ages."
Slam!!! An unprovoked attack where he picked off the two of them with one shot. The best part is, he wasn't even trying!
"I mean, not that they're ugly or old, or anything," he began to backpedal. "I meant because of the scars. Not that they're bad, they're not. You can hardly notice them."
Wow. Maybe we should just shoot those two poor humpbacked wildabeasts and put them out of their misery. Maybe we could borrow the elephant man's cover-up and they could take turns wearing it when they go out in public. You know, so they don't send poor little children running screaming into the night.
Knowing that no force on the planet would be able to keep me from cheerily repeating his comment to said wildabeasts, he kept trying make it better, but it was too late. It was out there. In the universe. And I was texting even as we were speaking. Hehehe.
Not to be outdone in the faux paux department, my mother has had a moment or two of her own. The one that sticks out the most was last year when we were throwing Pat a birthday party.
We decided to gather up a bunch of old photos of her and run a slide show during the cocktail hour. Since my mom had years ago divided up our childhood pictures (to each his/her own), we asked Paqt to bring the photos over to the house for us to pick what we wanted to use.
As we sat at the table, sorting through the pictures, my mom held up one from many years earlier and reminisced, "This was when you were thin."
As Tim and I fell howling on the floor, Pat huffed with indignation. "Thanks. When I was thin. Before I became Tillie the elephant. Hang on, P.T. Barnum is calling to ask which of the three rings I'd like to perform in tonight."
My nother tried to mount a defense, but at that point, anything she said just made it worse.
"No, you were young then." she protested.
"As opposed to the old, fat whale I am now?" Pat sputtered.
Tim and I, of course came to her defense. NOT! And like any good, older sister, I still remind Pat of this any chance I get. Hehehe.
Can't wait for the holidays to see what they come up with this year.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Driving Me Crazy
At our usual Sunday night family dinner, our fifteen year old niece was talking about driving. When I admitted that I did not get my license till I was 21, there was an audible gasp around the table.
It may be unusual not to get your license until you are that old, but I had my reasons. Two of them. And they were called my parents.
My dad's idea of driving was like watching somebody play Beat the Clock.
"Did everybody go to the bathroom?" he's ask as we started off on a 2000 mile car ride. "Cause we're not stopping till we get there. I figure I can make it in eight hours or less."
Then he's buckle up, synchronize his watch to the local bank clock, get into the passing lane, press the gas pedal all the way to the floor, and keep it there. He knew every detour, side road and alternate route just in case he hit traffic, construction or anyone doing under 90mph.
"We're five minutes ahead of schedule," he'd gloat as we passed a predetermined landmark (that usually had a bathroom we all looked at longingly).
And if he could shave fifteen minutes or more off the entire trip? It was like his birthday, Christmas and the fourth of July all happened on the very same day.
My mother's driving style can best be illustrated by an incident that occurred my freshman year of high school.
Back in those days, it was safe for the male upperclassmen to "hitch" a ride to school in the mornings. One of them made the mistake of getting in our car...once. As my mom bobbed, weaved, coasted through stop signs and generally drove like a contestant in last place on The Great Race, he turned pale, began to shake, and seemed to be either praying or composing his own eulogy.
"You can't believe the crazy woman I got a ride with this morning," I heard him say to his friends after he stumbled out of the car and kissed the sidewalk.
We thought we saw him hitching again a few day later, but it was hard to tell from the angle we had. After all, pretty much everyone's backside looks the same as they are diving into the bushes to hide.
Finally though, it was my turn to drive, so I signed up for driver's ed. The poor teacher never had a chance, or should I say teachers. For some reason, after usually only one lesson each, they suddenly developed some mysterious malady that made them unable to sit in a car. Well, my car.
The first poor soul decided after fifteen minutes or so of driving around the parking lot, that I was ready to hit the open road. As I raced down the street ala mom, he cautioned, "A bit slower."
Slower? I was only doing sixty. My grandmother could walk faster than that. Any slower and a snail would pass us.
At the end of the block, I approached a yellow light and instinctively did what either of my parents would do...I gunned it.
"Brake! Brake! Brake!" the instructor screamed as his fingers dug holes into the dashboard and his life flashed before his eyes.
Confused, I slammed both feet on the brake and skidded to a halt with a flourish a Hollywood stunt driver would be proud of. I turned to the teacher. What was his problem? Had he only ridden in a horse and buggy before?
After he scraped himself off the front windshield and realigned his nose, he suggested that perhaps we should save challenges like lights for the next lesson and stick to parking lots for the rest of the day.
Lesson two was a different teacher (Geez, you'd think they could find people who were not afraid of their own shadow to teach driver's ed.), who decided that I was ready for highway driving. Hehehe.
You'd think he's never been on the Dodge Em's ride at the amusement park or seen an Indy 500 race the way he carried on. I mean, isn't that why there are two lanes, so you can weave in and out and beat everyone to the exit? Clearly they needed to screen the instructors better to find people who didn't get dizzy from the scenery flashing by at 80mph. Back to the parking lot.
And so it went, until I finished the course. One instructor actually made it through three whole lessons (I believe they awarded him the Bronze Star).
Before I could get my actual license though, my dad decreed that I needed to learn to drive a stick shift since I would be driving my mom's car and not his. (The rule in our house has always been that nobody, but nobody drives my dad's car. The man could be in a coma with both legs in traction, but if he heard someone even touch his keys, he would hop up and bolt for the door shouting, "I'll move my car out of the driveway! You take your mom's car.")
And now we come to the real reason it took me so long to get my license. My dad was not born to be a teacher. I didn't realize I signed up for boot camp when I got behind the wheel for the first time. It was bad enough I had to work the clutch, gas and shift at the same time, but he was continually upping the ante.
"No, no," he'd correct, loudly, as he made me stop halfway up the hill in front of our house. "You're doing it all wrong. How are you ever going to be able to stop on a ninety degree mountain path in a blinding snowstorm with 200mph winds, pulling a tractor trailer and start up again without rolling back 1/4 of an inch if you can't do this?"
Uh. I'm thinking that if I ever find myself in that situation, I am going to have bigger problems than rolling back down the hill a foot or two. How about at that point, I just admit defeat and call you?
"I'm a car," he'd say, standing on the line of a parking space, "park next to me and see how close you can come without hitting me. Oh, and back in without using any of the mirrors. You should know where your car is."
Really? Are you sure you want to do this? Cause I'm pretty sure I can get away with an accidental homicide charge. Maybe some community service or counselling.
But my favorite teaching tactic of his was when he (finally) let me out on the street.
"Turn when I say turn. As soon as I say turn," he'd tell me.
Easy. Right? Not so much. As I'd be passing an intersection, he's suddenly yell, "Turn! Now!" as though someone had thrown a live grenade into our foxhole.
Usually panic-stricken, I'd jerk the wheel, press the gas, brake, clutch, cover my eyes,ears and mouth, pull out the rosary, worry beads and holy water...and end up on someones front lawn shaking like a leaf.
"Let's try that again," he'd pronounce, unruffled. Patton could have taken lessons from this man on drilling the troops.
But I had had enough. In defeat (which was probably his plan all along), I handed over the keys and resigned myself to committing the bus schedule to memory.
It wasn't until Tim came along, and in the ignorant, confident, flush of youth decided to teach me to drive. It has to be a testament to true love that he married me anyway. Then again, his driving, if not his teaching style is very similar to my parents'.
It may be unusual not to get your license until you are that old, but I had my reasons. Two of them. And they were called my parents.
My dad's idea of driving was like watching somebody play Beat the Clock.
"Did everybody go to the bathroom?" he's ask as we started off on a 2000 mile car ride. "Cause we're not stopping till we get there. I figure I can make it in eight hours or less."
Then he's buckle up, synchronize his watch to the local bank clock, get into the passing lane, press the gas pedal all the way to the floor, and keep it there. He knew every detour, side road and alternate route just in case he hit traffic, construction or anyone doing under 90mph.
"We're five minutes ahead of schedule," he'd gloat as we passed a predetermined landmark (that usually had a bathroom we all looked at longingly).
And if he could shave fifteen minutes or more off the entire trip? It was like his birthday, Christmas and the fourth of July all happened on the very same day.
My mother's driving style can best be illustrated by an incident that occurred my freshman year of high school.
Back in those days, it was safe for the male upperclassmen to "hitch" a ride to school in the mornings. One of them made the mistake of getting in our car...once. As my mom bobbed, weaved, coasted through stop signs and generally drove like a contestant in last place on The Great Race, he turned pale, began to shake, and seemed to be either praying or composing his own eulogy.
"You can't believe the crazy woman I got a ride with this morning," I heard him say to his friends after he stumbled out of the car and kissed the sidewalk.
We thought we saw him hitching again a few day later, but it was hard to tell from the angle we had. After all, pretty much everyone's backside looks the same as they are diving into the bushes to hide.
Finally though, it was my turn to drive, so I signed up for driver's ed. The poor teacher never had a chance, or should I say teachers. For some reason, after usually only one lesson each, they suddenly developed some mysterious malady that made them unable to sit in a car. Well, my car.
The first poor soul decided after fifteen minutes or so of driving around the parking lot, that I was ready to hit the open road. As I raced down the street ala mom, he cautioned, "A bit slower."
Slower? I was only doing sixty. My grandmother could walk faster than that. Any slower and a snail would pass us.
At the end of the block, I approached a yellow light and instinctively did what either of my parents would do...I gunned it.
"Brake! Brake! Brake!" the instructor screamed as his fingers dug holes into the dashboard and his life flashed before his eyes.
Confused, I slammed both feet on the brake and skidded to a halt with a flourish a Hollywood stunt driver would be proud of. I turned to the teacher. What was his problem? Had he only ridden in a horse and buggy before?
After he scraped himself off the front windshield and realigned his nose, he suggested that perhaps we should save challenges like lights for the next lesson and stick to parking lots for the rest of the day.
Lesson two was a different teacher (Geez, you'd think they could find people who were not afraid of their own shadow to teach driver's ed.), who decided that I was ready for highway driving. Hehehe.
You'd think he's never been on the Dodge Em's ride at the amusement park or seen an Indy 500 race the way he carried on. I mean, isn't that why there are two lanes, so you can weave in and out and beat everyone to the exit? Clearly they needed to screen the instructors better to find people who didn't get dizzy from the scenery flashing by at 80mph. Back to the parking lot.
And so it went, until I finished the course. One instructor actually made it through three whole lessons (I believe they awarded him the Bronze Star).
Before I could get my actual license though, my dad decreed that I needed to learn to drive a stick shift since I would be driving my mom's car and not his. (The rule in our house has always been that nobody, but nobody drives my dad's car. The man could be in a coma with both legs in traction, but if he heard someone even touch his keys, he would hop up and bolt for the door shouting, "I'll move my car out of the driveway! You take your mom's car.")
And now we come to the real reason it took me so long to get my license. My dad was not born to be a teacher. I didn't realize I signed up for boot camp when I got behind the wheel for the first time. It was bad enough I had to work the clutch, gas and shift at the same time, but he was continually upping the ante.
"No, no," he'd correct, loudly, as he made me stop halfway up the hill in front of our house. "You're doing it all wrong. How are you ever going to be able to stop on a ninety degree mountain path in a blinding snowstorm with 200mph winds, pulling a tractor trailer and start up again without rolling back 1/4 of an inch if you can't do this?"
Uh. I'm thinking that if I ever find myself in that situation, I am going to have bigger problems than rolling back down the hill a foot or two. How about at that point, I just admit defeat and call you?
"I'm a car," he'd say, standing on the line of a parking space, "park next to me and see how close you can come without hitting me. Oh, and back in without using any of the mirrors. You should know where your car is."
Really? Are you sure you want to do this? Cause I'm pretty sure I can get away with an accidental homicide charge. Maybe some community service or counselling.
But my favorite teaching tactic of his was when he (finally) let me out on the street.
"Turn when I say turn. As soon as I say turn," he'd tell me.
Easy. Right? Not so much. As I'd be passing an intersection, he's suddenly yell, "Turn! Now!" as though someone had thrown a live grenade into our foxhole.
Usually panic-stricken, I'd jerk the wheel, press the gas, brake, clutch, cover my eyes,ears and mouth, pull out the rosary, worry beads and holy water...and end up on someones front lawn shaking like a leaf.
"Let's try that again," he'd pronounce, unruffled. Patton could have taken lessons from this man on drilling the troops.
But I had had enough. In defeat (which was probably his plan all along), I handed over the keys and resigned myself to committing the bus schedule to memory.
It wasn't until Tim came along, and in the ignorant, confident, flush of youth decided to teach me to drive. It has to be a testament to true love that he married me anyway. Then again, his driving, if not his teaching style is very similar to my parents'.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
A Little Bit of Knowledge
Two years ago, my dad wanted an iphone. Okay, so he was dragged kicking and screaming into the store after his phone died and they told him that they had stopped making that model at about the same time the mullet went out of style.
Now as far as him being technologically saavy enough to actually use the iphone? Hmmm. How can I put this delicately? He was still balancing his checkbook with an abacus and using a dictionary from 1942 to look up the definition of "internet".
Needless to say, we were all a bit worried. He surprised us though by actually becoming fairly proficient on the device. And by that I mean he could make and receive calls and play Angry Birds. Eventually, he could even get on the internet. Sometimes.
Encouraged by his foray into the 21st century, we bought him a basic model ipad last year.
Suddenly, a whole new world opened up to him. Did you know you can get books to read? And there are weather apps and news app and you can watch the episodes of Desperate Housewives that you missed because you were watching the Food Network instead?
The biggest revelation though was that he could get email! Of course, the man didn't actually have a valid email account, but hey, that was just a minor detail.
I believe my mom was more excited about the whole email thing because up until then, she had been the sole point of contact with the outside world. I think the pressure of that awesome responsibility was starting to make her a bit cranky, as evidenced by small things she would occasionally let slip, like, for example, rapping my father over the head with rolled-up printouts while yelling, "Learn to print your own D**M emails!" But maybe not. I might have misread the clues.
Anyway, over the past year, a whole world opened up to my father. He became king of the free apps, arbiter of all discussions, source of all knowledge and grand-slam champion of Angry Birds and Paper Toss. He was Judge Judy, Einstein and Jeopardy champion Ken Jennings all rolled into one!
What time did my sister's flight land? Free flight Tracker app.
What 52nd rerun of CSI (Miami, NY, LA, East Podunk, is there a difference?) was on next Tuesday opposite the encore presentation of Mama Mia? Free TV Guide app, of course.
Who was the actress that played a hatcheck girl for three seconds of screen time in that 1934 movie starring those two actors that only ever made one movie He was on it with the free IMDB app.
No topic was safe. He was faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap to conclusions with a single swipe of his finger. He was free app man!
Now, my mother was smacking us on the head for getting him hooked on a device that had essentially become another appendage. "He's a couch potato," she complained. "I can't get him to go anywhere now." Yeah. And before the ipad, he was just begging to go to the symphony with you or shoe shopping.
Naturally, being the caring, concerned, dutiful children we are, after listening to her for the past year, we decided there was only one thing to do in order to help her out...upgrade my dad to the new ipad and give his old one to her!
Now, we did have to pry it out of his hands long enough to transfer all of his free apps over to the new one. And it was touch and go for most of the operation whether he would survive with his sanity intact or end up in Bedlam.
"Are you sure all the apps will transfer?" he asked for the 97th time on his 4,363rd trip into the room.
"Are you certain all my photos will be there?" he leaned over my shoulder for the 8 millionth time.
"Will I still have all my books?" he questioned, as he wore a trench in the floor pacing back and forth.
"Yes, yes, and yes. Geez, were you this much of a wreck with mom when I was being born?"
"Huh? What?" His fingers curled and uncurled subconsciously with the effort it took not to rip his beloved ipad from me and carry it off to the safety of his room. "Um. Yeah. Yeah. Sure. You're more important to me than an ipad," he mumbled, never taking his eyes off the screen."
Riiiight.
Finally though, the transfer was complete, and the man who, just a short time earlier hadn't known that safari wasn't just a trip in Africa was now teaching my mother how to navigate "app world".
"Sometimes she messes things up on it," he confided in me, "but don't worry. I get her all straightened out because I know all about how the ipad works."
And my mother? Oh yeah. She's also a couch potato. Hehehe.
Now as far as him being technologically saavy enough to actually use the iphone? Hmmm. How can I put this delicately? He was still balancing his checkbook with an abacus and using a dictionary from 1942 to look up the definition of "internet".
Needless to say, we were all a bit worried. He surprised us though by actually becoming fairly proficient on the device. And by that I mean he could make and receive calls and play Angry Birds. Eventually, he could even get on the internet. Sometimes.
Encouraged by his foray into the 21st century, we bought him a basic model ipad last year.
Suddenly, a whole new world opened up to him. Did you know you can get books to read? And there are weather apps and news app and you can watch the episodes of Desperate Housewives that you missed because you were watching the Food Network instead?
The biggest revelation though was that he could get email! Of course, the man didn't actually have a valid email account, but hey, that was just a minor detail.
I believe my mom was more excited about the whole email thing because up until then, she had been the sole point of contact with the outside world. I think the pressure of that awesome responsibility was starting to make her a bit cranky, as evidenced by small things she would occasionally let slip, like, for example, rapping my father over the head with rolled-up printouts while yelling, "Learn to print your own D**M emails!" But maybe not. I might have misread the clues.
Anyway, over the past year, a whole world opened up to my father. He became king of the free apps, arbiter of all discussions, source of all knowledge and grand-slam champion of Angry Birds and Paper Toss. He was Judge Judy, Einstein and Jeopardy champion Ken Jennings all rolled into one!
What time did my sister's flight land? Free flight Tracker app.
What 52nd rerun of CSI (Miami, NY, LA, East Podunk, is there a difference?) was on next Tuesday opposite the encore presentation of Mama Mia? Free TV Guide app, of course.
Who was the actress that played a hatcheck girl for three seconds of screen time in that 1934 movie starring those two actors that only ever made one movie He was on it with the free IMDB app.
No topic was safe. He was faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap to conclusions with a single swipe of his finger. He was free app man!
Now, my mother was smacking us on the head for getting him hooked on a device that had essentially become another appendage. "He's a couch potato," she complained. "I can't get him to go anywhere now." Yeah. And before the ipad, he was just begging to go to the symphony with you or shoe shopping.
Naturally, being the caring, concerned, dutiful children we are, after listening to her for the past year, we decided there was only one thing to do in order to help her out...upgrade my dad to the new ipad and give his old one to her!
Now, we did have to pry it out of his hands long enough to transfer all of his free apps over to the new one. And it was touch and go for most of the operation whether he would survive with his sanity intact or end up in Bedlam.
"Are you sure all the apps will transfer?" he asked for the 97th time on his 4,363rd trip into the room.
"Are you certain all my photos will be there?" he leaned over my shoulder for the 8 millionth time.
"Will I still have all my books?" he questioned, as he wore a trench in the floor pacing back and forth.
"Yes, yes, and yes. Geez, were you this much of a wreck with mom when I was being born?"
"Huh? What?" His fingers curled and uncurled subconsciously with the effort it took not to rip his beloved ipad from me and carry it off to the safety of his room. "Um. Yeah. Yeah. Sure. You're more important to me than an ipad," he mumbled, never taking his eyes off the screen."
Riiiight.
Finally though, the transfer was complete, and the man who, just a short time earlier hadn't known that safari wasn't just a trip in Africa was now teaching my mother how to navigate "app world".
"Sometimes she messes things up on it," he confided in me, "but don't worry. I get her all straightened out because I know all about how the ipad works."
And my mother? Oh yeah. She's also a couch potato. Hehehe.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Like Mother, Like Daughter
They say if you want to know how a girl will turn out, look at her mother.
My sister, annonymous, seems to think Tim should have looked more closely twenty years ago. Although she disagrees, I think, that of the two of us, I dodged that bullet more successfully than she did.
Like my mother, I may exhibit a certain lack of coordination, but, unlike her (and Pat) I don't tempt fate.
In her fifties, my mother took up skiing. In her sixties, she went parasailing. And last year, at seventy-one, she jumped out of a plane in New Zealand.
Skiing? No thanks. My first (and last) attempt ended with a trip to the first-aid station to bandage my thumb which, after an unfortunate encounter with a ski boot clip had no nail--at all. Sitting by the fire sipping a hot chocolate is definitely more my speed.
Parasailing?!?! The only way I am getting off a boat in the middle of the ocean is if it is sinking.
Sky-diving? I had a massage while she was plunging to the ground from nine thousand feet up. Trying a new massage oil is enough of a risk for me.
Like my mother? Please. I consider driving my four-door sedan three blocks to the store without a seatbelt an unnecessary risk.
My sister though, is just like her. Skiing? You bet! And this after she broke her arm twice (in the same place) rollerskating. Hellooo? Having wheels on your feet was not dangerous enough?
She has also jumped from great heights...attached to a bungee...over concrete. No soft, water landing for her. That's for sissies! Even my mother bypassed this opportunity in New Zealand.
And then there are her motorcycles. One is for going fast. The other is for going faster and farther. She and my mother even attended the motorcycle convention in NYC last year (Hell's Angels, watch out!) . I have to take a valium just to get into a NYC cab.
Pat has always been far more the daredevil than I. Years ago, on a trip to the Catskills, we were all in separate cars. Somehow, two trucks got between Pat and my father and refused to let her pass. She solved that problem by creating a middle lane for herself between them (This was the same trip where, when Tim got out of the car with a sunburned arm, she told him not to worry...he could even things out when his other arm burned on the way back---definitely shades of Mom!).
And finally...you know you are just like someone when you are the only one who understands what the heck they are talking about.
Some time ago, the family got together for dinner, and, appropo of nothing, my mother suddenly informed us that, "Wood is on shark". Silence greeted this announcement as we all struggled to decipher her meaning. Had she seen some National Geographic episode the rest of us had missed? Was this code for, "I'll have the surf and turf"? Had she lost her mind?
We all gazed at each other, helpless, until Pat decoded it for us.
Apparently, James Woods was set to star in a new show called Shark !
Yeah, she's not at all like my mother.
My sister, annonymous, seems to think Tim should have looked more closely twenty years ago. Although she disagrees, I think, that of the two of us, I dodged that bullet more successfully than she did.
Like my mother, I may exhibit a certain lack of coordination, but, unlike her (and Pat) I don't tempt fate.
In her fifties, my mother took up skiing. In her sixties, she went parasailing. And last year, at seventy-one, she jumped out of a plane in New Zealand.
Skiing? No thanks. My first (and last) attempt ended with a trip to the first-aid station to bandage my thumb which, after an unfortunate encounter with a ski boot clip had no nail--at all. Sitting by the fire sipping a hot chocolate is definitely more my speed.
Parasailing?!?! The only way I am getting off a boat in the middle of the ocean is if it is sinking.
Sky-diving? I had a massage while she was plunging to the ground from nine thousand feet up. Trying a new massage oil is enough of a risk for me.
Like my mother? Please. I consider driving my four-door sedan three blocks to the store without a seatbelt an unnecessary risk.
My sister though, is just like her. Skiing? You bet! And this after she broke her arm twice (in the same place) rollerskating. Hellooo? Having wheels on your feet was not dangerous enough?
She has also jumped from great heights...attached to a bungee...over concrete. No soft, water landing for her. That's for sissies! Even my mother bypassed this opportunity in New Zealand.
And then there are her motorcycles. One is for going fast. The other is for going faster and farther. She and my mother even attended the motorcycle convention in NYC last year (Hell's Angels, watch out!) . I have to take a valium just to get into a NYC cab.
Pat has always been far more the daredevil than I. Years ago, on a trip to the Catskills, we were all in separate cars. Somehow, two trucks got between Pat and my father and refused to let her pass. She solved that problem by creating a middle lane for herself between them (This was the same trip where, when Tim got out of the car with a sunburned arm, she told him not to worry...he could even things out when his other arm burned on the way back---definitely shades of Mom!).
And finally...you know you are just like someone when you are the only one who understands what the heck they are talking about.
Some time ago, the family got together for dinner, and, appropo of nothing, my mother suddenly informed us that, "Wood is on shark". Silence greeted this announcement as we all struggled to decipher her meaning. Had she seen some National Geographic episode the rest of us had missed? Was this code for, "I'll have the surf and turf"? Had she lost her mind?
We all gazed at each other, helpless, until Pat decoded it for us.
Apparently, James Woods was set to star in a new show called Shark !
Yeah, she's not at all like my mother.
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