It is times like this when I really do wish for a Bitchy Howler Monkey Bold font. I'd write in red. It would be menacing even if kindly written. Or maybe an I Know What You Did Last Summer font. Something. Anything that would assist the mere words in conveying my enormous disappointment and my patience sputtering to a stall. And that my ability to control my temper is circling the drain. Is it possible to sound shrill in an email?
I send Wally an email and take a practical but decidedly pissy tone. Suggest that he seriously shake a tail feather this week, make appearances in my home early and often and finish the job before Friday. I note that my kids will be home the following week with no babysitter - they will have no reason to leave the house and no ability to leave the property. He will be in their way and they in his. Conjure up the mental image of multiple trips to the refrigerator and interruptions to prepare frozen pizzas. In my teeny tiny square kitchen.
Send. And now I need to get serious about the house.
Get Trinket settled. I am leaving for Scott's house and will be gone until Monday evening. She needs new kitty litter, fresh bowls of food, refilled glasses and bowls of water and a few new toys to distract her.
The kids need to unpack and I need to separate their laundry. They need to separate what stays and what goes to Lars. I hate that they have to do this.
The cooler needs to be emptied and extra stuff that Scott can use (and I will not) needs to be placed in a bag for my drive. And placed by the door so I don't forget it and leave it to turn to penicillin before I return.
I mow the lawn. Yank as much of the effing Morning Glory off of its victims and put in a can and then place it in a sunny spot out back so it can dry before Tuesday so none of my garbage men herniate a disk pulling the can from the curb. I weed whack until the spool of twine conveniently runs out.
Make one last lunch for me and the kids, talk and laugh and soak in their sweetness before I have to kiss each of them one last time before we pile into the car so I can return them to Lars.
I shower. Make myself fabulous, snuggle the cat, give the kids each a smooch and a squeeze. I am barely breathing as I drive to Lars' house.
The kids are excited to see the dogs. They are anxious to show Lars their vacation loot. I mirror their enthusiasm on the outside. I am shriveling on the inside.
I've immersed myself in them this week and now it is over. Clearly they have learned to survive the ever swinging pendulum that is our custody agreement with far more grace than I. After all of these years it is still such a tearing away to have them depart for his house.
I wave and smile brightly. I pull away from the curb as they turn to walk away. They do not ever see my lip begin to quiver.
I have 90 minutes on the road to Scott's. I will surely finish my boo hooing by then and be ready to embrace the other wonderful third of the life I could never have imagined. I am so lucky. Why doesn't it always feel that way?
Friday, August 31, 2012
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Houston, We've Got a Problem
I don't really understand.
I understand some things.
I understand that he has several projects at one time. He and his crew are spread out accomplishing various things at different times.
I understand that some things are subbed out and he is at the mercy of their availability.
I understand that my little job has become a money pit and he is now probably in the red and not terribly enthused about finishing it at his own expense.
I also understand that I have spent an astonishing amount of money by anyone's standards to update this kitchen, and it has been like chewing off my own hand from the start.
What I don't understand is how he walks into Charlotte's house with his ponytailed head held high instead of with his tail between his legs when she is acutely aware of what is happening (or not happening) at my house, and he is toiling away on a project at her house.
Granted, her project is zippy and new and hasn't had its first full on disaster yet.
I have had an electrical debacle, dry wall issues, ants, The Amateur Tile Show, damaged materials, played the Who's Going To Get The Faucet game, interior layout issues on par with those faced by NASA, and a healthy debate about whether or not the effing door gets painted. (Of course it gets painted. It is French Vanilla and the entire rest of the trim is Architectural White. The blind can see that that is Just All Wrong).
Charlotte and Jack had a water problem that ruined their beautiful family room, and immediately took the lemons, squeezed them into a glass, dropped in a few ice cubes and ladled in the Jack Daniels. They are not just fixing the family room, they are adding a wet bar and television and redesigning the whole space. (I predict a Super Bowl party...)
Chances are, since the Wally Charlotte sees has a portfolio on her house and projects, when I get random emails and have to ask for things he's committed to and not done), and since the Wally she sees will arrive day or night as if summoned by Bat Phone and I can't even nail down when or if he'll be showing up at all on most days, and the Wally she gets would never leave a blob of white silicon on her plum ceiling, or walk away leaving a door unpainted for weeks because he didn't know if it should be painted and didn't think to call or text while the brush was still in his hand and the paint can open, or leave her without a working sink for three weeks forcing her to eat high fat convenience store meals and ruining her girlish figure, Charlotte and Jack will not have any noticeable disasters.
Because her Wally will never let a SNAFU get her attention.
But my SNAFU has my attention. And now I need to get his.
I understand some things.
I understand that he has several projects at one time. He and his crew are spread out accomplishing various things at different times.
I understand that some things are subbed out and he is at the mercy of their availability.
I understand that my little job has become a money pit and he is now probably in the red and not terribly enthused about finishing it at his own expense.
I also understand that I have spent an astonishing amount of money by anyone's standards to update this kitchen, and it has been like chewing off my own hand from the start.
What I don't understand is how he walks into Charlotte's house with his ponytailed head held high instead of with his tail between his legs when she is acutely aware of what is happening (or not happening) at my house, and he is toiling away on a project at her house.
Granted, her project is zippy and new and hasn't had its first full on disaster yet.
I have had an electrical debacle, dry wall issues, ants, The Amateur Tile Show, damaged materials, played the Who's Going To Get The Faucet game, interior layout issues on par with those faced by NASA, and a healthy debate about whether or not the effing door gets painted. (Of course it gets painted. It is French Vanilla and the entire rest of the trim is Architectural White. The blind can see that that is Just All Wrong).
Charlotte and Jack had a water problem that ruined their beautiful family room, and immediately took the lemons, squeezed them into a glass, dropped in a few ice cubes and ladled in the Jack Daniels. They are not just fixing the family room, they are adding a wet bar and television and redesigning the whole space. (I predict a Super Bowl party...)
Chances are, since the Wally Charlotte sees has a portfolio on her house and projects, when I get random emails and have to ask for things he's committed to and not done), and since the Wally she sees will arrive day or night as if summoned by Bat Phone and I can't even nail down when or if he'll be showing up at all on most days, and the Wally she gets would never leave a blob of white silicon on her plum ceiling, or walk away leaving a door unpainted for weeks because he didn't know if it should be painted and didn't think to call or text while the brush was still in his hand and the paint can open, or leave her without a working sink for three weeks forcing her to eat high fat convenience store meals and ruining her girlish figure, Charlotte and Jack will not have any noticeable disasters.
Because her Wally will never let a SNAFU get her attention.
But my SNAFU has my attention. And now I need to get his.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Home, Sweat Home (Yes, Sweat)
The return to reality is always a little harsh. Even if you are not returning immediately to work.
The custody arrangement Lars and I reluctantly agreed to (when the maniacal Special Master insanely suggested that we both go find apartments and rotate weeks in the house with the kids) is a Friday to Friday arrangement. So we return routinely from vacations on Fridays - allowing for a little decompression and reacclimation before being forcibly returned to the world of screaming voice mails and overly long, pissy emails, and stacks of God Only Knows What covering the surface of the desk that no one but you can possibly manage to deal with.
We pack the car. We chase down the cat (also reluctant to leave) and stuff her against her will into the carrier. We make the drive home. Traffic is light. We are in front of the house in no time.
It is hotter than fried Hell.
My lawn looks like 1313 Mockingbird Lane's.
My shrubs have turned into Jurassic Park.
Other People's recyclables have taken flight and blown down the street to take up residence in my yard.
My neighbor's predatory Morning Glory has spread all over my bushes and trees and is actively choking them. And has the nerve to be cheerfully blooming.
Someone has delivered the paper all week. I don't get the paper delivered. Yet five soggy editions are pasted to the steps.
I sit behind the wheel of the car for a moment trying to find a thought to dwell on that would make me rally to the task of unpacking the car and entering the house. Thoughts of mowing and weeding and pounds of mail squeeze out all the good ones.
But then I have it! My kitchen! I had emailed Wally before I'd gone. Told him we'd be away and so would the cat, so have at it! Work day and night! Work the weekends if you want. Make yourself at home. Hell, sleep over so you get an early start. My house is your house! Rock on.
Of course all of this was code for "My little 5 day project has now turned into 50 days, so your math is a little off. I will maturely keep my inner howler monkey from tearing your face off if you would just be so kind as to finish the damn job so I can stop making coffee and toast in my living room. I will stay out of your way and give you time to focus. Take whatever pill helps you concentrate and get cracking. Please. For the love of all the is holy. Finish. My. Kitchen."
Surely. For sure. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that he's wrapped up the job and I have noting but a gleaming new kitchen, a crisp, unwrinkled final bill, and my returned house key awaiting me. Those, and the welcoming smell of fresh paint.
I practically fly from the car.
I grab a suitcase and the cat and bark some unpacking orders at the kids. They look at me like I've gone mad on the way home. I turn to Hil. "The kitchen! Let's go see!" And then suddenly she and Pat are hot footing around grabbing what they can and bounding up the front steps.
I fumble with the lock (the locksmith I got when J. went sailing over the edge of reason put new locks on all the doors but this one is upside down and makes me insane) but finally fling the door open.
I spring the cat from her portable jail and spring into the kitchen, trying not to look before I get there. The kids are on my heels.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing has changed.
While we were on vacation, evidently Wally was too. My kitchen is in exactly the same state as when we left. Right down to the note I'd left Wally still taped to the door.
Let the ranting begin.
The custody arrangement Lars and I reluctantly agreed to (when the maniacal Special Master insanely suggested that we both go find apartments and rotate weeks in the house with the kids) is a Friday to Friday arrangement. So we return routinely from vacations on Fridays - allowing for a little decompression and reacclimation before being forcibly returned to the world of screaming voice mails and overly long, pissy emails, and stacks of God Only Knows What covering the surface of the desk that no one but you can possibly manage to deal with.
We pack the car. We chase down the cat (also reluctant to leave) and stuff her against her will into the carrier. We make the drive home. Traffic is light. We are in front of the house in no time.
It is hotter than fried Hell.
My lawn looks like 1313 Mockingbird Lane's.
My shrubs have turned into Jurassic Park.
Other People's recyclables have taken flight and blown down the street to take up residence in my yard.
My neighbor's predatory Morning Glory has spread all over my bushes and trees and is actively choking them. And has the nerve to be cheerfully blooming.
Someone has delivered the paper all week. I don't get the paper delivered. Yet five soggy editions are pasted to the steps.
I sit behind the wheel of the car for a moment trying to find a thought to dwell on that would make me rally to the task of unpacking the car and entering the house. Thoughts of mowing and weeding and pounds of mail squeeze out all the good ones.
But then I have it! My kitchen! I had emailed Wally before I'd gone. Told him we'd be away and so would the cat, so have at it! Work day and night! Work the weekends if you want. Make yourself at home. Hell, sleep over so you get an early start. My house is your house! Rock on.
Of course all of this was code for "My little 5 day project has now turned into 50 days, so your math is a little off. I will maturely keep my inner howler monkey from tearing your face off if you would just be so kind as to finish the damn job so I can stop making coffee and toast in my living room. I will stay out of your way and give you time to focus. Take whatever pill helps you concentrate and get cracking. Please. For the love of all the is holy. Finish. My. Kitchen."
Surely. For sure. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that he's wrapped up the job and I have noting but a gleaming new kitchen, a crisp, unwrinkled final bill, and my returned house key awaiting me. Those, and the welcoming smell of fresh paint.
I practically fly from the car.
I grab a suitcase and the cat and bark some unpacking orders at the kids. They look at me like I've gone mad on the way home. I turn to Hil. "The kitchen! Let's go see!" And then suddenly she and Pat are hot footing around grabbing what they can and bounding up the front steps.
I fumble with the lock (the locksmith I got when J. went sailing over the edge of reason put new locks on all the doors but this one is upside down and makes me insane) but finally fling the door open.
I spring the cat from her portable jail and spring into the kitchen, trying not to look before I get there. The kids are on my heels.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing has changed.
While we were on vacation, evidently Wally was too. My kitchen is in exactly the same state as when we left. Right down to the note I'd left Wally still taped to the door.
Let the ranting begin.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Please Hold While We Restart Your Life
The next few days are more business than pleasure. School shopping. Packing to leave. Cleaning up after ourselves so Charlotte and Jack are not sorry they invited us.
On the morning we are to leave, Hil is sad. Sad that our time in this magical place has again come to an end. Sad that our time together is over. Sad that they need to return to Lars' house to clean the house themselves in preparation for her party.
I tell her I am sad, too. That I will miss her and Pat terribly. That I wish our vacation could go on forever. That I wish we could return to the cottage week after week, soaking up the magic of the place. Putting fires in the fireplace. Swinging on the porch swings. Sharing stories and board games on the porch.
Hil seems genuinely sad for me. I tell her not to be. I have a consolation prize. I have Scott to look forward to.
"What is a "consolation prize?" she asks.
I tell her it is a prize for playing the game. Not the jackpot but something to make you feel better when you've lost the big prize. A nice parting gift, as they say. Like when you don't win the new car but they give you some movie tickets.
Hil walks away satisfied with the answer. But later, when she's pulled the sheets from her bed so that I can dress it again, she says, "Mom, I don't think Scott is a consolation prize." She is very serious.
"No?" I say. "Why not."
"He's a really good prize," she says. And he is. He's makes leaving them liveable. I look forward to time with him instead of dreading time without the kids.
I smile at her and tell her that he is of course, a very good prize, really a jackpot himself, but nothing is better than time with her and Pat. The only thing I can think of that could be a bigger jackpot would be all of us together like we had been earlier in the week.
She smiles. "Yep. That would be the really big prize. The lottery."
And truth be told, that would be, but that is a long way off. I am bound to my cute little home town by a custody agreement and a money-grubbing, taker ex-husband. Any move I'd make to an address even one foot outside of the township we reside in would precipitate a most unpleasant trip to court to have the children removed from my home to Lars' home on a full time basis, with cha-ching! a bigger child support payment with which to line Lars' wallet and subsidize his fast-food, movie, alcohol and drug habits. How nice for everyone.
And Scott, however amenable to a move to my house, would not forcibly uproot his girls against their will. It had not gone over well when their mother had done it. And no one wants to send another clear and resonating message that the love of one's life might at any time make you consider compromising your commitments to your kids and make decisions that aren't necessarily wildly appealing to them. And honestly, who needs the drama? Besides, I'd forever feel guilty. About the girls and about asking Scott to leave the beach town he clearly loves. Bad karma. We'd move in together and somebody would instantly get hit by a bus.
So I am patient. I enjoy my life and try not to wish it away. I smile politely when someone brightly but naively refers to "all that 'me' time" as something delightful. I clean my house and mow my lawn. Wake up, go to work, go to bed. All the while putting one foot obediently in front of the other. But "me" time is something I have no shortage of.
I always have something to look forward to, but really, when I am not with the kids, and not with Scott, my life really is on hold. But I try to enjoy the nice background music until they return.
On the morning we are to leave, Hil is sad. Sad that our time in this magical place has again come to an end. Sad that our time together is over. Sad that they need to return to Lars' house to clean the house themselves in preparation for her party.
I tell her I am sad, too. That I will miss her and Pat terribly. That I wish our vacation could go on forever. That I wish we could return to the cottage week after week, soaking up the magic of the place. Putting fires in the fireplace. Swinging on the porch swings. Sharing stories and board games on the porch.
Hil seems genuinely sad for me. I tell her not to be. I have a consolation prize. I have Scott to look forward to.
"What is a "consolation prize?" she asks.
I tell her it is a prize for playing the game. Not the jackpot but something to make you feel better when you've lost the big prize. A nice parting gift, as they say. Like when you don't win the new car but they give you some movie tickets.
Hil walks away satisfied with the answer. But later, when she's pulled the sheets from her bed so that I can dress it again, she says, "Mom, I don't think Scott is a consolation prize." She is very serious.
"No?" I say. "Why not."
"He's a really good prize," she says. And he is. He's makes leaving them liveable. I look forward to time with him instead of dreading time without the kids.
I smile at her and tell her that he is of course, a very good prize, really a jackpot himself, but nothing is better than time with her and Pat. The only thing I can think of that could be a bigger jackpot would be all of us together like we had been earlier in the week.
She smiles. "Yep. That would be the really big prize. The lottery."
And truth be told, that would be, but that is a long way off. I am bound to my cute little home town by a custody agreement and a money-grubbing, taker ex-husband. Any move I'd make to an address even one foot outside of the township we reside in would precipitate a most unpleasant trip to court to have the children removed from my home to Lars' home on a full time basis, with cha-ching! a bigger child support payment with which to line Lars' wallet and subsidize his fast-food, movie, alcohol and drug habits. How nice for everyone.
And Scott, however amenable to a move to my house, would not forcibly uproot his girls against their will. It had not gone over well when their mother had done it. And no one wants to send another clear and resonating message that the love of one's life might at any time make you consider compromising your commitments to your kids and make decisions that aren't necessarily wildly appealing to them. And honestly, who needs the drama? Besides, I'd forever feel guilty. About the girls and about asking Scott to leave the beach town he clearly loves. Bad karma. We'd move in together and somebody would instantly get hit by a bus.
So I am patient. I enjoy my life and try not to wish it away. I smile politely when someone brightly but naively refers to "all that 'me' time" as something delightful. I clean my house and mow my lawn. Wake up, go to work, go to bed. All the while putting one foot obediently in front of the other. But "me" time is something I have no shortage of.
I always have something to look forward to, but really, when I am not with the kids, and not with Scott, my life really is on hold. But I try to enjoy the nice background music until they return.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Even the Sun Sets in Paradise
The kids and I finish the day with rides on the Wild Mouse, dinner, a show that fancies itself the next Glee, and a little bit of shopping. I also throw in a few hairy eyeball glares at line jumpers who are old enough to know better, just to round out the experience.
At the end of the day, as they are closing down rides, locking pools, turning on lights and announcing when the park will close, the kids and I make our way to the exit. Thankfully we had found great parking not far from the gate.
What wasn't so great was the fact that the nearest exit had been closed and we had to make a giant loop around the park like we had when we'd arrived. Only now it is dark, I am tired, my eyes weary. I have no idea where I am going.
I think we've already established what fun that is for me and the people who have the misfortune of being in the car with me.
After meandering through town for 10 minutes and deciding that the compass in my car is telling me I've left the state, I ask Pat to commandeer the GPS on my phone. It does not talk, but at least he can read the directions to me and tell me if the little blue dot wavers from its path on the way to the little red blinking dot.
I already have the darn thing programmed with Charlotte and Jack's addresses. God only knows where I'll be when I need to make my way there like a homing pigeon because of some social crisis.
Pat pushes the button and we try to figure out how to read the darn thing. It is harder than it looks. Pat is convinced I need to go straight. I am convinced I need to make a left. The GPS is not sure.
While we are chatting, Hil's phone rings. It is Lars. It is the third time in an hour that he's called. I can only begin to guess at how many times he's harassed Pat while we've been separated in the park. I decide not to ask. He will never learn to let the kids enjoy life without him. It's almost as if he's afraid they'll enjoy it too much, so he has to reach out and piss all over anything fun that they do. Some poeple are just assholes.
And as if he needed to remind us of that fact, I can tell from Hil's side of the conversation that he is grilling her. He evidently can hear Pat's voice and must be wondering who is in the car with us. I can hear her getting impatient. She is repeating, "It's just us, Dad. Me and Mom and Pat." And then explaining, "Pat is reading the directions to her. That's who you hear."
I have been divorced for six years. Why on Earth does he need to know who is in the car with us, and why is it a matter of even the remotest curiosity?
I want to screech at him. I wish Scott were in the car so I could hand him the phone and he could tell him to scratch his ass and leave me alone. I wish Hil would say something like, "What is your hangup, Dad? It doesn't matter if we have a whole bus load of people crammed in the damn car! Mom is in charge, not you! Learn to live with it!"
But really I am sure he is trying to figure out if Scott or Scott and his girls are on vacation with us. Like it is any of his business to even let the thought flicker through his atrophied little brain.
- We are divorced. I can date, marry, and certainly vacation with anyone I damn please. It is just that much better that it is someone as handsome and flawless when compared with Lars.
- And, ahem, Lars, you are getting married to Liza, Part Deux. You have no right to be jealous if that is what you are, or judgemental. And I don't recall you asking my opinion before Liza moved in with her yoga mat and fat little dog, so my vacation should not even make the list of things to question.
- My life is my life to lead. If I want to have scores of men in and out of it, so be it. You should be so lucky.
- We were at an amusement park, not a beer festival. No one has been irresponsibly exposed to anything that will scar them for life (well maybe that one rollercoaster is a question mark for now.)
The nerve of him just galls me. The fact that he asks the children to be his moles makes me want to twist his testicles off. I actually day dream about setting his hair on fire.
But Pat is telling me to turn into a corn field and I need to focus. Hil manages to end the conversation without much further badgering.
We make our way home, and into the showers. I text Scott to let him know we are safe at home and the cat has not escaped and I have secretly imagined 10 different ways to bludgeon Lars on the way home and why. I pour a G&T and place a few more puzzle peices in place before kissing my tired babies goodnight and climbing into bed.
Tomorrow we will rise and shine and venture out to the outlets to go back to school shopping. It is part of the winding down of vacation with thoughts of returning to school. The vacation is ending. The summer is ending. As they say, even the sun sets in Paradise.
At the end of the day, as they are closing down rides, locking pools, turning on lights and announcing when the park will close, the kids and I make our way to the exit. Thankfully we had found great parking not far from the gate.
What wasn't so great was the fact that the nearest exit had been closed and we had to make a giant loop around the park like we had when we'd arrived. Only now it is dark, I am tired, my eyes weary. I have no idea where I am going.
I think we've already established what fun that is for me and the people who have the misfortune of being in the car with me.
After meandering through town for 10 minutes and deciding that the compass in my car is telling me I've left the state, I ask Pat to commandeer the GPS on my phone. It does not talk, but at least he can read the directions to me and tell me if the little blue dot wavers from its path on the way to the little red blinking dot.
I already have the darn thing programmed with Charlotte and Jack's addresses. God only knows where I'll be when I need to make my way there like a homing pigeon because of some social crisis.
Pat pushes the button and we try to figure out how to read the darn thing. It is harder than it looks. Pat is convinced I need to go straight. I am convinced I need to make a left. The GPS is not sure.
While we are chatting, Hil's phone rings. It is Lars. It is the third time in an hour that he's called. I can only begin to guess at how many times he's harassed Pat while we've been separated in the park. I decide not to ask. He will never learn to let the kids enjoy life without him. It's almost as if he's afraid they'll enjoy it too much, so he has to reach out and piss all over anything fun that they do. Some poeple are just assholes.
And as if he needed to remind us of that fact, I can tell from Hil's side of the conversation that he is grilling her. He evidently can hear Pat's voice and must be wondering who is in the car with us. I can hear her getting impatient. She is repeating, "It's just us, Dad. Me and Mom and Pat." And then explaining, "Pat is reading the directions to her. That's who you hear."
I have been divorced for six years. Why on Earth does he need to know who is in the car with us, and why is it a matter of even the remotest curiosity?
I want to screech at him. I wish Scott were in the car so I could hand him the phone and he could tell him to scratch his ass and leave me alone. I wish Hil would say something like, "What is your hangup, Dad? It doesn't matter if we have a whole bus load of people crammed in the damn car! Mom is in charge, not you! Learn to live with it!"
But really I am sure he is trying to figure out if Scott or Scott and his girls are on vacation with us. Like it is any of his business to even let the thought flicker through his atrophied little brain.
- We are divorced. I can date, marry, and certainly vacation with anyone I damn please. It is just that much better that it is someone as handsome and flawless when compared with Lars.
- And, ahem, Lars, you are getting married to Liza, Part Deux. You have no right to be jealous if that is what you are, or judgemental. And I don't recall you asking my opinion before Liza moved in with her yoga mat and fat little dog, so my vacation should not even make the list of things to question.
- My life is my life to lead. If I want to have scores of men in and out of it, so be it. You should be so lucky.
- We were at an amusement park, not a beer festival. No one has been irresponsibly exposed to anything that will scar them for life (well maybe that one rollercoaster is a question mark for now.)
The nerve of him just galls me. The fact that he asks the children to be his moles makes me want to twist his testicles off. I actually day dream about setting his hair on fire.
But Pat is telling me to turn into a corn field and I need to focus. Hil manages to end the conversation without much further badgering.
We make our way home, and into the showers. I text Scott to let him know we are safe at home and the cat has not escaped and I have secretly imagined 10 different ways to bludgeon Lars on the way home and why. I pour a G&T and place a few more puzzle peices in place before kissing my tired babies goodnight and climbing into bed.
Tomorrow we will rise and shine and venture out to the outlets to go back to school shopping. It is part of the winding down of vacation with thoughts of returning to school. The vacation is ending. The summer is ending. As they say, even the sun sets in Paradise.
Friday, August 24, 2012
The Shrill of It All
The latest roller coaster has warning signs all over. Do not board if you are not tall enough, not feeling well, suffer from emotional disorders, have heart trouble, might be pregnant, have taken an erectile dysfunction drug, suffer from hysterical fits, have TMJ, plates in your head, had a lung collapse recently, suffer from migraines, are a little bit hungry, have pigeon toes, a weak chin, didn't sleep well last night, or have issues with your mother, or bad credit.
It is amazing how long the line is.
Seriously. It even warns you that the contents of your pockets, no matter how deep the pocket, will be separated from you by the G-force and will be irretrievably lost, probably clunk someone on the head rendering them unconscious, and BTW, the park is not responsible for your damn iPhone.
Hil and I wait in line and try to guess at what the coaster is like from the faces of the riders walking limply from the ride. It is hard to tell. Some seem exhilarated. Some are pale and shaking. Some are laughing and high-five-ing.
We look at the photo booth at the pictures snapped at the perfect spot in the monstrous first drop. The people all seem to be doing the customary screaming their heads off. But there is something odd.
The riders are seated in rows of four, and in every picture, the people on the ends of the rows seem, well, crooked. Limp. Like floppy little babies strapped too loosely into car seats by neurotic mothers who do not want to squish them, even though a little moderate squishing would save their lives in a car crash.
It makes me wonder. But only for a few minutes.
Soon, Hil and I are in the warm up circle. Next to board. She is panicking.
I ask her what she is afraid of. What is the worst that could happen?
She replies, very earnestly, that we could die.
Concealing my laughter I explain that at least a thousand people have ridden this very ride just today, and so far no one has left on a stretcher or in a body bag, so odds are, we won't either.
We board. She panics that I am on the end and not in the middle with her. But it is the way the seating works. She freaks out momentarily when I leave the seat to take our shoes to be stored while we ride, at the suggestion of the ride attendant. She is suddenly convinced that something awful is about to happen to our feet. I tell her there is nothing to worry about, at least she has a floor under her feet. Being on the end, my feet are dangling. I have to admit it is a little unnerving.
And she is panicking that she can't secure her lap bar. Frantic that the ride will take off and she'll be on the loose. No such luck, the same attendant who helped me ditch our shoes has made sure that she is safe in her moorings.
Good thing. The lap bar is the only thing restraining you in the seat. Your upper body is left to thrash and flail at the whims of the ride.
And then we are off. A 26 feet per second rise, followed by a forceful 75 mph astonishingly steep straight drop that twists sharply at the bottom to rise dramatically at the end only to corkscrew Earthward before flying high into a loop.
Hil is screaming things that can't be repeated in polite company. I am trying to remain in my seat. I am not so much thrilled by the thrill ride as I am driven to survive it. It is like being in a bad car accident.
It finally screeches to a halt. Hil is sobbing. I feel like I have been beaten about the head and torso. Neither of us is walking very steadily.
We descend the stairs together. I am holding Hil close and convincing her that she did actually live and is not actually injured (though I am not sure the same can be said for me). We stop at the photo booth and immediately burst into laughter.
We will not be purchasing this photo either. In the picture, snapped at precisely the right moment, Hil is contorting her face in horror movie fashion. You can almost hear the screaming.
I am probably screaming too, but you'd never know.
Being on the end, feet dangling, and nothing to stabilize myself, the force of the drop and the sharp turn had evidently thrashed me wildly to one side. Only my legs and torso are in the picture. My shoulders and entire head are outside of the frame. I am headless. It is hilarious.
Hil is laughing through tears. I think we'll survive long enough to tell the tale to Pat. We decide what we need is dinner, and maybe something gooey for dessert before we decide how to close out the evening. We will be here from gate open to gate closed, and I want the kids to soak in every moment.
It is amazing how long the line is.
Seriously. It even warns you that the contents of your pockets, no matter how deep the pocket, will be separated from you by the G-force and will be irretrievably lost, probably clunk someone on the head rendering them unconscious, and BTW, the park is not responsible for your damn iPhone.
Hil and I wait in line and try to guess at what the coaster is like from the faces of the riders walking limply from the ride. It is hard to tell. Some seem exhilarated. Some are pale and shaking. Some are laughing and high-five-ing.
We look at the photo booth at the pictures snapped at the perfect spot in the monstrous first drop. The people all seem to be doing the customary screaming their heads off. But there is something odd.
The riders are seated in rows of four, and in every picture, the people on the ends of the rows seem, well, crooked. Limp. Like floppy little babies strapped too loosely into car seats by neurotic mothers who do not want to squish them, even though a little moderate squishing would save their lives in a car crash.
It makes me wonder. But only for a few minutes.
Soon, Hil and I are in the warm up circle. Next to board. She is panicking.
I ask her what she is afraid of. What is the worst that could happen?
She replies, very earnestly, that we could die.
Concealing my laughter I explain that at least a thousand people have ridden this very ride just today, and so far no one has left on a stretcher or in a body bag, so odds are, we won't either.
We board. She panics that I am on the end and not in the middle with her. But it is the way the seating works. She freaks out momentarily when I leave the seat to take our shoes to be stored while we ride, at the suggestion of the ride attendant. She is suddenly convinced that something awful is about to happen to our feet. I tell her there is nothing to worry about, at least she has a floor under her feet. Being on the end, my feet are dangling. I have to admit it is a little unnerving.
And she is panicking that she can't secure her lap bar. Frantic that the ride will take off and she'll be on the loose. No such luck, the same attendant who helped me ditch our shoes has made sure that she is safe in her moorings.
Good thing. The lap bar is the only thing restraining you in the seat. Your upper body is left to thrash and flail at the whims of the ride.
And then we are off. A 26 feet per second rise, followed by a forceful 75 mph astonishingly steep straight drop that twists sharply at the bottom to rise dramatically at the end only to corkscrew Earthward before flying high into a loop.
Hil is screaming things that can't be repeated in polite company. I am trying to remain in my seat. I am not so much thrilled by the thrill ride as I am driven to survive it. It is like being in a bad car accident.
It finally screeches to a halt. Hil is sobbing. I feel like I have been beaten about the head and torso. Neither of us is walking very steadily.
We descend the stairs together. I am holding Hil close and convincing her that she did actually live and is not actually injured (though I am not sure the same can be said for me). We stop at the photo booth and immediately burst into laughter.
We will not be purchasing this photo either. In the picture, snapped at precisely the right moment, Hil is contorting her face in horror movie fashion. You can almost hear the screaming.
I am probably screaming too, but you'd never know.
Being on the end, feet dangling, and nothing to stabilize myself, the force of the drop and the sharp turn had evidently thrashed me wildly to one side. Only my legs and torso are in the picture. My shoulders and entire head are outside of the frame. I am headless. It is hilarious.
Hil is laughing through tears. I think we'll survive long enough to tell the tale to Pat. We decide what we need is dinner, and maybe something gooey for dessert before we decide how to close out the evening. We will be here from gate open to gate closed, and I want the kids to soak in every moment.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Shake, Rattle and Roll
After battling the socially obtuse chair stealer at the Wave Pool, the kids and I made our way to the Over Priced Locker area to get our dry clothes. Time to ditch the flip flops and bathing suits in favor of real clothes for serious fun.
This is where our little family of three struggles. Hil is a daredevil thrill seeking roller coaster rider and Pat is not about to risk life and limb and get the crap scared out of him and try to call it "fun." I will go on anything Hil will, and rather enjoy the thrill rides, in spite of having a wicked case of vertigo. But we have to split up. And that makes me panic.
There are a few rides we will go on together. The Sky Lift, which does not exactly thrill anyone but saves you lots of walking from one side of the park to the other. The Old Fashion Race Way - where the Model Ts and the Speedsters race at speeds that would not threaten to give you whip lash even if you ran into something, like a squirrel. The Falcon, which flings you on your side as it spins you around and around and raises you high on a post swinging in the breeze making you think you are going to jettison off across the food court rooftop any minute. It is not kind to my vertigo but if I manage to stay focused only on the tail feathers of falcon in front of me, I will not lose my bearings. Or my overpriced lunch.
Oddly, none of the other rides that fling you about at neck breaking speeds really tamper with my sense of direction and uprightness, which is always a possibility with vertigo. The rides that really activate it are not really rides at all. What makes me practically fall down to the point of being led by the hand by my children like a little old lady is the rotating floor you step on to to board your boat for the Log Flume. People must think I am insane.
But beyond these rides, my children have no intersecting interests to speak of. Pat wants to play arcade games and try to win a giant stuffed SpongeBob. Hil wants to get scared to the point of tears on thrill rides. I just want to make everyone happy to have come and not have to call an Amber alert because we get separated for too long.
So I am torn. Hil can't ride by herself. And Pat doesn't exactly love the idea of spending time alone at the arcade while we wait in line at the Big Attractions. One more plight of the single parent family. At least this one is only about compromises at the damn amusement park.
So we compromise. Spend some time in each other's camps. Take a walk through the zoo section together. I leave Pat for a bit with his cell phone and return to him immediately after the dizzying thrill ride with Hil.
After getting Pat settled at the arcade with money and a few games he is jonesing to play, Hil and I take off for the high speed, steep drop coaster we ventured on last year when she was first tall enough to board. They take a photo of your car at the scariest part of the drop, when you are most likely to be screaming and contorting your face. We'd wanted to buy our picture last year, but two obnoxious girls traveling with their father had made an obscene gesture at the camera and the park has a strict rule about printing those pictures. Those girls had ruined it for everyone in our car. I remember seeing them later and hissing at them (it had been a long day....)
Today we go to board and the wait is not too long. We'd been told an hour, it was 28 minutes. We get the middle car, second set of seats. We are all set. Lady luck is being good to us. We'll be back with Pat in no time.
The climb is nervewracking. The drop is heart stopping. The twists and turns and upside down plummets are disorienting. It is a blast.
When it is all over, Hil and I race to the photo booth. Even as we descend the stairs on wobbly legs I am pulling out my money. We search the board and find our photo.
There I am screaming my head off.
And I presume Hil is too. But we'll never know.
Because the nice gentleman in front of Hil, riding with his daughter too, rode the whole ride proudly extending his arms over his head. And at the moment the picture was snapped, his extended hand was squarely in front of Hil's pretty face. If not for her unmistakably platinum curls, I'd never know it was her.
She's disappointed, but we laugh about it on our way to check in with Pat and make our way to the Big Ride. The newest. The latest and greatest. Already a legend in its first season. Rumored to leave riders in tears if not in traction.
I feel like I am heading to a gun fight with the odds against me.
This is where our little family of three struggles. Hil is a daredevil thrill seeking roller coaster rider and Pat is not about to risk life and limb and get the crap scared out of him and try to call it "fun." I will go on anything Hil will, and rather enjoy the thrill rides, in spite of having a wicked case of vertigo. But we have to split up. And that makes me panic.
There are a few rides we will go on together. The Sky Lift, which does not exactly thrill anyone but saves you lots of walking from one side of the park to the other. The Old Fashion Race Way - where the Model Ts and the Speedsters race at speeds that would not threaten to give you whip lash even if you ran into something, like a squirrel. The Falcon, which flings you on your side as it spins you around and around and raises you high on a post swinging in the breeze making you think you are going to jettison off across the food court rooftop any minute. It is not kind to my vertigo but if I manage to stay focused only on the tail feathers of falcon in front of me, I will not lose my bearings. Or my overpriced lunch.
Oddly, none of the other rides that fling you about at neck breaking speeds really tamper with my sense of direction and uprightness, which is always a possibility with vertigo. The rides that really activate it are not really rides at all. What makes me practically fall down to the point of being led by the hand by my children like a little old lady is the rotating floor you step on to to board your boat for the Log Flume. People must think I am insane.
But beyond these rides, my children have no intersecting interests to speak of. Pat wants to play arcade games and try to win a giant stuffed SpongeBob. Hil wants to get scared to the point of tears on thrill rides. I just want to make everyone happy to have come and not have to call an Amber alert because we get separated for too long.
So I am torn. Hil can't ride by herself. And Pat doesn't exactly love the idea of spending time alone at the arcade while we wait in line at the Big Attractions. One more plight of the single parent family. At least this one is only about compromises at the damn amusement park.
So we compromise. Spend some time in each other's camps. Take a walk through the zoo section together. I leave Pat for a bit with his cell phone and return to him immediately after the dizzying thrill ride with Hil.
After getting Pat settled at the arcade with money and a few games he is jonesing to play, Hil and I take off for the high speed, steep drop coaster we ventured on last year when she was first tall enough to board. They take a photo of your car at the scariest part of the drop, when you are most likely to be screaming and contorting your face. We'd wanted to buy our picture last year, but two obnoxious girls traveling with their father had made an obscene gesture at the camera and the park has a strict rule about printing those pictures. Those girls had ruined it for everyone in our car. I remember seeing them later and hissing at them (it had been a long day....)
Today we go to board and the wait is not too long. We'd been told an hour, it was 28 minutes. We get the middle car, second set of seats. We are all set. Lady luck is being good to us. We'll be back with Pat in no time.
The climb is nervewracking. The drop is heart stopping. The twists and turns and upside down plummets are disorienting. It is a blast.
When it is all over, Hil and I race to the photo booth. Even as we descend the stairs on wobbly legs I am pulling out my money. We search the board and find our photo.
There I am screaming my head off.
And I presume Hil is too. But we'll never know.
Because the nice gentleman in front of Hil, riding with his daughter too, rode the whole ride proudly extending his arms over his head. And at the moment the picture was snapped, his extended hand was squarely in front of Hil's pretty face. If not for her unmistakably platinum curls, I'd never know it was her.
She's disappointed, but we laugh about it on our way to check in with Pat and make our way to the Big Ride. The newest. The latest and greatest. Already a legend in its first season. Rumored to leave riders in tears if not in traction.
I feel like I am heading to a gun fight with the odds against me.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Manners, Schmanners
There is a long but fast moving line to get into the Wave Pool. I am not sure where they draw the line at over crowding. It doesn't seem very scientific. Or very effective.
But the time in line allows for some warm-up people watching. I am forever astounded at three things:
1- Some women's refusal to part company with a bathing suit style suited for someone half as old and half their Body Mass Index. Call it a 'bathing unsuitable."
2 - That a man can wear a T-shirt bearing a picture or statement that is completely denigrating and insulting to women while out with his daughters and their mother. And no one scratches his eyes out when they see it.
3 - Parents are willing to ignore their children's horrific behavior in public. If you ask me, this is exactly the time and place to start teaching manners and consideration (and demonstrating them yourself, as well, hello.)
Your having a frisbee toss with your kids and sailing the disc over the heads of countless others as they bob in the waves may be a laugh riot to you, but inspires thoughts of forcible drowning in others.
The kids and I make our way to the deep end to be jostled about in the waves to the tune of "Wipeout." They are having a ball. I leave them to enjoy each other's company after 15 minutes. I trudge toward the shallow end to sit and soak up the sun and watch them splash around.
The people watching is amazing.
String bikinis on chubby women with tattoos that have become distorted with the extra pounds. Is that a butterfly or a pterodactyl?
Men who can't part with the cigar even as they have to place it between their teeth to paddle in chest-deep water with both hands.
The complete failure to understand the difference between swimming diapers and regular diapers. And please, the Wave Pool is not the place for the diaper set unless you are secretly trying to reduce the number of mouths to feed by inviting a truly senseless tragedy. And please, let's not turn the pool into a science Petrie dish.
Jeggings - yep, those jeggings - in the churning waters of the Wave Pool. They are not exactly designed to conceal a multitude of sins to begin with. They are even more unflattering soaking wet and clinging to every bulge and crevice on your person. And they aren't fooling anyone.
People who laugh and act like it is adorable and hilarious when their kid has obviously just annoyed the shit out of another patron of the park. Jumping up and down to splash me as I sit sunning serenely in 4 inches of water, or spraying the face of the elderly man who is struggling against the "tide" are not only rude things to do, and opportunities for you to teach your kid about courtesy, they are opportunities to learn about apologizing. I realize I am at a water park and the reasonable expectation is that I will get wet. I also think it is not unreasonable to expect a little decency out of others. How naive of me.
I am taking it all in when I notice that my kids have begun to rough house with one another. Knowing that this is a sure sign of disaster, I retrieve them from the water. I know when their patience for each other is waning. And I know when the party is over for me, too.
Besides, we have thrill rides to get to.
But the time in line allows for some warm-up people watching. I am forever astounded at three things:
1- Some women's refusal to part company with a bathing suit style suited for someone half as old and half their Body Mass Index. Call it a 'bathing unsuitable."
2 - That a man can wear a T-shirt bearing a picture or statement that is completely denigrating and insulting to women while out with his daughters and their mother. And no one scratches his eyes out when they see it.
3 - Parents are willing to ignore their children's horrific behavior in public. If you ask me, this is exactly the time and place to start teaching manners and consideration (and demonstrating them yourself, as well, hello.)
Your having a frisbee toss with your kids and sailing the disc over the heads of countless others as they bob in the waves may be a laugh riot to you, but inspires thoughts of forcible drowning in others.
The kids and I make our way to the deep end to be jostled about in the waves to the tune of "Wipeout." They are having a ball. I leave them to enjoy each other's company after 15 minutes. I trudge toward the shallow end to sit and soak up the sun and watch them splash around.
The people watching is amazing.
String bikinis on chubby women with tattoos that have become distorted with the extra pounds. Is that a butterfly or a pterodactyl?
Men who can't part with the cigar even as they have to place it between their teeth to paddle in chest-deep water with both hands.
The complete failure to understand the difference between swimming diapers and regular diapers. And please, the Wave Pool is not the place for the diaper set unless you are secretly trying to reduce the number of mouths to feed by inviting a truly senseless tragedy. And please, let's not turn the pool into a science Petrie dish.
Jeggings - yep, those jeggings - in the churning waters of the Wave Pool. They are not exactly designed to conceal a multitude of sins to begin with. They are even more unflattering soaking wet and clinging to every bulge and crevice on your person. And they aren't fooling anyone.
People who laugh and act like it is adorable and hilarious when their kid has obviously just annoyed the shit out of another patron of the park. Jumping up and down to splash me as I sit sunning serenely in 4 inches of water, or spraying the face of the elderly man who is struggling against the "tide" are not only rude things to do, and opportunities for you to teach your kid about courtesy, they are opportunities to learn about apologizing. I realize I am at a water park and the reasonable expectation is that I will get wet. I also think it is not unreasonable to expect a little decency out of others. How naive of me.
I am taking it all in when I notice that my kids have begun to rough house with one another. Knowing that this is a sure sign of disaster, I retrieve them from the water. I know when their patience for each other is waning. And I know when the party is over for me, too.
Besides, we have thrill rides to get to.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Etiquette, Schmetiquette
Let's all try to remember: It is an amusement park, not a restaurant. The focus is on amusement rides, not your dining experience. A little perspective would help a lot of people.
The kids and I wait in lines and order food and all meet again in the designated place. Everyone has managed to find some version of fast food that they find appealing, even if it only barely qualifies as "fast" or as "food." To say nothing of the price.
We are lucky to find a vacant table in one of the seating areas to sit and discuss all the fun we've been having and how we'd like to spend the next few hours. We are seated at a table that is partially shaded by a tree, facing the water park main attractions with an easy return walk if we decide to stay in our suits and continue to splash around a bit more.
It is the lunch rush and I am thankful that the lines at the concessions were only as long as they were when we'd joined in. They are much longer now as the traditional lunch hour is in full swing.
And this is when I notice that seating is at a premium. And some astonishing rudeness.
There is a woman sitting at a table near us with nothing in front of her but her Kindle. She is reading. Just reading. At a table just like ours. As throngs of people walk by in search of someplace to roost and eat the very expensive food they've just purchased.
I look at our table, which is square with benches attached. It is perfectly suited for 4 people, but could easily seat twice that, or even more if some of the people were young children.
This woman has sat, pretending to not notice that she is hogging prime real estate as large families, families with young children, small groups, all meander by looking for a place to sit for 10 minutes and eat before dashing off to the next attraction.
Some of them linger nearby and comment, and she refuses to look up. (I'd love to know what she is reading.) Some of them stand under the tree that shades our table and try to get comfortable sitting at its roots. Still she remains enthralled with her book. One woman walked by twice with a large tray of food precariously balancing on one hand and her shoulder bag on her shoulder about to fall off, while her other hand held tightly to the antsy little boy with her, who appeared to be about 4 years old, and about at his wits end. I am about to wave her down and tell her she can sit with us when someone finally decides to part with their seat and offer it to her, instead of sitting a while longer to finish their soda. When we left, Book Lady was still reading, without a care in the world. I hope someone looking for a seat gave her Hell for it.
The kids and I decide to go to the Wave Pool. The music is loud and the atmosphere is fun. And evidently so is the people watching.
And the chair etiquette.
Since we all will be in the pool, we find one empty chair and place our towels on it, and our flip flops under it. I have already ditched any valuables in the locker.
When we return more than an hour later to get our stuff, dry off and head to the changing rooms to put on dry things, we are confronted by a woman who has chosen our seat to sit on.
And won't move.
I approach her with the kids and say politely, "Hello, sorry to disturb you, but the things on that chair belong to us."
She looks up. I am wondering if she does not speak the same language. My words do not seem to register.
I make eye contact and point to the shoes under the chair as I say, "The shoes and towels and things that are on that chair are ours."
"OK," she says. Without moving.
No language barrier, but clearly a comprehension problem.
"We'd like to get them." I say. And to head off the vacant reaction, I say, "And use them. Right now... we're leaving."
Incredulously, she does not rise from the seat. Nor does she jump up apologetically and make room for us to get to the chair.
Instead she, at a glacial pace, proceeds to hand each towel to us one by one. And then when I tell her that we'll need our shoes and gesture as though I am mad enough to just reach under her sizable ass to retrieve them myself, hands each flip flop to me one at a time, making a facial gesture with each hand off that seems to ask if what she is handing me is the correct article. She never once gives a thought to moving to the next chair, which like ours is only occupied by stuff, not an actual live person, who might protest, much like ours had been when she perched on it.
She is not at all moved by Hil's contorted facial expression. And not at all put off by my comment that all of this could have been less inconvenient for everyone had she just stood for a moment. She must be related to the Kindle Lady at the food court.
But her outrageous behavior could not begin to eclipse the freak show that had been our time IN the wave pool. Her conduct was simply the candles on the cake.
The kids and I wait in lines and order food and all meet again in the designated place. Everyone has managed to find some version of fast food that they find appealing, even if it only barely qualifies as "fast" or as "food." To say nothing of the price.
We are lucky to find a vacant table in one of the seating areas to sit and discuss all the fun we've been having and how we'd like to spend the next few hours. We are seated at a table that is partially shaded by a tree, facing the water park main attractions with an easy return walk if we decide to stay in our suits and continue to splash around a bit more.
It is the lunch rush and I am thankful that the lines at the concessions were only as long as they were when we'd joined in. They are much longer now as the traditional lunch hour is in full swing.
And this is when I notice that seating is at a premium. And some astonishing rudeness.
There is a woman sitting at a table near us with nothing in front of her but her Kindle. She is reading. Just reading. At a table just like ours. As throngs of people walk by in search of someplace to roost and eat the very expensive food they've just purchased.
I look at our table, which is square with benches attached. It is perfectly suited for 4 people, but could easily seat twice that, or even more if some of the people were young children.
This woman has sat, pretending to not notice that she is hogging prime real estate as large families, families with young children, small groups, all meander by looking for a place to sit for 10 minutes and eat before dashing off to the next attraction.
Some of them linger nearby and comment, and she refuses to look up. (I'd love to know what she is reading.) Some of them stand under the tree that shades our table and try to get comfortable sitting at its roots. Still she remains enthralled with her book. One woman walked by twice with a large tray of food precariously balancing on one hand and her shoulder bag on her shoulder about to fall off, while her other hand held tightly to the antsy little boy with her, who appeared to be about 4 years old, and about at his wits end. I am about to wave her down and tell her she can sit with us when someone finally decides to part with their seat and offer it to her, instead of sitting a while longer to finish their soda. When we left, Book Lady was still reading, without a care in the world. I hope someone looking for a seat gave her Hell for it.
The kids and I decide to go to the Wave Pool. The music is loud and the atmosphere is fun. And evidently so is the people watching.
And the chair etiquette.
Since we all will be in the pool, we find one empty chair and place our towels on it, and our flip flops under it. I have already ditched any valuables in the locker.
When we return more than an hour later to get our stuff, dry off and head to the changing rooms to put on dry things, we are confronted by a woman who has chosen our seat to sit on.
And won't move.
I approach her with the kids and say politely, "Hello, sorry to disturb you, but the things on that chair belong to us."
She looks up. I am wondering if she does not speak the same language. My words do not seem to register.
I make eye contact and point to the shoes under the chair as I say, "The shoes and towels and things that are on that chair are ours."
"OK," she says. Without moving.
No language barrier, but clearly a comprehension problem.
"We'd like to get them." I say. And to head off the vacant reaction, I say, "And use them. Right now... we're leaving."
Incredulously, she does not rise from the seat. Nor does she jump up apologetically and make room for us to get to the chair.
Instead she, at a glacial pace, proceeds to hand each towel to us one by one. And then when I tell her that we'll need our shoes and gesture as though I am mad enough to just reach under her sizable ass to retrieve them myself, hands each flip flop to me one at a time, making a facial gesture with each hand off that seems to ask if what she is handing me is the correct article. She never once gives a thought to moving to the next chair, which like ours is only occupied by stuff, not an actual live person, who might protest, much like ours had been when she perched on it.
She is not at all moved by Hil's contorted facial expression. And not at all put off by my comment that all of this could have been less inconvenient for everyone had she just stood for a moment. She must be related to the Kindle Lady at the food court.
But her outrageous behavior could not begin to eclipse the freak show that had been our time IN the wave pool. Her conduct was simply the candles on the cake.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Going to Hell, Save You a Seat
Sunglasses on for maximum observation without detection, I am enthralled. And keeping up a very convincing nonchalant sun bathing charade. I am in a perfect spot. It could only be better if I had binoculars.
The park is clean as a whistle, neat and orderly. And to stay looking that way, with throngs of the unwashed public roaming about trampling things, the park has taken a few precautions to maintain its appearance. The most obvious of which is also the most annoying, to be frank. I've grown accustomed to it over the years, but there are those that are still somewhat stymied by it.
The little beach chairs that are neatly lined up around and in front of the water park sections stay immaculately orderly because they are zip tied together. Almost invisibly, but very tightly, leg to leg, base to base, so that 20 or 30 of them in a row, remain, well, in a row.
The effect is that all the chairs become like rows in a movie theater. In order to take a seat, you have to walk from the end all the way down the row to the vacant chair. So movie theater etiquette applies.
Or you would think.
Maybe it is because they are low to the ground, or maybe because they are much coveted, or maybe because people are in a hurry to ditch their towels and run (like the mooning middle aged mom with with hangy bikini bottom) but people just seem to lose control of their sense of decorum when confronted with the inexplicably immobile chairs.
As I sat, staring from behind my Foster Grants, I observed the following departures from standard beach chair diplomacy:
The woman who yanked and yanked and yanked on a chair, disturbing all the occupants of the chairs in the row, breaking a sweat and huffing as she strained, insisting on pulling the chair from its moorings. Only her kids could convince her that it was futile. Probably because they were impatiently waiting while she engaged in her foolishness. She eventually she gave up, and stepping back, discarded her beach coverup a few rows back and tossed the towels and bag and terry cloth muu-muu from 15 feet back, lobbing them over my head, and claiming any chairs they landed upon.
There were several people, men and women, who were incensed at the tethering situation and, refusing to go around to the end of a row to walk past other people and chairs that were spoken for to claim a vacant chair, instead opted to climb over, in all cases, not very gracefully, to reach the empty chairs of choice. I observed all manner of butts, crotches and shoe bottoms up close - waaaay too up close - as each person struggled to cross the divide by walking on the strappy seat surfaces of the chairs. And I was baffled how some were unapologetically willing to step on your stuff. Shoes, towels, book, beach bag. I secretly hoped to hex them with a bad sunburn.
But the beach chair etiquette breaches could not compare to the flagrant abuses at the food courts. When the kids had had their fill of the giant slides and the showers and pulleys and sprinklers and fountains, and were famished and ready for lunch, we headed off in search of food, and then in search of chairs. We found a table eventually, and had a front row seat for some very childish adult behavior.
The park is clean as a whistle, neat and orderly. And to stay looking that way, with throngs of the unwashed public roaming about trampling things, the park has taken a few precautions to maintain its appearance. The most obvious of which is also the most annoying, to be frank. I've grown accustomed to it over the years, but there are those that are still somewhat stymied by it.
The little beach chairs that are neatly lined up around and in front of the water park sections stay immaculately orderly because they are zip tied together. Almost invisibly, but very tightly, leg to leg, base to base, so that 20 or 30 of them in a row, remain, well, in a row.
The effect is that all the chairs become like rows in a movie theater. In order to take a seat, you have to walk from the end all the way down the row to the vacant chair. So movie theater etiquette applies.
Or you would think.
Maybe it is because they are low to the ground, or maybe because they are much coveted, or maybe because people are in a hurry to ditch their towels and run (like the mooning middle aged mom with with hangy bikini bottom) but people just seem to lose control of their sense of decorum when confronted with the inexplicably immobile chairs.
As I sat, staring from behind my Foster Grants, I observed the following departures from standard beach chair diplomacy:
The woman who yanked and yanked and yanked on a chair, disturbing all the occupants of the chairs in the row, breaking a sweat and huffing as she strained, insisting on pulling the chair from its moorings. Only her kids could convince her that it was futile. Probably because they were impatiently waiting while she engaged in her foolishness. She eventually she gave up, and stepping back, discarded her beach coverup a few rows back and tossed the towels and bag and terry cloth muu-muu from 15 feet back, lobbing them over my head, and claiming any chairs they landed upon.
There were several people, men and women, who were incensed at the tethering situation and, refusing to go around to the end of a row to walk past other people and chairs that were spoken for to claim a vacant chair, instead opted to climb over, in all cases, not very gracefully, to reach the empty chairs of choice. I observed all manner of butts, crotches and shoe bottoms up close - waaaay too up close - as each person struggled to cross the divide by walking on the strappy seat surfaces of the chairs. And I was baffled how some were unapologetically willing to step on your stuff. Shoes, towels, book, beach bag. I secretly hoped to hex them with a bad sunburn.
But the beach chair etiquette breaches could not compare to the flagrant abuses at the food courts. When the kids had had their fill of the giant slides and the showers and pulleys and sprinklers and fountains, and were famished and ready for lunch, we headed off in search of food, and then in search of chairs. We found a table eventually, and had a front row seat for some very childish adult behavior.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Water, Water Everywhere
And once we are on our own, the kids and I look to our list of remaining tried and true traditions.
Minor league baseball game.
Amusement park.
Outlet shopping.
The minor league baseball game is half the distance to home. And although it is a blast to attend, and we always have a great time, and it is by far the best bargain in baseball, it is, I repeat, half the distance to home. Not to mention the fact that I no longer have Scott's GPS and always, always, always get horribly lost. If I am ever a newlywed again, and venture onto the show The Newlywed Game, my spouse can clearly complete the statement "My spouse is at her worst when ______" by scrawling on the poster with the Sharpee, the words "She is lost in her car and realizes she is going around in little circles and may actually be in the wrong state."
It's true. I become the worst version of myself. Short tempered. Frantic. Decidedly unsociable.
We can cross Minor League Baseball Game off the list of Must-Dos.
By show of hands we opt for the amusement park. And "amusement" is the operative word, for sure.
We get up early and eat a hearty breakfast. The longer we can avoid the outrageously overpriced, nutritionally vacuous dining selections available inside the gates, the better. We make sure we have water park appropriate gear and ride riding appropriate gear stowed in a bag. And of course, all of this must fit in a rented locker that would barely hold a frozen oven stuffer roaster. At the last minute, I woefully inform Hil that she does not need to pack her mascara, concealer, hair spray, or jewelry. The lip balm can make the trip if it has a decent SPF. I am not packing a beauty kit, neither shall she. If my wallet has to go, then the makeup bag has to stay. We are packing like astronauts.
We are on the road early so as to get there precisely when the gates open. By now, I remember where the Giant food store is that sells the discount tickets so that I do not have to refinance my house to buy them.
I take the long road into the park that is designed to let you see how vast and exciting it is so your kids pee their pants in the parking lot. We park in a primo space and head on in with our pre-purchased tickets.
We plan to spend the day in the water park and then at "change of shift" when people start to think about dinner and departing, we'll change and hit the rides.
We make our way to the water park section of the park, a park within a park, and find some chairs to roost upon. The kids dash to the big giant water slides and I slide into my beach chair to work on my tan, conserve energy and consume an iced coffee. It is a matter of survival. We will be here until they start to turn off the lights.
And amusement.
The water park within the park is by far the best people watching I have born witness to in ages.
At first I would have said I'd be content to just stick my nose in a book for an hour while the novelty of the giant slides wears off for the kids, but the people are just too captivating.
The first to catch my eye is a woman, about my age, whose bikini eligibility is long expired, wearing a bikini she obviously found in the bottom of the drawer where she keeps her trove of skinny clothes. And she has the nerve to sprint with her kids to the sprinklers. Sprint with such abandon that she has not noticed that the bottom of the bikini, the elastic of which is completely shot, has migrated several very noticeable inches below the crack of her considerable ass. She's running and shining a hands-free moon at everyone she passes. God love her indifference to the whole matter.
And that, my friends, is just where the fun begins. It is a Dr. Joyce Brothers-worthy study in human nature that should be mandatory for all PsyD students. Well worth the price of admission. (Which is about the cost of tuition for a PsyD program at a reputable school - I am glad we are getting to enjoy the rides and water features as a bonus.)
First lesson - Chair Etiquette Gaffs and Candid Camera moments.
Minor league baseball game.
Amusement park.
Outlet shopping.
The minor league baseball game is half the distance to home. And although it is a blast to attend, and we always have a great time, and it is by far the best bargain in baseball, it is, I repeat, half the distance to home. Not to mention the fact that I no longer have Scott's GPS and always, always, always get horribly lost. If I am ever a newlywed again, and venture onto the show The Newlywed Game, my spouse can clearly complete the statement "My spouse is at her worst when ______" by scrawling on the poster with the Sharpee, the words "She is lost in her car and realizes she is going around in little circles and may actually be in the wrong state."
It's true. I become the worst version of myself. Short tempered. Frantic. Decidedly unsociable.
We can cross Minor League Baseball Game off the list of Must-Dos.
By show of hands we opt for the amusement park. And "amusement" is the operative word, for sure.
We get up early and eat a hearty breakfast. The longer we can avoid the outrageously overpriced, nutritionally vacuous dining selections available inside the gates, the better. We make sure we have water park appropriate gear and ride riding appropriate gear stowed in a bag. And of course, all of this must fit in a rented locker that would barely hold a frozen oven stuffer roaster. At the last minute, I woefully inform Hil that she does not need to pack her mascara, concealer, hair spray, or jewelry. The lip balm can make the trip if it has a decent SPF. I am not packing a beauty kit, neither shall she. If my wallet has to go, then the makeup bag has to stay. We are packing like astronauts.
We are on the road early so as to get there precisely when the gates open. By now, I remember where the Giant food store is that sells the discount tickets so that I do not have to refinance my house to buy them.
I take the long road into the park that is designed to let you see how vast and exciting it is so your kids pee their pants in the parking lot. We park in a primo space and head on in with our pre-purchased tickets.
We plan to spend the day in the water park and then at "change of shift" when people start to think about dinner and departing, we'll change and hit the rides.
We make our way to the water park section of the park, a park within a park, and find some chairs to roost upon. The kids dash to the big giant water slides and I slide into my beach chair to work on my tan, conserve energy and consume an iced coffee. It is a matter of survival. We will be here until they start to turn off the lights.
And amusement.
The water park within the park is by far the best people watching I have born witness to in ages.
At first I would have said I'd be content to just stick my nose in a book for an hour while the novelty of the giant slides wears off for the kids, but the people are just too captivating.
The first to catch my eye is a woman, about my age, whose bikini eligibility is long expired, wearing a bikini she obviously found in the bottom of the drawer where she keeps her trove of skinny clothes. And she has the nerve to sprint with her kids to the sprinklers. Sprint with such abandon that she has not noticed that the bottom of the bikini, the elastic of which is completely shot, has migrated several very noticeable inches below the crack of her considerable ass. She's running and shining a hands-free moon at everyone she passes. God love her indifference to the whole matter.
And that, my friends, is just where the fun begins. It is a Dr. Joyce Brothers-worthy study in human nature that should be mandatory for all PsyD students. Well worth the price of admission. (Which is about the cost of tuition for a PsyD program at a reputable school - I am glad we are getting to enjoy the rides and water features as a bonus.)
First lesson - Chair Etiquette Gaffs and Candid Camera moments.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Vacation, All I Ever Wanted
And our vacation is for us all that we expect it to be. Relaxation. Recreation. Restoration. The kids get along great. We make scrumptious meals. We play board games on the porch. We do enormous puzzles as a family. We sing along to the radio. We laugh a lot. We take long walks. Even the cat enjoys herself. Most importantly, we do not fight. Not me and Scott. Not any of the kids. There are no bathroom crowds, finicky eaters, decisions that need to be made by coin toss, outrageous compromises or anyone stomping off in a huff.
Our day at the lake is filled with adventure. Trapeze swing belly flops. Front and back flips from the high dive. Even Pat dares to jump from it. Innertube follies. Commraderie out on the piers. At least until the clouds roll in and the sky opens up and douses us all. Sun gives way to torrential rain and suddenly it is like standing in the shower. We are all completely soaked, running for the car, howling with laughter, hair matted to our heads, carrying towels and beach chairs and clothes that are all now totally drenched and weigh 1,000 pounds. We while away the afternoon drying out and doing puzzles and noshing on comfort food. Not a bad ending.
Later when the sky has cleared and glorious weather has returnd, we celebrate Hil's birthday with Scott's family by heading out to the biker bar/outdoor restaraunt we have come to love. Scott and I have come here on every trip. He has made it a place that erases the more hideous experiences with J. from the record for me. Hidden away in the woods, we take seats at a large table under umbrellas and white twinkling lights. Scott is joking with each of the kids and it is clear that he enjoys each of them for who they are. He's a serious dad with a light-hearted approach to kids. It is a winning combination. He tells the waitress to pay special attention to Hil. We are celebrating her birthday. She is the one who needs to be doted upon. Hil is beaming.
And then, as appetizers and drinks are served, she makes a wish out loud. "I wish Dad's personality were more like Scott's."
It's a No-Shit-Sherlock moment for me, but also painfully sad to hear. Half my kids' lives are spent with someone who needs lots of alterations. It is clear that this, what we are doing right now, is what she envisions to be life as it should be. The disappointment is palpable.
To end the deafening silence, I cheerfully say, "Me, too, sweetheart! Me, too," intending to suggest that my whacky post divorce life would be a whole lot more enjoyable if Dad were just a little more like Scott. Maybe half as reasonable. And half as agreeable. A little more generous. And maybe a little easier to look at. Would that be too much to ask?
Scott makes a joke of the whole thing. "Well I don't! I'd be sitting here by myself!"
True. Perhaps. If Lars were like Scott, we might still be married. And I for one...no, I guess, for two...am happy to have docked where I have. No seller's remorse. No pining away for what might have been. Scott's gravitational pull was always there. It just took 30 years to pull us completely together.
Dinner is fabulous, and we retire, fat and happy, to the cottage for presents and homemade, mousse filled cupcakes and more celebrating. The kids go out to the porch to play some souped up version of Uno that makes them all laugh uncontrollably, and Scott and I have a drink in the hammock swings and watch them. All is right with the world. The twinkling, star-lit, warm and breezy world.
The next day is sunny and warm and we decide to take a walk to the lake to take the canoes out for a spin. The first canoe is inhabited by a family of frogs that Scott gets the pleasure of forcibly evicting. He picks each one up in his massive hands and places them delicately in the tall grass. Then as a precaution, he sweeps away the daddy-long-legs spiders living in each canoe that Hil is sure to believe are predatory and man-eating. Last year we'd missed one and she chose to dive into the lake to avoid it. I wonder if she knows what lives in the lake?
We launch. We race from one end of the lake to the other. We splash each other. We trap each other in low hanging branches. We find turtles and fish and frogs and other amazing things.We laugh until our sides hurt. We run aground in the mud. And we stop for milkshakes on the way back.
It has been a great vacation so far, but Scott and his family have to return home. Jobs and dogs await and won't wait long.
We have dinner on the porch and then quietly pack bags. Scott packs the car and checks the house for missed shoes, towels, phone chargers, retainers, makeup bags, other stuff. And they are on the road before dark.
And though I am happy to have my little family unit back to myself and not have to worry about being a hostess, I am blue. Scott and I get so little time together. And time like we've just shared makes me crave for a simpler, easier life filled with more dinners and downtime than chaos and commuting.
One day. At least there is the dream of it.
Our day at the lake is filled with adventure. Trapeze swing belly flops. Front and back flips from the high dive. Even Pat dares to jump from it. Innertube follies. Commraderie out on the piers. At least until the clouds roll in and the sky opens up and douses us all. Sun gives way to torrential rain and suddenly it is like standing in the shower. We are all completely soaked, running for the car, howling with laughter, hair matted to our heads, carrying towels and beach chairs and clothes that are all now totally drenched and weigh 1,000 pounds. We while away the afternoon drying out and doing puzzles and noshing on comfort food. Not a bad ending.
Later when the sky has cleared and glorious weather has returnd, we celebrate Hil's birthday with Scott's family by heading out to the biker bar/outdoor restaraunt we have come to love. Scott and I have come here on every trip. He has made it a place that erases the more hideous experiences with J. from the record for me. Hidden away in the woods, we take seats at a large table under umbrellas and white twinkling lights. Scott is joking with each of the kids and it is clear that he enjoys each of them for who they are. He's a serious dad with a light-hearted approach to kids. It is a winning combination. He tells the waitress to pay special attention to Hil. We are celebrating her birthday. She is the one who needs to be doted upon. Hil is beaming.
And then, as appetizers and drinks are served, she makes a wish out loud. "I wish Dad's personality were more like Scott's."
It's a No-Shit-Sherlock moment for me, but also painfully sad to hear. Half my kids' lives are spent with someone who needs lots of alterations. It is clear that this, what we are doing right now, is what she envisions to be life as it should be. The disappointment is palpable.
To end the deafening silence, I cheerfully say, "Me, too, sweetheart! Me, too," intending to suggest that my whacky post divorce life would be a whole lot more enjoyable if Dad were just a little more like Scott. Maybe half as reasonable. And half as agreeable. A little more generous. And maybe a little easier to look at. Would that be too much to ask?
Scott makes a joke of the whole thing. "Well I don't! I'd be sitting here by myself!"
True. Perhaps. If Lars were like Scott, we might still be married. And I for one...no, I guess, for two...am happy to have docked where I have. No seller's remorse. No pining away for what might have been. Scott's gravitational pull was always there. It just took 30 years to pull us completely together.
Dinner is fabulous, and we retire, fat and happy, to the cottage for presents and homemade, mousse filled cupcakes and more celebrating. The kids go out to the porch to play some souped up version of Uno that makes them all laugh uncontrollably, and Scott and I have a drink in the hammock swings and watch them. All is right with the world. The twinkling, star-lit, warm and breezy world.
The next day is sunny and warm and we decide to take a walk to the lake to take the canoes out for a spin. The first canoe is inhabited by a family of frogs that Scott gets the pleasure of forcibly evicting. He picks each one up in his massive hands and places them delicately in the tall grass. Then as a precaution, he sweeps away the daddy-long-legs spiders living in each canoe that Hil is sure to believe are predatory and man-eating. Last year we'd missed one and she chose to dive into the lake to avoid it. I wonder if she knows what lives in the lake?
We launch. We race from one end of the lake to the other. We splash each other. We trap each other in low hanging branches. We find turtles and fish and frogs and other amazing things.We laugh until our sides hurt. We run aground in the mud. And we stop for milkshakes on the way back.
It has been a great vacation so far, but Scott and his family have to return home. Jobs and dogs await and won't wait long.
We have dinner on the porch and then quietly pack bags. Scott packs the car and checks the house for missed shoes, towels, phone chargers, retainers, makeup bags, other stuff. And they are on the road before dark.
And though I am happy to have my little family unit back to myself and not have to worry about being a hostess, I am blue. Scott and I get so little time together. And time like we've just shared makes me crave for a simpler, easier life filled with more dinners and downtime than chaos and commuting.
One day. At least there is the dream of it.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Every Party Has a Pooper, That's Why We Invited Dad
I tease out the details of Hil's birthday plans at the House of Louse. He has, for the first time in her life, agreed to host a birthday party. A sleepover no less. I am frantic with worry. He is not exactly a natural entertainer.
This has traditionally been my domain and I am proud to say we have really churned out the hype when we've invited kids into our home to celebrate.
There was Pat's truck themed party complete with a dump truck cake, the bed of which was filled with graham cracker crumbs, the wheels formed from chocolate covered doughnuts.
Or his beach party with an ice cream cake formed into a sand castle and a sheet cake that looked exactly like a beach complete with edible shells and beach umbrellas.
And Hil's party where I decided to Go Big at a tumultuous time in the kids' lives, simply as a distraction, and a reminder that life will go on, even parties. It was a hula party. I hired a company to send two hula instructors to come and teach 20 little girls how to hula. They brought costume changes and a sound system. They were amazing. I gave each girl a grass skirt and every game ended with the distribution of leis. Pin the hibiscus on the hula girl (a life-sized hula girl fashioned from poster board and clad in a grass skirt fashioned from a green Dollar Store table cloth folded and shredded with a razor by yours truly) and a hula girl piñata. Fruit kabobs, coconut chicken and shrimp. And of course, Hawaiian punch. A huge hit.
And some years later, a red carpet Oscar party. Twelve starlets got their hair and makeup done, got a bag of Dollar Store makeup swag, and got to raid my closet for red carpet glam to wear. Each starlet walked the red carpet, was photographed in all their finery, received a statuette and award and a personalized star on the Walk of Fame. Dancing and Oscar-shaped cake followed sparkling grape juice in champagne glasses and hot hors d'oevres passed on silver trays. I sent photos to the girls with Hil's thank you notes. It was the event of the season.
As the kids have gotten older, the celebrations have changed...sleepovers that end at Starbucks in our pajamas and trips to Dave and Busters (i.e. Hell for Parents, as opposed to Chuck E. Cheez, Hell for Parents, Jr.) And frankly, as birthday parties give way to Bar Mitzvahs and are tabled in anticipation of blow out Sweet 16s, we have had very few to throw and to attend.
And Lars, who was scarcely involved in the myriad details of planning any party in the first place, is out of practice. And aided only by Liza, the non-parent, who hasn't shown much finesse for birthday celebrating, as demonstrated by torching her own hair at her most recent fiesta.
I broach the subject of planning with Hil.
She, thank the Lord, is on to the lameness of her father's party-throwing acumen. She already has ideas. Sleepover for 6. Dance Party III on Wii. Team blindfolded makeup application. Build your own sundae. Truth or Dare. Waffles and chocolate covered strawberries for breakfast the next morning. Amen to my girl for taking matters into her own shapely little girly hands. She will have no lame-o party. No, no. Not her.
And as a mother I heave a sigh of relief that some of what I have done has been observed and absorbed by my children. Not only how to cross a street or how to balance a check book, but how, when faced with a sad but simple truth, you stay calm and carry on, and do for yourself.
This has traditionally been my domain and I am proud to say we have really churned out the hype when we've invited kids into our home to celebrate.
There was Pat's truck themed party complete with a dump truck cake, the bed of which was filled with graham cracker crumbs, the wheels formed from chocolate covered doughnuts.
Or his beach party with an ice cream cake formed into a sand castle and a sheet cake that looked exactly like a beach complete with edible shells and beach umbrellas.
And Hil's party where I decided to Go Big at a tumultuous time in the kids' lives, simply as a distraction, and a reminder that life will go on, even parties. It was a hula party. I hired a company to send two hula instructors to come and teach 20 little girls how to hula. They brought costume changes and a sound system. They were amazing. I gave each girl a grass skirt and every game ended with the distribution of leis. Pin the hibiscus on the hula girl (a life-sized hula girl fashioned from poster board and clad in a grass skirt fashioned from a green Dollar Store table cloth folded and shredded with a razor by yours truly) and a hula girl piñata. Fruit kabobs, coconut chicken and shrimp. And of course, Hawaiian punch. A huge hit.
And some years later, a red carpet Oscar party. Twelve starlets got their hair and makeup done, got a bag of Dollar Store makeup swag, and got to raid my closet for red carpet glam to wear. Each starlet walked the red carpet, was photographed in all their finery, received a statuette and award and a personalized star on the Walk of Fame. Dancing and Oscar-shaped cake followed sparkling grape juice in champagne glasses and hot hors d'oevres passed on silver trays. I sent photos to the girls with Hil's thank you notes. It was the event of the season.
As the kids have gotten older, the celebrations have changed...sleepovers that end at Starbucks in our pajamas and trips to Dave and Busters (i.e. Hell for Parents, as opposed to Chuck E. Cheez, Hell for Parents, Jr.) And frankly, as birthday parties give way to Bar Mitzvahs and are tabled in anticipation of blow out Sweet 16s, we have had very few to throw and to attend.
And Lars, who was scarcely involved in the myriad details of planning any party in the first place, is out of practice. And aided only by Liza, the non-parent, who hasn't shown much finesse for birthday celebrating, as demonstrated by torching her own hair at her most recent fiesta.
I broach the subject of planning with Hil.
She, thank the Lord, is on to the lameness of her father's party-throwing acumen. She already has ideas. Sleepover for 6. Dance Party III on Wii. Team blindfolded makeup application. Build your own sundae. Truth or Dare. Waffles and chocolate covered strawberries for breakfast the next morning. Amen to my girl for taking matters into her own shapely little girly hands. She will have no lame-o party. No, no. Not her.
And as a mother I heave a sigh of relief that some of what I have done has been observed and absorbed by my children. Not only how to cross a street or how to balance a check book, but how, when faced with a sad but simple truth, you stay calm and carry on, and do for yourself.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Party Here, Party There
As we approach the pizza shop I shake those memories from my head, thinking my girlfriends had been right all along. They'd never really warmed to J. and it took me far longer to find out all the reasons why. A repeat performance on my part. At least I had not married this loser. At least I'd discovered the lies, and the drinking, and the hidden agenda and the charade before taking a single step down the aisle. And it seems now I've truly managed to wash that man right outta my hair. And evidently for good. I doubt his ghost would have the nerve (or the strength) to come and haunt me. Please let his mother enjoy that distinctly unpleasant experience if it must happen. And please let his apparition show that stupid tattoo in full color for her viewing pleasure. Let it remind her day and night what a crackpot she raised.
The kids and I order our pizza and find a table. We have a clear view of the forbidden television which is broadcasting the opening ceremonies of the Summer Olympics. We can't hear anything but it sure seems zany. Gotta love the Brits. They have made the festivities uniquely their own. Choreographed hospital bed routine? Audible farting? A sky diving queen?
I am torn. I am such a fan of the Olympics. The pageantry. The spirit. The love of the sports. Kids who have devoted their lives and forsaken all else for this chance. I am in awe of the sheer power of them. Such drive. Such physical and personal strength. And I barely survive a work week at my desk, by comparison.
But in a 99% television-free town, I would have to go find a sports bar to watch each night. Not exactly what we came here to do...so I opt to forget about watching the drama unfold and patiently learn of the pertinent results from my FB friends and online news apps on my phone, and instead immerse myself in the joys of vacation. I can On-Demand any old thing I am still dying to see when we get home. Time like this with my kids is rare and fleeting. The Olympics come along every few years.
Hil's birthday is around the corner and she is turning 13. The Big Day when she flips the switch from tween to teen happens the day after our vacation ends and she has returned to her father's house. And she is acutely aware of the difference that will make in the celebration. Has roundly criticized her father's ideas about what constitutes an appropriate birthday celebration, much less a milestone like this one.
And the heat is on. Like everything else in my post-divorce life with my kids, I need to come up with a way to fill in the gaps. Make things whole. Make Lars' inadequacies invisible if not unimportant.
This will be my biggest mission yet.
The kids and I order our pizza and find a table. We have a clear view of the forbidden television which is broadcasting the opening ceremonies of the Summer Olympics. We can't hear anything but it sure seems zany. Gotta love the Brits. They have made the festivities uniquely their own. Choreographed hospital bed routine? Audible farting? A sky diving queen?
I am torn. I am such a fan of the Olympics. The pageantry. The spirit. The love of the sports. Kids who have devoted their lives and forsaken all else for this chance. I am in awe of the sheer power of them. Such drive. Such physical and personal strength. And I barely survive a work week at my desk, by comparison.
But in a 99% television-free town, I would have to go find a sports bar to watch each night. Not exactly what we came here to do...so I opt to forget about watching the drama unfold and patiently learn of the pertinent results from my FB friends and online news apps on my phone, and instead immerse myself in the joys of vacation. I can On-Demand any old thing I am still dying to see when we get home. Time like this with my kids is rare and fleeting. The Olympics come along every few years.
Hil's birthday is around the corner and she is turning 13. The Big Day when she flips the switch from tween to teen happens the day after our vacation ends and she has returned to her father's house. And she is acutely aware of the difference that will make in the celebration. Has roundly criticized her father's ideas about what constitutes an appropriate birthday celebration, much less a milestone like this one.
And the heat is on. Like everything else in my post-divorce life with my kids, I need to come up with a way to fill in the gaps. Make things whole. Make Lars' inadequacies invisible if not unimportant.
This will be my biggest mission yet.
Monday, August 13, 2012
I Never Promised You A Rose Garden
J. and I came to this marvelous place a few times together. Once or twice just the two of us, a few times with the kids. He loved it.
But what I remember now about those trips is not long walks holding hands, or coffee in the hammock swings, or wine on the porch as the sun set.
Sure we did all of those things. But we also argued. We argued there more than we argued at home. Sometimes bitterly. Always quietly. But always.
It struck me one day shortly after an argument with J.. I actually wrote it in a diary that I'd been keeping at the time (before blogging became my public record of my private life!) Those arguments made me question, if only momentarily, what was wrong with our relationship.
It was almost as if, and I see this now, but had not then, that when all the background noise of everyday life, and the distractions of work and baseball schedules and chorus concerts and scout meetings, and the pressure of maintaining a home and a job were stripped away, what we had left wasn't so rosey after all.
I could see J.'s jealousy.
I could see his male chauvinistic tendencies.
I could see his infuriating insecurities.
I could see a few departures from the truth.
I could feel him pressuring me. Putting me in positions where I could not argue with him and would have to agree, if only temporarily.
And then we'd return to Real Life and those nagging little concerns seemed brief and fleeting and insignificant. All the good things came into focus again. I'd let all the bad things go.
Until the next trip.
And the worst part was that I had nowhere to run. We were at my Charlotte and Jack's cottage. With the kids. I could not really throw them out (Moira would be baffled, not to mention upset). And I wasn't leaving! I had no choice but to have an argument. If we'd been at home, I'd have made a few blistering parting comments, taken my stuff and bombed for home, leaving him to cry in his beer alone.
Somehow I think he planned it all that way. He always had some insecurity or jealousy or issue festering just below the surface and he'd strike when he'd know I could not escape.
The last time he'd come to visit we'd already broken up. I'd vowed to remain freinds. Invited him to visit us for a day. He was charming to my mother. He was lovely to me. He asked Estelle if he could take me out for a drink. We'd gone. He trapped me. Worked me over while we waited for drinks and appetizers. Tried to remind me that I'd made commitments to him. That I'd planned a life with him. And then I'd scrammed.
And I had. At one time. But when he failed to live up to the commitments he'd made, and crossed boundaries and failed me, it seemed as though I was supposed to forgive and forget.
And again, I was trapped into having the conversation. In public. No way to leave. We had his car and I was too far from the cottage to walk. I'd wanted to vanish.
And I knew that feeling all too well. It was how I'd often felt in my marriage to Lars. I congratulated J. on having achieved the same accomplishment. He'd made me want to vanish.
That was quite a trip. Mom had left early, having tired of us and exhausted her real estate possibilities. J. had left in a huff, mad that I would not cave to his pressure and his charm. And he was naively hopeful that if he kept at it, I'd not be able to resist.
Some people have an overly inflated impression of their irresistability.
And somehow, through all of this, the beauty of the place and the peace it brings me has prevailed. The power of Mother Nature, perhaps. Somehow the very nature of the place reminds me of who I am in my soul. No intruder can take the shine from that.
And now I return...two summers in a row, with Scott and his girls. Scott loves the place as much as I do. Would love to buy a cottage. Relaxes and unwinds and enjoys the quiet and the outdoors and all the outdoor things to do.
And just like at home, we have absolutely nothing to fight about.
And without the background noise of everyday life, and the distractions of work and baseball schedules and chorus concerts and scout meetings, and with the pressure of maintaining a home and a job all stripped away, what we have left is rosey and bright after all.
But what I remember now about those trips is not long walks holding hands, or coffee in the hammock swings, or wine on the porch as the sun set.
Sure we did all of those things. But we also argued. We argued there more than we argued at home. Sometimes bitterly. Always quietly. But always.
It struck me one day shortly after an argument with J.. I actually wrote it in a diary that I'd been keeping at the time (before blogging became my public record of my private life!) Those arguments made me question, if only momentarily, what was wrong with our relationship.
It was almost as if, and I see this now, but had not then, that when all the background noise of everyday life, and the distractions of work and baseball schedules and chorus concerts and scout meetings, and the pressure of maintaining a home and a job were stripped away, what we had left wasn't so rosey after all.
I could see J.'s jealousy.
I could see his male chauvinistic tendencies.
I could see his infuriating insecurities.
I could see a few departures from the truth.
I could feel him pressuring me. Putting me in positions where I could not argue with him and would have to agree, if only temporarily.
And then we'd return to Real Life and those nagging little concerns seemed brief and fleeting and insignificant. All the good things came into focus again. I'd let all the bad things go.
Until the next trip.
And the worst part was that I had nowhere to run. We were at my Charlotte and Jack's cottage. With the kids. I could not really throw them out (Moira would be baffled, not to mention upset). And I wasn't leaving! I had no choice but to have an argument. If we'd been at home, I'd have made a few blistering parting comments, taken my stuff and bombed for home, leaving him to cry in his beer alone.
Somehow I think he planned it all that way. He always had some insecurity or jealousy or issue festering just below the surface and he'd strike when he'd know I could not escape.
The last time he'd come to visit we'd already broken up. I'd vowed to remain freinds. Invited him to visit us for a day. He was charming to my mother. He was lovely to me. He asked Estelle if he could take me out for a drink. We'd gone. He trapped me. Worked me over while we waited for drinks and appetizers. Tried to remind me that I'd made commitments to him. That I'd planned a life with him. And then I'd scrammed.
And I had. At one time. But when he failed to live up to the commitments he'd made, and crossed boundaries and failed me, it seemed as though I was supposed to forgive and forget.
And again, I was trapped into having the conversation. In public. No way to leave. We had his car and I was too far from the cottage to walk. I'd wanted to vanish.
And I knew that feeling all too well. It was how I'd often felt in my marriage to Lars. I congratulated J. on having achieved the same accomplishment. He'd made me want to vanish.
That was quite a trip. Mom had left early, having tired of us and exhausted her real estate possibilities. J. had left in a huff, mad that I would not cave to his pressure and his charm. And he was naively hopeful that if he kept at it, I'd not be able to resist.
Some people have an overly inflated impression of their irresistability.
And somehow, through all of this, the beauty of the place and the peace it brings me has prevailed. The power of Mother Nature, perhaps. Somehow the very nature of the place reminds me of who I am in my soul. No intruder can take the shine from that.
And now I return...two summers in a row, with Scott and his girls. Scott loves the place as much as I do. Would love to buy a cottage. Relaxes and unwinds and enjoys the quiet and the outdoors and all the outdoor things to do.
And just like at home, we have absolutely nothing to fight about.
And without the background noise of everyday life, and the distractions of work and baseball schedules and chorus concerts and scout meetings, and with the pressure of maintaining a home and a job all stripped away, what we have left is rosey and bright after all.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Home Away from Home
We meander through the familiar little borough, past the French pastry shop, along side the ice cream parlor, along the edge of the lake and up the hill to the cottage. Home.
The kids bound from the car, anxious to get Trinket settled, to choose their rooms and their beds, empty their suitcases and get the vacation underway. But each child helps to make several trips down the steps to the car and back up with a box or bag or trunk. And then while they explore the house and try to figure out what has changed since their last visit, I unpack and store all of the groceries. Breads and buns and bagels and bacon and burgers. Corn on the cob, coffee, crumb cake, cool pops. Salad greens, cereal, salsa, seltzer. We are fully stocked.
And in no mood to cook. Long day, long drive. So we take a short walk through the streets and under the trees and make our way slowly to the pizza shop.
The kids chatter about this place and that, plans for Death By Chocolate at the ice cream parlor, things they want to buy at the odd little novelty shop, how many years in a row they have been coming here.
And I am consumed with other thoughts. I have come here with the kids at least once a year since the year I began my divorce. It has been mostly a place of peace, but there are some ghosts.
I made my first trip here when Charlotte and Jack were new parents and were renting a cottage for two weeks in July. I had just gotten engaged to Lars. It rained the whole time we were here. I remember loving how lush and green it was. How pretty. How untouched by the hands of time. Lars and I visited a little shop that has since burned down. (And so have we, actually!) We bought a little hand carved wooden duck. We'd buy another some years later on our honeymoon in Greece. And a baby one for me to place next to them on the mantle to signify my first pregnancy. And another at a Christmas craft show when Hil was on her way. The little ducks would be our family thing. I don't know where the first two ducks are, but Hil and Pat still have the ones that represent them resting on the ledges above their bedroom doors.
I was so smitten with the place I'd wanted to move there. And by contrast I still remember Lars remarking that he'd never go back. He'd been bored. Why would anyone go there? There is nothing to DO! I should have turned and run then. That should have told me something.
And now, it is the litmus test. If you hate coming here, or even just tolerate it, we are not meant to be.
But in spite of the sirens and flashing warning lights, I married Lars, had children, and didn't come back until I divorced him. And stayed with Charlotte and Jack. And after that first summer, when I began to come and escape more than once, I began to plan weeklong trips with the kids. They would quickly learn about the culture of the place and come to love it. To crave it. It stood in stark contrast to the hype and excess of trips with their father.
The first adventure was not in Charlotte and Jack's cottage, remarkably. We'd rented one of the cute little places a few blocks away with four-poster beds and darling porch where we'd played Monopoly Junior in our pajamas to practice math skills on summer break. We started our traditions that summer.
And we had invited Mom.
What a long time ago it seems like now.
I'd been dating J. by then. And our children had not met each other or each of us yet. My calls to him were secretive and placed after they'd gone to bed.
I can barely remember that first trip. It seems so foreign now. J. and Mom are no longer part of the happy memories. Just factual memories.
How far we've come. How long we've traveled.
The kids bound from the car, anxious to get Trinket settled, to choose their rooms and their beds, empty their suitcases and get the vacation underway. But each child helps to make several trips down the steps to the car and back up with a box or bag or trunk. And then while they explore the house and try to figure out what has changed since their last visit, I unpack and store all of the groceries. Breads and buns and bagels and bacon and burgers. Corn on the cob, coffee, crumb cake, cool pops. Salad greens, cereal, salsa, seltzer. We are fully stocked.
And in no mood to cook. Long day, long drive. So we take a short walk through the streets and under the trees and make our way slowly to the pizza shop.
The kids chatter about this place and that, plans for Death By Chocolate at the ice cream parlor, things they want to buy at the odd little novelty shop, how many years in a row they have been coming here.
And I am consumed with other thoughts. I have come here with the kids at least once a year since the year I began my divorce. It has been mostly a place of peace, but there are some ghosts.
I made my first trip here when Charlotte and Jack were new parents and were renting a cottage for two weeks in July. I had just gotten engaged to Lars. It rained the whole time we were here. I remember loving how lush and green it was. How pretty. How untouched by the hands of time. Lars and I visited a little shop that has since burned down. (And so have we, actually!) We bought a little hand carved wooden duck. We'd buy another some years later on our honeymoon in Greece. And a baby one for me to place next to them on the mantle to signify my first pregnancy. And another at a Christmas craft show when Hil was on her way. The little ducks would be our family thing. I don't know where the first two ducks are, but Hil and Pat still have the ones that represent them resting on the ledges above their bedroom doors.
I was so smitten with the place I'd wanted to move there. And by contrast I still remember Lars remarking that he'd never go back. He'd been bored. Why would anyone go there? There is nothing to DO! I should have turned and run then. That should have told me something.
And now, it is the litmus test. If you hate coming here, or even just tolerate it, we are not meant to be.
But in spite of the sirens and flashing warning lights, I married Lars, had children, and didn't come back until I divorced him. And stayed with Charlotte and Jack. And after that first summer, when I began to come and escape more than once, I began to plan weeklong trips with the kids. They would quickly learn about the culture of the place and come to love it. To crave it. It stood in stark contrast to the hype and excess of trips with their father.
The first adventure was not in Charlotte and Jack's cottage, remarkably. We'd rented one of the cute little places a few blocks away with four-poster beds and darling porch where we'd played Monopoly Junior in our pajamas to practice math skills on summer break. We started our traditions that summer.
And we had invited Mom.
What a long time ago it seems like now.
I'd been dating J. by then. And our children had not met each other or each of us yet. My calls to him were secretive and placed after they'd gone to bed.
I can barely remember that first trip. It seems so foreign now. J. and Mom are no longer part of the happy memories. Just factual memories.
How far we've come. How long we've traveled.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
Thinking about the kids and telling myself that I would move Heaven and Earth to hunt down and castrate anyone who so much as touched so much as a hair on each of my children's precious heads, I bomb toward home, anxious to give them each a squeeze and pile into the car with our stuff and the cat and begin our vacation.
About fifteen minutes from home, I call Pat to tell them my arrive time. He is excited to be going but asks if I can come a little bit later. Liza is turning 50 next week while we are away (Just 50? Somebody has been whacked with the Ugly Stick one too many times!) and they are going to celebrate early with cake.
Cake...who can resist cake? I tell him that before I come I will pack most of the car, then bring them back so they can do one last run down of what they are bringing, and then pile in with kitty, and be on the road.
It's a plan.
And it works beautifully. When all is said and done, I can not wedge a pack of matches into the car among the stuff and Trinket is jammed between the kids in the backseat in her carrier, meowing her pants off.
It is late afternoon and the sun is still out. Traffic is going in the other direction. I am pretty sure I've not left anything undone or unpacked. The kids are joking with each other and yammering about Hil's sleepover planned for next week and the mystery gift Charlotte has gotten for Pat's birthday. And then Hil is suddenly doubled over laughing recalling Pat's reaction to something that happened that day.
"You should have seen your face, Pat! You pushed yourself away from the table so fast. 'Jesus H Christ, Liza!' Sorry, Mom!"
I look in the rearview mirror at her, smiling. "That's okay...but what are we Jesus H Christ-ing about, however inappropriately? Do tell."
They are both giggling now.
Pat starts. He can barely speak for the laughing. It is making Hil laugh. And me, too.
"We were having cake for Liza's birthday. And when she blew out the candles...." He can't continue. Tears have begun to roll down his face.
Hil, only slightly more composed, picks up from there. "She leaned over to blow out the candles, and accidently lit her hair on fire!" She is barely able to continue with her demonstration of how each person at the table reacted. It is priceless. Even in the rearview mirror.
I try to act like I am laughing at what they are laughing at, which is each other, and not the torching of the hair specifically. It is not as easy at it would seem.
"So Hil, is she OK?" I ask. "Did she have to call the salon and get an emergency hair cut?" Poor baby, and she's been growing it for the wedding that will never happen. Poor thing.
I can't imagine what it looked like. When I think of Liza's hair, I also think "tumbleweed." I am picturing a flamethrower. Something cartoonish. One side a charred pile of ash and the other side the usual mousey brown bad home perm frizzies.
Oh and I imagine the smell didn't exactly leave everyone's mouth watering for cake.
Hil has composed herself and has regained the ability to form sentences.
"It wasn't too bad." And with her big lisp adds, "You know, it just singed one of her braidzth."
Braids? She's fifty and is now sporting braids?
I am sure they are not dreds and I am sure they are not cornrows. I am sure they are cowpoke, Swiss Miss Instant Cocoa, Heidi of children's lit fame dorky braids. I can hardly wait to text Charlotte.
And soon enough I will get my chance. As while the story has unfolded, the miles have passed and I am pulling off of the turnpike into paradise. Just a few more miles.
As I drive over the mountain and am greeted by twinkling porch lights and the sound of cicadas and bullfrogs, I can feel my soul begin to breathe again.
About fifteen minutes from home, I call Pat to tell them my arrive time. He is excited to be going but asks if I can come a little bit later. Liza is turning 50 next week while we are away (Just 50? Somebody has been whacked with the Ugly Stick one too many times!) and they are going to celebrate early with cake.
Cake...who can resist cake? I tell him that before I come I will pack most of the car, then bring them back so they can do one last run down of what they are bringing, and then pile in with kitty, and be on the road.
It's a plan.
And it works beautifully. When all is said and done, I can not wedge a pack of matches into the car among the stuff and Trinket is jammed between the kids in the backseat in her carrier, meowing her pants off.
It is late afternoon and the sun is still out. Traffic is going in the other direction. I am pretty sure I've not left anything undone or unpacked. The kids are joking with each other and yammering about Hil's sleepover planned for next week and the mystery gift Charlotte has gotten for Pat's birthday. And then Hil is suddenly doubled over laughing recalling Pat's reaction to something that happened that day.
"You should have seen your face, Pat! You pushed yourself away from the table so fast. 'Jesus H Christ, Liza!' Sorry, Mom!"
I look in the rearview mirror at her, smiling. "That's okay...but what are we Jesus H Christ-ing about, however inappropriately? Do tell."
They are both giggling now.
Pat starts. He can barely speak for the laughing. It is making Hil laugh. And me, too.
"We were having cake for Liza's birthday. And when she blew out the candles...." He can't continue. Tears have begun to roll down his face.
Hil, only slightly more composed, picks up from there. "She leaned over to blow out the candles, and accidently lit her hair on fire!" She is barely able to continue with her demonstration of how each person at the table reacted. It is priceless. Even in the rearview mirror.
I try to act like I am laughing at what they are laughing at, which is each other, and not the torching of the hair specifically. It is not as easy at it would seem.
"So Hil, is she OK?" I ask. "Did she have to call the salon and get an emergency hair cut?" Poor baby, and she's been growing it for the wedding that will never happen. Poor thing.
I can't imagine what it looked like. When I think of Liza's hair, I also think "tumbleweed." I am picturing a flamethrower. Something cartoonish. One side a charred pile of ash and the other side the usual mousey brown bad home perm frizzies.
Oh and I imagine the smell didn't exactly leave everyone's mouth watering for cake.
Hil has composed herself and has regained the ability to form sentences.
"It wasn't too bad." And with her big lisp adds, "You know, it just singed one of her braidzth."
Braids? She's fifty and is now sporting braids?
I am sure they are not dreds and I am sure they are not cornrows. I am sure they are cowpoke, Swiss Miss Instant Cocoa, Heidi of children's lit fame dorky braids. I can hardly wait to text Charlotte.
And soon enough I will get my chance. As while the story has unfolded, the miles have passed and I am pulling off of the turnpike into paradise. Just a few more miles.
As I drive over the mountain and am greeted by twinkling porch lights and the sound of cicadas and bullfrogs, I can feel my soul begin to breathe again.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Crime and Punishment
And for these and many other reasons, I am thrilled to say that I am headed out on vacation. Going to that darling little hamlet that time forgot where Charlotte and Jack have a cottage and a lot of family history. We are staying in their cottage while they go to the beach. One of these days we are going to have to figure out a way to be there together. Playing games on the porch, telling idiot brother stories, pouring fabulous cocktails and noshing on all manner of grilled things.
I can hardly wait to pick up the kids from Lars. They are so excited to be there. Hil has been packed for weeks. She already plans to own a cottage of her own. Wants to know if Auntie Charlotte will let her bring her husband to her cottage if they need to come up and look around. Girlfriend has some plans! Pat can't wait to start the 1000 piece puzzle that glows in the dark. For all the madness they are exposed to with Disneyland Dad, the appeal of the phoneless, TV-free, no cell tower in sight, don't even think about the internet, Yes, We Have No Cable, completely removed from social media, and in fact media of all forms, totally unplugged place is magnetic to them. They are drawn to it like ducks to water. It's almost as though they get to tune out and tune in to us. As a parent, this is a dream.
But as I drive toward home, anxious to pick them up from the home of the Weirdest Man on Earth, I think about the parents of the Sandusky victims. Sandusky is set to be sentenced soon and is hopefully rotting in jail for decades before making his express lane trip to Hell. If only he'd been taken to task sooner. There are so many cooks in that kitchen it makes my head swim.
But what rattles me more is this: We are finding fault with Sandusky (let's hope so) and McQueery, (I'm sorry, you didn't know what to do and you called your Dad? How about 911?) and the administrators and coaching staff, and Paterno in particular for their failures to act. But where were the kids' parents?
Were they so caught up in their own bullshit that they could not tell something sinister was going on in their boys lives? Were they so asleep at the wheel that they could not see the changes, the fears, the symptoms that must have presented as their lives spiraled into Hell?
I know when my kid gets torched in a pop quiz, or gets razzed for missing an easy fly ball in gym. How do you not know he's been raped by an man?
Or is it worse than that? Did they trade? Did they ignore the subtle signs and the complaints? Did they force their kids to accept the VCR and the Gameboy and the golf clubs because they themselves were reaping the rewards of the relationship?
Or were they so depressed by their stations in their lives - the Second Mile kids were all underprivileged, and we can only guess at what their parents were suffering with - that the warning signs were missed for all the bright lights and shininess of the gifts and trips and privileges that their kids were being offered that they could not provide. Did they fail to see what lie right before them, blinded by their desire to provide something, anything, special for their kids?
I am not sure how to feel about the parents. They failed their kids. How much blame they can be saddled with is probably an individual matter. Case by case.
But know this: I understand how a parent can get caught up in their own losses, and their own desires for their kids, and their guilt about not providing. I know how life's problems can consume a person. But what I don't understand is how you can look into your child's eyes each night as you kiss them goodnight and not have some flicker of recognition that something is wrong. And no matter what your pain, how do you not at least ask what the matter might be?
Monsignor Lynn has gone to jail for not taking steps that could have prevented further attacks and abuse of children by priests.
Jail.
And this seems fitting.
To be truthful, there are a whole lot more people at fault in the PSU abuse scandal than those being talked about. Everyone who failed to act, who didn't do enough, who did not act to the very limit of their power, who put his head on the pillow each night not having done something to prevent even one more singular act of violence and sexual abuse against a child is culpable.
I guess the punishments will fit the crimes. Jobs will be lost. Freedoms stripped. Honors revoked. Statues torn down. Reputations ruined. Heads hung in shame.
But what of the parents? The ones on the sidelines? I wonder if their personal losses are fitting enough? I guess we'll let their children decide the verdict. Children always do. And that will be fitting enough.
I can hardly wait to pick up the kids from Lars. They are so excited to be there. Hil has been packed for weeks. She already plans to own a cottage of her own. Wants to know if Auntie Charlotte will let her bring her husband to her cottage if they need to come up and look around. Girlfriend has some plans! Pat can't wait to start the 1000 piece puzzle that glows in the dark. For all the madness they are exposed to with Disneyland Dad, the appeal of the phoneless, TV-free, no cell tower in sight, don't even think about the internet, Yes, We Have No Cable, completely removed from social media, and in fact media of all forms, totally unplugged place is magnetic to them. They are drawn to it like ducks to water. It's almost as though they get to tune out and tune in to us. As a parent, this is a dream.
But as I drive toward home, anxious to pick them up from the home of the Weirdest Man on Earth, I think about the parents of the Sandusky victims. Sandusky is set to be sentenced soon and is hopefully rotting in jail for decades before making his express lane trip to Hell. If only he'd been taken to task sooner. There are so many cooks in that kitchen it makes my head swim.
But what rattles me more is this: We are finding fault with Sandusky (let's hope so) and McQueery, (I'm sorry, you didn't know what to do and you called your Dad? How about 911?) and the administrators and coaching staff, and Paterno in particular for their failures to act. But where were the kids' parents?
Were they so caught up in their own bullshit that they could not tell something sinister was going on in their boys lives? Were they so asleep at the wheel that they could not see the changes, the fears, the symptoms that must have presented as their lives spiraled into Hell?
I know when my kid gets torched in a pop quiz, or gets razzed for missing an easy fly ball in gym. How do you not know he's been raped by an man?
Or is it worse than that? Did they trade? Did they ignore the subtle signs and the complaints? Did they force their kids to accept the VCR and the Gameboy and the golf clubs because they themselves were reaping the rewards of the relationship?
Or were they so depressed by their stations in their lives - the Second Mile kids were all underprivileged, and we can only guess at what their parents were suffering with - that the warning signs were missed for all the bright lights and shininess of the gifts and trips and privileges that their kids were being offered that they could not provide. Did they fail to see what lie right before them, blinded by their desire to provide something, anything, special for their kids?
I am not sure how to feel about the parents. They failed their kids. How much blame they can be saddled with is probably an individual matter. Case by case.
But know this: I understand how a parent can get caught up in their own losses, and their own desires for their kids, and their guilt about not providing. I know how life's problems can consume a person. But what I don't understand is how you can look into your child's eyes each night as you kiss them goodnight and not have some flicker of recognition that something is wrong. And no matter what your pain, how do you not at least ask what the matter might be?
Monsignor Lynn has gone to jail for not taking steps that could have prevented further attacks and abuse of children by priests.
Jail.
And this seems fitting.
To be truthful, there are a whole lot more people at fault in the PSU abuse scandal than those being talked about. Everyone who failed to act, who didn't do enough, who did not act to the very limit of their power, who put his head on the pillow each night not having done something to prevent even one more singular act of violence and sexual abuse against a child is culpable.
I guess the punishments will fit the crimes. Jobs will be lost. Freedoms stripped. Honors revoked. Statues torn down. Reputations ruined. Heads hung in shame.
But what of the parents? The ones on the sidelines? I wonder if their personal losses are fitting enough? I guess we'll let their children decide the verdict. Children always do. And that will be fitting enough.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Off On A Rant
But the beat goes on. My pro-gun ownership friends and my marriage-means-a-man-and-a-woman friends and my Joe Pa-didn't-do-anything-wrong-for-sure friends go on ranting on the Facebook stage and so do I.
I'll summarize, and then I won't rant anymore. At least not today.
More guns means more gun acts, and by the numbers, this means more accidents, more children shot, more loss an injury at one's own hand, more problems attempted to be resolved by guns and more criminal shootings. Period. People who naively (and frankly, really stupidly) claim that guns don't kill people, people kill people, can kiss my self righteous ass in Cabella's window. Exactly, people kill people. With guns. Because they are going to find a way to kill people and so long as they can get guns, that is what they'll use. If we could reliably trust people not to use guns for the wrong things, then we could probably trust them not to steal, or commit fraud, or anything else we need laws for. But, silly NRA-ers, we can't trust our fellow man, so we need laws. And that includes laws about guns. Grow up and face facts. Your toy is another man's murder weapon.
I don't think we need more guns, or even more gun laws. I think we need better enforcement of more effective gun laws. Maybe Chris Rock was right. If bullets were $5000 a piece, maybe people wouldn't be so willing to spray them into a crowd. Just ask Gabby Giffords what she thinks.
And to my marriage equality debaters, I say marriage is a commitment. For some it is a religious sacrament, and for some it is a legally binding agreement. But for most, it is one born of love; a commitment to hold another's heart and hand through the betters and the worses. It has lots of benefits. It has lots of bummers. And if two people with matching sex parts want in on the game, I say let 'em play. Frankly, I'd rather se two men holding hands than two men holding AK47s any freakin' day of the week. And I don't see anything hideous coming out of more people getting married. Just more married people. And maybe a boost in the economy from all the wedding showers and catered affairs.
And Joe Pa? Sure it sucks to not have him to look up to anymore. But I think we'd stop putting blow up Santas on our lawns if his image were even remotely associated on the most minimal level with the kind of heinous crimes, horrific suffering and systematic hush-hushing that went on at Penn State. Some very powerful people put football first and now they get to pay a price that can't begin to undo the hurt endured by these children at the heart of the matter. What was collectively swept under the rug of Big College Football and booster money has crept into living rooms and classrooms and locker rooms and into the hearts and minds of people all across America. Erase a few wins from the record? If only erasing those kids' history were so simple.
And I am not going to Chick-fil-A(holes) anymore, but I don't need to rant about that. I just need to not go. I will not be buying a gun or learning to use it. I am not going to root against Penn State. I am going to stand by my beliefs quietly and with conviction and live my life in a way that makes me proud, demonstrates values I want my children to learn, and sets an example I'd hope others will follow.
And as a human, and a citizen and a parent, that is all I can do. If others choose other paths, I will tolerate them, not hate them. But I may de-friend a few of the more vocal ones on Facebook, because I don't have to "like" them either.
I'll summarize, and then I won't rant anymore. At least not today.
More guns means more gun acts, and by the numbers, this means more accidents, more children shot, more loss an injury at one's own hand, more problems attempted to be resolved by guns and more criminal shootings. Period. People who naively (and frankly, really stupidly) claim that guns don't kill people, people kill people, can kiss my self righteous ass in Cabella's window. Exactly, people kill people. With guns. Because they are going to find a way to kill people and so long as they can get guns, that is what they'll use. If we could reliably trust people not to use guns for the wrong things, then we could probably trust them not to steal, or commit fraud, or anything else we need laws for. But, silly NRA-ers, we can't trust our fellow man, so we need laws. And that includes laws about guns. Grow up and face facts. Your toy is another man's murder weapon.
I don't think we need more guns, or even more gun laws. I think we need better enforcement of more effective gun laws. Maybe Chris Rock was right. If bullets were $5000 a piece, maybe people wouldn't be so willing to spray them into a crowd. Just ask Gabby Giffords what she thinks.
And to my marriage equality debaters, I say marriage is a commitment. For some it is a religious sacrament, and for some it is a legally binding agreement. But for most, it is one born of love; a commitment to hold another's heart and hand through the betters and the worses. It has lots of benefits. It has lots of bummers. And if two people with matching sex parts want in on the game, I say let 'em play. Frankly, I'd rather se two men holding hands than two men holding AK47s any freakin' day of the week. And I don't see anything hideous coming out of more people getting married. Just more married people. And maybe a boost in the economy from all the wedding showers and catered affairs.
And Joe Pa? Sure it sucks to not have him to look up to anymore. But I think we'd stop putting blow up Santas on our lawns if his image were even remotely associated on the most minimal level with the kind of heinous crimes, horrific suffering and systematic hush-hushing that went on at Penn State. Some very powerful people put football first and now they get to pay a price that can't begin to undo the hurt endured by these children at the heart of the matter. What was collectively swept under the rug of Big College Football and booster money has crept into living rooms and classrooms and locker rooms and into the hearts and minds of people all across America. Erase a few wins from the record? If only erasing those kids' history were so simple.
And I am not going to Chick-fil-A(holes) anymore, but I don't need to rant about that. I just need to not go. I will not be buying a gun or learning to use it. I am not going to root against Penn State. I am going to stand by my beliefs quietly and with conviction and live my life in a way that makes me proud, demonstrates values I want my children to learn, and sets an example I'd hope others will follow.
And as a human, and a citizen and a parent, that is all I can do. If others choose other paths, I will tolerate them, not hate them. But I may de-friend a few of the more vocal ones on Facebook, because I don't have to "like" them either.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Hell, Joe, You Must Go!
I am similarly baffled by the people who are outraged by the removal of Joe Paterno's statue from its place of prominence on the PSU campus.
I am sure that this is not the last removal of his likeness or his name from something to which it was intended to lend a certain credibility and superstar quality shininess to.
But alas - Happy Valley reminds us all of that scene in The Ten Commandments when Pharaoh has Moses' name stricken from every tablet, column, blah, blah blah. So let it be written, so let it be done.
Scholarships, trophies, child care centers - all changing names. Nike, the students of the former Paternoville, countless other groups, all disavowing him.
And why the hell not?
I am not insensitive. I completely appreciate his family's pain and conflict and outrage. They knew the man, not just the coach and the legend. And they have reaped the rewards of his success, suffered the sacrifices of his devotion to the game, and have lived in the warmth of his glow for decades.
But please, let's not say that we should just focus on the good that the man did - and I am not disputing that he did many, many a good deed.
Let's not say the the Freeh report is just a bunch of speculation, though that would be convenient and easier to believe.
Whatever the factoids and nuances and conclusions of the Freeh report may be - and whether Joe Paterno is crucified in the court of public opinion only or is found legally culpable (and we may never know for sure as he has inconveniently died) the plain and simple truth is that his name has been sullied. Really, and truly, and heinously, and irretrievably sullied. And no one wants their thing - their trophy, track shoe, day care, sunglasses - associated with that image.
And if there is the slightest chance that the image of Joe Pa's victorious pointing finger signifying the number one spot brings someone pain and suffering or horrific images or memories, it is right to tear the statue down. (I am sure there are not hospital wings or libraries or stadiums in Europe bearing Hitler's image because he gave them a little cashola.)
In some way, so many of us believe that whatever the complicated political landscape or delicate PR dilemma at the time, on some level, Joe Pa failed a bunch of defenseless kids. He knew something about a heinous crime against a child, and in his own sandbox, and the most powerful, influential man in town did nothing of substance to stop it. Made no demands. Drew no lines in the sand. Threw up no ultimatums.
Joe Paterno may have once been the most powerful man in a very prestigious place. But he made at least one desperate child feel even more powerless when he could have rescued him. Shame on him.
Men like that don't get to be remembered for their greatness.
I am sure that this is not the last removal of his likeness or his name from something to which it was intended to lend a certain credibility and superstar quality shininess to.
But alas - Happy Valley reminds us all of that scene in The Ten Commandments when Pharaoh has Moses' name stricken from every tablet, column, blah, blah blah. So let it be written, so let it be done.
Scholarships, trophies, child care centers - all changing names. Nike, the students of the former Paternoville, countless other groups, all disavowing him.
And why the hell not?
I am not insensitive. I completely appreciate his family's pain and conflict and outrage. They knew the man, not just the coach and the legend. And they have reaped the rewards of his success, suffered the sacrifices of his devotion to the game, and have lived in the warmth of his glow for decades.
But please, let's not say that we should just focus on the good that the man did - and I am not disputing that he did many, many a good deed.
Let's not say the the Freeh report is just a bunch of speculation, though that would be convenient and easier to believe.
Whatever the factoids and nuances and conclusions of the Freeh report may be - and whether Joe Paterno is crucified in the court of public opinion only or is found legally culpable (and we may never know for sure as he has inconveniently died) the plain and simple truth is that his name has been sullied. Really, and truly, and heinously, and irretrievably sullied. And no one wants their thing - their trophy, track shoe, day care, sunglasses - associated with that image.
And if there is the slightest chance that the image of Joe Pa's victorious pointing finger signifying the number one spot brings someone pain and suffering or horrific images or memories, it is right to tear the statue down. (I am sure there are not hospital wings or libraries or stadiums in Europe bearing Hitler's image because he gave them a little cashola.)
In some way, so many of us believe that whatever the complicated political landscape or delicate PR dilemma at the time, on some level, Joe Pa failed a bunch of defenseless kids. He knew something about a heinous crime against a child, and in his own sandbox, and the most powerful, influential man in town did nothing of substance to stop it. Made no demands. Drew no lines in the sand. Threw up no ultimatums.
Joe Paterno may have once been the most powerful man in a very prestigious place. But he made at least one desperate child feel even more powerless when he could have rescued him. Shame on him.
Men like that don't get to be remembered for their greatness.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Guns and Roses
But there is an alarming number of people who truly, naively believe that what the horrors of the Aurora shooting should teach us is that what this country needs is less restrictive gun control.
Sure. Let's all have a gun. Let's all take them everywhere. Family parties. Church. Work. Concerts. The beach. School. Amusement parks, Chuck E. Cheeses, weddings, funerals, graduation parties, bars. Yes, most especially bars.
I read a comment that insists that if just one person in that theater audience had been armed, the outcome would have been very different.
Hello, it's Colorado. I am sure lots of people were armed.
So the assumed assertion of this naive and very misguided comment is that if one of those movie patrons had been packing that night, then, in the midst of the confusion about whether it was a special effects stunt, and while the gas cannisters were filling the theater with blinding, choking smoke, and perhaps the armed attendee's child/children/date/friend/spouse was shrieking in terror or even lay wounded, and while people were panicking and running in all directions in the darkened theater, that this coincidentally armed person would have had the presence of mind and the skills to get off a precise shot that would have taken down the lunatic attacker and stopped the mayhem in its tracks.
Puh-lease. Sure. And Clinton didn't inhale. Give me a break.
I shared my alarm about this type of thinking with Scott, who is a responsible gun owner with a gun safe and a permit.
As I spoke the words I had this thought: This is a philosophy have unwavering opinions about. If Scott does not share them, I am not sure we can share a life together.
It was as much a lesson I learned about me as it was a lesson I learned about Scott. Thankfully, he agrees with me. He is a sportsman. He has guns with purposes. He does not walk around armed and does not want to live anywhere where everyone does. Having guns means a willingness to use them. And having them under the wrong circumstances means opportunity to use them under the wrong circumstances. And what would have been the right circumstances to have been carrying a military assault rifle?
As my friend pays last respects to her family member, I am wondering if she thinks the answer is more guns. Because if no one had thought to bring a gun to the party, someone she loves might be here today. I think from the safety of distance and inexperience the Facebookers touting looser gun control naively imagine something like Utopian cooperation.
It is all so simple to say what you'd do. Until it happens to you. I am sure my friend is not wishing she'd thought to bring a gun herself. I doubt my other friend would hold her beliefs so firmly in the same situation.
Sure. Let's all have a gun. Let's all take them everywhere. Family parties. Church. Work. Concerts. The beach. School. Amusement parks, Chuck E. Cheeses, weddings, funerals, graduation parties, bars. Yes, most especially bars.
I read a comment that insists that if just one person in that theater audience had been armed, the outcome would have been very different.
Hello, it's Colorado. I am sure lots of people were armed.
So the assumed assertion of this naive and very misguided comment is that if one of those movie patrons had been packing that night, then, in the midst of the confusion about whether it was a special effects stunt, and while the gas cannisters were filling the theater with blinding, choking smoke, and perhaps the armed attendee's child/children/date/friend/spouse was shrieking in terror or even lay wounded, and while people were panicking and running in all directions in the darkened theater, that this coincidentally armed person would have had the presence of mind and the skills to get off a precise shot that would have taken down the lunatic attacker and stopped the mayhem in its tracks.
Puh-lease. Sure. And Clinton didn't inhale. Give me a break.
I shared my alarm about this type of thinking with Scott, who is a responsible gun owner with a gun safe and a permit.
As I spoke the words I had this thought: This is a philosophy have unwavering opinions about. If Scott does not share them, I am not sure we can share a life together.
It was as much a lesson I learned about me as it was a lesson I learned about Scott. Thankfully, he agrees with me. He is a sportsman. He has guns with purposes. He does not walk around armed and does not want to live anywhere where everyone does. Having guns means a willingness to use them. And having them under the wrong circumstances means opportunity to use them under the wrong circumstances. And what would have been the right circumstances to have been carrying a military assault rifle?
As my friend pays last respects to her family member, I am wondering if she thinks the answer is more guns. Because if no one had thought to bring a gun to the party, someone she loves might be here today. I think from the safety of distance and inexperience the Facebookers touting looser gun control naively imagine something like Utopian cooperation.
It is all so simple to say what you'd do. Until it happens to you. I am sure my friend is not wishing she'd thought to bring a gun herself. I doubt my other friend would hold her beliefs so firmly in the same situation.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Second Amendment Wrongs
Facebook is full of opinions this week. Most notably, people commenting on the idiot musings of Chick-fil-A president Dan Cathy who hello, runs a fast food chain.
He seems to think he is qualified to pass judgement on those of us who support gay and lesbian marriage and those who would like to engage in gay or lesbian marriage but have limited opportunity because Small Minded America thinks it can have an opinion.
Let me remind you: He runs a fast food chain.
Someone (someone probably named Rush Limbaugh) thought it would be hilarious to give him radio air time so that his lunatic ramblings could reach a wider audience.
I hope he is successful as a radio talk show personality. Because his food chain is going right into the crapper. Celebrities, gays and lesbians, supporters of gay and lesbian marriage, anyone who knows someone gay or lesbian, and anyone with half a brain cell pinging around in his head, will refuse to cross the threshold of Chick-fil-A so long as he is on the payroll or sits on the Board.
I would sooner eat the stuffing out of the chair I rest my ass on at this moment than patronize that bigoted blow hard's restaurant. Waffle fries craving or not. Not. Going. To. Eat. There. Chick-fil-Lame.
But he is finding supporters in pockets of the social media world and oddly, those same supporters, in large part, have another thing in common.
Many of them have had a visceral reaction to those people commenting on Facebook that implore our states and our Federal government to pass stricter gun control laws.
They support just the opposite. They are rallying in support of looser gun restrictions.
And by this, I am truly baffled. In my opinion, and I come by it honestly, having recently born witness to what can happen when two people come to a family party with guns in their pockets (instead of perhaps, a spinach dip or a wedge of Brie) and wind up in an argument, (no, I am not talking about my family, or J.'s funeral...surely we'd have covered that!) more guns doesn't solve anything. More guns just means more violence. Guarantees it.
More married people means....what? I can't think of anything troubling to come about by having more married people.
And this, friends, is the basis for my argument.
He seems to think he is qualified to pass judgement on those of us who support gay and lesbian marriage and those who would like to engage in gay or lesbian marriage but have limited opportunity because Small Minded America thinks it can have an opinion.
Let me remind you: He runs a fast food chain.
Someone (someone probably named Rush Limbaugh) thought it would be hilarious to give him radio air time so that his lunatic ramblings could reach a wider audience.
I hope he is successful as a radio talk show personality. Because his food chain is going right into the crapper. Celebrities, gays and lesbians, supporters of gay and lesbian marriage, anyone who knows someone gay or lesbian, and anyone with half a brain cell pinging around in his head, will refuse to cross the threshold of Chick-fil-A so long as he is on the payroll or sits on the Board.
I would sooner eat the stuffing out of the chair I rest my ass on at this moment than patronize that bigoted blow hard's restaurant. Waffle fries craving or not. Not. Going. To. Eat. There. Chick-fil-Lame.
But he is finding supporters in pockets of the social media world and oddly, those same supporters, in large part, have another thing in common.
Many of them have had a visceral reaction to those people commenting on Facebook that implore our states and our Federal government to pass stricter gun control laws.
They support just the opposite. They are rallying in support of looser gun restrictions.
And by this, I am truly baffled. In my opinion, and I come by it honestly, having recently born witness to what can happen when two people come to a family party with guns in their pockets (instead of perhaps, a spinach dip or a wedge of Brie) and wind up in an argument, (no, I am not talking about my family, or J.'s funeral...surely we'd have covered that!) more guns doesn't solve anything. More guns just means more violence. Guarantees it.
More married people means....what? I can't think of anything troubling to come about by having more married people.
And this, friends, is the basis for my argument.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Pop Goes the Weasel
And just when I thought I could enjoy a little boredom, doesn't Fate come rattling its chains, making me think about things again.
And by "things" I do not mean J. Not at all. Things of import. Of substance. Things, as they say, that make you go "hhmmm."
In Aurora, CO, a town of little notoriety and barely a newsworthy peep from its corner of the universe, has suddenly been placed on the map, against its will and for nothing good.
It is not the hometown of the Nobel Peace Prize Winner.
It is not the site of the next Olympics.
It is not the town selected by the newly divorced Katie Holmes as the new home in which to raise uber-child, Suri.
No, sadly, it is thrust into the harsh and unforgiving limelight by a dangerously imbalanced and homicidal lunatic who calculated a plan of mass destruction and high body count by taking military-grade assault weapons into a movie theatre at a premier showing of a highly anticipated film and opening fire on its innocent patrons.
We have learned lots about the attack itself.
We have heard from lots of those lucky enough to have survived. We have heard from the heroic injured and the tragic survivors. We have listened tearfully to those who narrowly escaped and those who lost friends and family members, spouses and children, parents and love interests.
We have not heard from the attacker, who remains silent, even as baffled police officers and bomb squadders try to unravel the booby traps he set up in his home and perhaps his school to ensure further mayhem and destruction after he carried out his initial plan.
And we've heard from Facebook.
Not Facebook the company, no. Though I am sure they have their opinions.
No, scores of Facebookers all over have begun to opine about 2nd Amendment Rights and what might have been.
And some of what I read is refreshing. Some of what I read is disturbing and alarming. Some of what I read makes me think I had better rethink some of my friends.
I want to add my opinion to the fray, but I don't. I don't want to be alerted to others commenting for or against my opinion or that of another. But I'll add it here. Stay tuned.
And by "things" I do not mean J. Not at all. Things of import. Of substance. Things, as they say, that make you go "hhmmm."
In Aurora, CO, a town of little notoriety and barely a newsworthy peep from its corner of the universe, has suddenly been placed on the map, against its will and for nothing good.
It is not the hometown of the Nobel Peace Prize Winner.
It is not the site of the next Olympics.
It is not the town selected by the newly divorced Katie Holmes as the new home in which to raise uber-child, Suri.
No, sadly, it is thrust into the harsh and unforgiving limelight by a dangerously imbalanced and homicidal lunatic who calculated a plan of mass destruction and high body count by taking military-grade assault weapons into a movie theatre at a premier showing of a highly anticipated film and opening fire on its innocent patrons.
We have learned lots about the attack itself.
We have heard from lots of those lucky enough to have survived. We have heard from the heroic injured and the tragic survivors. We have listened tearfully to those who narrowly escaped and those who lost friends and family members, spouses and children, parents and love interests.
We have not heard from the attacker, who remains silent, even as baffled police officers and bomb squadders try to unravel the booby traps he set up in his home and perhaps his school to ensure further mayhem and destruction after he carried out his initial plan.
And we've heard from Facebook.
Not Facebook the company, no. Though I am sure they have their opinions.
No, scores of Facebookers all over have begun to opine about 2nd Amendment Rights and what might have been.
And some of what I read is refreshing. Some of what I read is disturbing and alarming. Some of what I read makes me think I had better rethink some of my friends.
I want to add my opinion to the fray, but I don't. I don't want to be alerted to others commenting for or against my opinion or that of another. But I'll add it here. Stay tuned.
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