July 28, 2004

Behavioral researchers found that when small children are given blocks to play with, girls are more apt to build enclosures, while boys will generally build towers.

Freud would have a field day with this one.

July 26, 2004

In a previous blog I wrote about the trouble caused by a pair of adult handcuffs left at my house. I discovered there are people in this world, including some related to me, who can't see a pair of restraints lying around without locking themselves up. 

Since then, scores of interested readers (Hi Vickie!) have emailed, wondering what happened to the unclaimed cuffs. Here's an update on the detective work I used to track down the owner: 

Upon questioning, one of my younger kids revealed they thought the cuffs belonged to Charlie's friend, Griffin. 

When asked, Griffin said no, he believed they were Aaron's.

Aaron denied ownership, saying they were Zach's.

Zach said yes, they were his and he'd wondered what had happened to them (but not enough to actually retrace his steps to find them, apparently).

When I questioned why he owned handcuffs he looked sheepish and said, "In case I want to beat someone up?" which I sensed wasn't the real reason, but I also sensed it's as much of an answer as I'm going to get. Oh sweet mystery of life...

July 23, 2004

The first few paragraphs of a piece I wrote for Newsweek two years ago can be seen here. If I understand correctly, you can purchase the article or view it as part of a free trial. I'm not sure why you'd pay for something you can look at for free. I'm guessing the idea is you might want to use this service to access other articles as well.

Either way, I don't get any money; I sold the rights to Newsweek "in perpetuity," which means they now own it forever and then some. Generally it's a bad idea for writers to sell all rights, but this was Newsweek and the pay was high, and frankly, I didn't see anyone else lined up to purchase this particular piece. So I sold it and have no regrets. In fact, I used the money to replace our box spring and mattress, and since then my husband and I've slept better than we have in years and Greg no longer wakes up with a stiff back. A remarkable coincidence, if you think about it.

July 21, 2004

Okay, here's a hypothetical for you: you're meeting some short friends at the park and the cell phone your mother lent you rings and you reach into your pocket to answer it. Now this is where it gets tricky. If you happen to be standing in front of a river, you may want to take three steps back before you actually pull the phone out into the open, because otherwise it might slide out of your hand, and down, down, down into the water. 

Unlikely scenario, you say? I say, not as much as you'd think.

This actually happened to one of my kids. I'm not one to name names, especially in this case, because the embarrassment factor is huge, but I will tell you this person is usually very responsible and all the middle school teachers enjoy having this girl in their class and I thought she was the shining light of the next generation, but now that I know she's flinging cell phones into rivers, God help us all.

News you can use: cell phones are not water proof. Why they haven't made them moisture resistant, I don't know. We've got text messaging and photo taking and music playing, and a person can't even accidentally drop one into a raging current and have it still work? What's that all about?

Now my phone glows with an oddly ethereal light like it may take calls from another dimension, but so far it's not working for this one. So if you're trying to reach me and you're not a supernatural being, you'll have to try my land line.

July 12, 2004

I was shopping at a store called "Linens and Things" (more Things than Linens) when I met up with a woman I knew in high school. She recognized me; we chatted. I asked about her life and she updated me on her job, her kids, her house. Then she gripped the handle of her cart and said, "Nice running into you. You take care now," and off she went. 

As I watched her walk away I was tempted to yell out the names of my children and husband, details about my writing and the URL of my website. Admirably, I held back.

This lopsided exchange of information happens to me more often than I think normal. Do I look like someone who has nothing of interest going on?  Apparently so.

July 3, 2004

People Leave Things at My House--Part 2

I've mentioned the tendency of my kids' friends to leave clothing here for long stretches of time. I get the idea they think of our house as a kind of alternate storage area. A place to leave their surplus when their own closets get too full.

As a sort of variation on a theme, the other day someone left their handcuffs here. Yes, I'm talking unclaimed handcuffs. Not the kind little kids get when they play policeman, more like the ones they sell on Hwy. 43, in the pink building that says ADULT TOYS across the front. Not that I've actually been inside the pink building, because Greg will never stop when we're enroute.

So Charlie, my older son, wanders into my home office to tell me he's leaving with some friends to go to Summerfest, a big music festival down by the lakefront, and as he's talking, he absentmindedly picks up the handcuffs, which are sitting on my desk, and closes one side shut onto his wrist. I said, "Good going, Einstein. Now how are you going to get that off?"

And he said, "With the key?" as if I was the brain damaged one instead of the other way around.

"There is no key,"  I said, "in fact Jack did the same thing yesterday and we had to wait for Dad to come home because I couldn't get them open." This was true, although I neglected to mention Greg had just gone to the gas station, so we didn't have to wait very long. Also, Jack, who's nine, didn't seem the least bit upset about it, even though he had both wrists cuffed. He has these long monkey arms and could actually lean at the waist and step over it like he was jumping rope. That kept him entertained for awhile.

I called my husband at work to see what the trick was; he suggested pushing a blunt object into the keyhole and wiggling it around. "Good luck," he said. "It takes awhile." 

"Would you consider," I asked Charlie as we worked on the lock, "going to Summerfest like this?"

"No," he said and looked at me like I was insane, which was ironic because again, I wasn't the one with a handcuff dangling off my wrist.

We finally got them off with some help from Jack, who remembered the finer points of his own release. 

I still have the handcuffs. If the rightful owner reads this and wants them back, I'll gladly hand them over. All they have to do is ask. And explain what they're doing with handcuffs. And tell me what else they have in that pink building.

 It's a fair exchange, I think.

June 30, 2004

Here's some news for those who know my family, and even those who don't: my sister Kathy is getting married next Thanksgiving. Her fiancé is a very nice man named Martin who hails from New Zealand by way of England.

What this means to me, is that Greg and I will always be married 21 years more than them. Not that it's a competition, of course, but if it was, we'd win. Let's just get that straight.

Back on topic--congratulations to the happy couple! Here's hoping you get the happiness you deserve. 

June 29, 2004

Last night my daughter Maria let me know her older brother had gone for a run, something he occasionally does after the sun sets.

I happened to be looking out the front window fifteen minutes later and saw Charlie walking by, taking a break, I thought, from his usual faster pace.

To be funny, I cranked open the window and yelled, "That doesn't look like running to me. Get a move on!" only to realize, when he turned to face me, that it wasn't  Charlie at all, but someone dressed similarly in a white T-shirt and dark shorts. The guy raised his arms like, What? , and I responded irrationally by frantically closing the window and letting the blinds drop back down. 

So now I'm the crazy lady who yells things at people as they walk by my house.

June 25, 2004

There are socks on my driveway and a T-shirt in my garage and no one will claim them. If history repeats itself, they'll remain there until I take further action. 

I'm not sure why people feel inclined to shed their clothes at my house, but it's been going on for several years.

 My younger son, Jack, routinely comes home from grade school and peels off socks and shirt as soon as he walks in the door. Even in winter. I'm not sure if it's a sensory thing or what, but it's as if he's been putting up with these constraints all day and finally, finally can free himself. Usually his clothes stay at the drop site until I arrive with relocation orders. 

 My older two also disperse clothing, mostly socks and hooded sweatshirts, but not with the same regularity. Maria occasionally decides to convert her pants into shorts and zips the bottoms off. Free spirit that she is, this can be done anywhere in the house. Sometimes the pants parts aren't reunited until a few wash loads later.

My children's friends leave clothes as well, some of which get mixed in with our things. At times I feel like I'm doing laundry for most of the subdivision. The kicker is when the rightful owner won't take their stuff back--

Me (Holding up a hooded sweatshirt/ or gloves/ or T-shirt ): Does this belong to you?

Neighbor kid (barely looks up from playing X-Box): Yeah, I think so.

Me: Is there a way you can find out for sure?

One of my kids (impatiently): It's his. I told you it was his.

Me: Okay then. Could you do me a favor and take it with you when you go?

Neighbor kid (still staring at screen): Sure.

Then I set it next to where he's sitting, or by the front door, or near his backpack. Wherever I put it, you can bet that's where I'll find it later, after he's left. Apparently my house is a magnet for unattached clothing. If I knew how that worked I'd convert it to attract money or good things to eat, because this current deal is nothing but trouble.

June 16, 2004

I got mentioned in an article in The Republican.  Go figure.

June 15, 2004

Last Saturday, I had the privilege of watching my niece cross the stage to receive her high school diploma. Her graduation ceremony was especially significant because Shelly switched high schools in the middle of her junior year. 

When I heard she was going to change schools last year I was afraid for her. The new school is only a half hour's drive from the old one, but still. Everyone knows a teenager's high school is their world, and from my perspective, this was one frightening move. 

I grew up in a family of six: my parents, myself and three sisters, one of whom is Shelly's mom. We're a diverse group with one thing in common--we're all tightly wound. Without ever discussing it we've acquired the same life philosophy--you can prevent bad things from happening through constant worry. Most of the time it works. And that horrible knot of anxiety in your stomach? You get used to it. 

Apparently Shelly never caught on to this methodology. She went to her new school forgetting to anticipate every possible problem. Not lying awake in bed anguishing over all the things that could go wrong. Not anticipating calamities and planning accordingly. She didn't ask, but if she had, I could have given her a list of things to stress about. Getting lost for one. Having no friends. Sitting by yourself in the lunchroom. Did I mention getting lost?

"Weren't you worried about not knowing anyone?" I asked. And she told me no, she actually knew one girl that went there.

"Was it scary the first day when you walked into the lunchroom?" Not at all, she told me. The one girl she knew waved her over, and from there she met all of the kids at the table. 

The next thing I knew she had a whole slew of friends and was dating the previous year's prom king. Now she has friends at both high schools and has done some matchmaking between the two.

Next year Shelly will be off to college, another big transition. I'm concerned about how she'll adjust to college life--so many buildings spread so far apart, all those new people, difficult classes, being so far from home--but she seems to think it will all work out just fine. I sure hope so...

June 5, 2004

Yesterday I ran into R.L. Stine. Literally.

I was walking around the 2004 Book Expo America in Chicago, trying to look like someone of merit, rather than the nosy, wanna-be that I am, and I bumped right into a guy. I also stepped on the edge of his foot. I apologized; he said "No problem," and I glanced at his name badge all in the space of two seconds. As he walked past, my first thought was, What a coincidence! He has the same name as the guy who wrote those "Goosebump Books."

Heh heh. Well, I never said I was quick.

The Book Expo is a huge convention--all of the publishing world was there, it seemed. Also a good share of librarians, booksellers, P.R. and marketing people etc. etc. I went on Friday, got more than my share of freebees, eavesdropped, and took it all in. 

I didn't make any IMPORTANT CONNECTIONS, but had big fun, which has to count for something. I walked until my feel bled (new open-toed shoes--big mistake) and checked out which novels the publishing houses were promoting as their lead titles. 

I saw someone I knew, Dave, and almost went up to him to say hi and play catch-up, until I realized it was Dave Barry and I've never actually met him. He was talking to his real friends: Scott Turow, Ridley Pearson and Kathi Kamen Goldmark. 

Not to name drop too much, BUT, I saw Jane Pauley present the 2004 Book Sense Book of the Year Awards. Also, I either walked past Marilu Henner, or a woman who looks a lot like her. Plus, I spotted tons of authors and editors who aren't household names, but whom I hold in high regard. I felt like I was spying on Madonna.

Finally, when driving home, I found the expressway without any trouble at all and even made the correct turnoff to wind up in Wisconsin.

All in all a very good day.

June 3, 2004

Today I drove Charlie to school because he missed the bus. This happens waaayyy more frequently than it should, considering the bus comes at the same time every morning.

As we pulled into the parking lot Charlie commented he was tired, which was the perfect opening for me to get a "Mom" comment in. "You know, if you went to bed at a reasonable hour you'd get more sleep," I said.

The timing was such that he was getting out of the car as he responded. "That's what study hall is for," he said, straight faced.

And to think I used to study in study hall. 

June 1, 2004

Yesterday my extended family celebrated my niece's high school graduation, which made me think of transitions in general and my son Charlie's "boy" in specific.

Quite some time ago, (way before Charlie was in high school), he had an imaginary buddy he referred to as "my boy." We never saw him pretend to interact with this friend. There were no extra places set at the table, or seat belts adjusted around a child who wasn't there. Charlie's boy lived only through references made by Charlie. He'd say things like, "My boy doesn't think that's a very good idea," or "My boy says no one likes you."  Besides having strong opinions, Charlie's boy was happy to be the fall guy when messes were make or things were broken. As Charlie would explain, "My boy told me to do that."

And then one day it struck me that we hadn't heard Charlie talk about his boy in a long time. Neither my husband or I could remember the last time our son had mentioned his alter ego. When I asked Charlie about it he shrugged and had nothing to say on the subject. His boy was gone as suddenly as he had appeared.

I still think about that boy from time to time, even though he was pretend. I wish, on the final day that Charlie mentioned his boy, that I'd known it was going to be the very last time. It was the end of an era in a way. I would have paid attention.