December 31, 2004

I don't  quite get New Year's Eve. A holiday to mark the passing of time? Not to sound ignorant, but isn't time always passing? For God's sakes, you might as well celebrate growing older or each additional year of marriage. Oh wait, I guess we do...

 New Year's Eve doesn't have much to offer a grouch like me. I hate to stay up late, don't enjoy dressing up and don't drink (much). 

Other things I hate about the holiday:

Despite my griping I hope you have a good time anyway. Dance and drink and make merry--it's all the same to me. When the ball drops in Times Square I'll be asleep on the couch. Some time after that my husband will wake me up and tell me to go to bed.

Just another New Year's Eve at the McQuestion's.

December 30, 2004

Normally my writing skews towards the humorous and quirky, but a person would have to be living in a vacuum to hear about the devastation in South Asia and not be affected. Words can't begin to convey the magnitude of the tragedy. The images are horrifying; the stories of the survivors incredible. And all of it is just so, so sad.

Life can be so cruel. The only positive I can think of at this time is the outpouring of help, money and prayers from all over the world. If we human-types could only act with such compassion and cooperation on a regular basis the planet would be a better place to call home.

It's something to shoot for.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

December 11, 2004

I let my younger son Jack have a day off this past week.  He needed a break--between a heavy homework load, a friend who no longer wants to be friends and a major skirmish on the bus, things have been overwhelming lately. 

So I called the school and said Jack was sick, and if that makes me a bad parent, so be it. He opted to spend the morning sleeping in and then lazing around the house doing various joystick-related activities. In the afternoon I'd promised we'd go to a movie, hoping I could talk him into seeing Polar Express.

"So we're going to see Polar Express?" was the clever way I put it.

"I was thinking National Treasure," he countered.

I ixnayed National Treasure, and struck back with The Incredibles, but he wasn't buying.

I looped back to my original idea and talked up Polar Express one more time, emphasizing the use of technology for the special effects, a major selling point I thought, but the strategy got me nowhere.

We finally settled on Christmas with the Kranks. 

The theater was empty when we first arrived. I told Jack I'd reserved the place just for us, but my story was shattered when a mother/daughter combination and then an older couple arrived.

The couple sat a few rows in front of us and I chatted with the wife. She was really friendly--we talked about movies, books, and her husband's visual impairment, a fact that really hit home when the movie started and I could hear her whispering play-by-plays of the storyline to him. "Now he's hanging off the roof by a rope," she said and "The ham was just run over by a truck."

And how was the movie, you might ask? Well, let's just say that Jack laughed his fool head off, and I smiled some, but mostly at the other woman's commentary. (I did like that Jamie Lee Curtis, though. On behalf of all the women in America over the age of 35, I thank her for appearing in a tiny bikini and not looking perfect--which is not to say she still didn't look better than most.)

We returned from the movie just about the time my older son Charlie got back from high school. "What are you doing home already?" he asked Jack.

"I had a half-day," Jack lied, as smoothly as I've ever seen.

"A half-day. What for?"

Jack shrugged as if who can explain these crazy school schedules.  "It was just a half-day."

All in all it was a good experience for both of us. I spent some quality time with my son--hopefully he'll remember this when he's old instead of all the times I made grilled cheese for dinner. And I learned a few things as well, like, who knew Jack was so adept at deception? I wonder where he gets it...

December 9, 2004

A producer from NPR called to say she had no interest in using the commentary I'd submitted, but would I like to be interviewed for an upcoming segment about an entirely different subject?

Would I? Well, yes, no, maybe. Hey wait a minute, what was wrong with my commentary, anyway?

By the conversation's end it was decided that studio time will be booked for next week and questions will be asked. If my answers are thought provoking and intelligently articulated, I might make it onto the show. If not, well at least I ventured beyond the boundaries of Hartland for the day. Sometimes you just have to get out of Dodge.

So if you happen to be listening to All Things Considered in the near future and you hear a woman with a Wisconsinonian accent and a propensity for making up words, it might be me. 

Hopefully I won't sound like a complete idiot. 

December 3, 2004

So it's early morning and I'm sitting in my car on the driveway, waiting patiently for my son Charlie to appear so I can drive him to high school. The engine's running, which is good because it's bone-chilling cold and there's snow on the ground. Not much of the white stuff yet, but enough to signal that winter in Wisconsin has arrived.

When Charlie comes running out, shoes untied, I can't help but notice he's not wearing a jacket and that in fact, the only thing covering his upper body is a cotton T-shirt. A favorite T-shirt (handed to him by a porn star at a guitar store opening), but still not much coverage considering the temperature.

There are certain phrases parents are programmed to say at times like this. "Where's your jacket?" is one of them.

Immediately he becomes defensive. "I'm fine. Why do you always making such a big deal out of everything?"  Charlie is not a morning person.

"Because you're going to get cold and you're going to get sick and then I'm going to have to take your sorry carcass to the doctor." Which is in fact, not scientifically proven to be true, but I'm not much of a morning person either, if you must know.

I back out of the driveway and we continue the conversation until we're past the Piggly Wiggly and over the railroad tracks. I'm just to the point of thinking he'd lost both his jackets when the truth comes out. It turns out Charlie doesn't have a locker and hence, no place to put a jacket. Maybe it's more fair to say that somewhere in the school there's a locker assigned to Charlie, but he's not quite sure where it would be or what the combination is to open it, for that matter. He had the information at the beginning of the year, but lost the slip.

"So you've never used your locker?" I marvel. "But it's December. Where do you put your books?"

"I just carry them with me." Which explains the ease with which he hoists eighty-pound bags of water softener salt down the basement stairs.

"But you have to have a locker at some point. You can't just not wear a jacket all winter. Do you want me to call the office for you?"

"No Mom," he says gently, "Let it go. I'll be fine."

The control freak in me wants to make the call, drive him to school one day, then physically lead him by the hand and stand over him while he tries the combination. The realist in me knows that he's taller than me and my standing over him days are long past.

Somewhere at Arrowhead High School there's a student with a locker adjacent to Charlie's who could be knocking out a wall and getting themselves a double-wide. But they'll never get the opportunity.

As I pull up in front of the school I say good-bye to my son and add, "Congratulations, again you're the last one to enter the building."

"Except for that kid." He points to the far corner of the parking lot, where a slouchy figure moves slowly towards the school. "But he's a loser. And a stoner." He exits the car and slams the door, then yells, "Thanks for the ride."

As I cross the lot I notice the stoner boy isn't wearing a jacket either. For some reason this consoles me not one bit.

November 30, 2004

Yesterday I saw some kid at the grocery store scratching his head, and immediately flashed back to the horror my family experienced five years ago.

It all started when the kids and I were standing in line at the middle school waiting to register my then sixth grader. My two boys were poking and hitting each other a little more than arm's length away from me; my daughter was glued to my side, her arm around my waist. As the line inched forward I glanced down at her hair and noticed two things. The first was her free hand scratching at her scalp, and the other, white specks that looked like dandruff.

Except it wasn't dandruff because one of the specks moved.

I wanted to yell, I wanted to scream, and I really wanted to pry her away from my body. Instead I kept strangely calm and whispered in her ear. "Does your head itch?"

She nodded. "I told you that last week."

I felt a guilty pang. I had put her itchy head complaint in the same category as her need to show me every bruise and the dry skin between her toes. Dealing with the kids and their friends all summer long had forced me to establish a triage system for all the verbal shrapnel that came my way. Skin irritations were given a low priority.

Bad call.

The aftermath that followed could have been a real life "Terminator" movie, if Arnold Schwarzennegger's opponents were really, really small and not inclined to die. My first line of defense was a trip to the pharmacy to buy a product whose name implied this whole thing would soon be over.

"We had lice at my house," the cashier whispered sympathetically. "It's a real pain. I wound up throwing out every pillow in the house just to be on the safe side." A little extreme, I thought. One week later not only would I have thrown out the pillows, I was ready to move and buy a new car.

It's not just that they're hard to get rid of -- it's that they're almost impossible to get rid of. They're small, but cunning. They watch while you vacuum, boil combs and brushes, spray furniture, do laundry and treat every head in the house with toxic shampoos. Meanwhile, they're just somewhere else waiting for you to finish, so they can come back.

And they did come back.

"Don't you think this shampoo must be really bad for the kids?" a friend asked while looking at the label. "It's like putting pesticide right on their heads."

"And your point would be?" I asked wearily. I had just put vinyl covers on every mattress in the house, and was starting on the pillows. I considered putting plastic over every item we owned, but only as a last resort.

"Who did she get it from?" another friend asked.

"Who knows?" I answered. No one wants to admit to having head lice. Apparently it's in the same category as pinworm, flatulence, and Barry Manilow CDs.

During this whole ordeal I consoled myself with the fact that at least no one else in the family got it. Not that it mattered to my psyche. The power of suggestion led me to experience more itching than my daughter ever had.

The novelty of the crisis soon wore off for my family. I, on the other hand, was vigilant even after the danger passed and our household was completely pest free. I'd fought the battle for so long it was hard to let go. I had to work at it.

After a time, throw pillows and stuffed animals stopped looking menacing to me, and combs reverted back to being grooming tools rather than cootie public transportation. It even got to the point where I could see two children looking through a book together without frantically gauging the distance between their heads.

I haven't seen hide nor hair of the tiny intruders since, but every now and then they're back via my subconscious. And as most horror aficionados can tell you, what the mind can conjure up is often times worse than reality.

November 27, 2004

The trick to a really successful Thanksgiving is having complete strangers as dinner guests.

This year the holiday was hosted by my parents. My older sister and her fiancé Martin brought houseguests from abroad: Jono from New Zealand, and a family from England--Helen, Don and their baby daughter Molly. None of the rest of my family had met them before, but oddly enough, by the end of the afternoon we liked them better than any of our relatives. Don and Jono were good listeners and pink-cheeked Molly adorable, but my favorite was Helen, the most gracious guest ever. Even before the food was served she complimented its appearance and abundance. She said my choice of pies was "brilliant," a word that's never been used in conjunction with me in any way. Everything, according to Helen, was wonderful and fabulous and right on. It was like having a very enthusiastic Kate Winslet come to dinner.

Molly, at eleven months, was old enough to toddle around and did some of that, but she also tolerated the laps and arms of plenty of adults. She got as much attention at my parents' house as she would have at a retirement community in Arizona. When she was on the floor she stayed within sight and steered clear of electrical cords. Apparently English babies are better behaved than American ones.

The dinner was a success (brilliant!) and the company good. My family has never had such a critically acclaimed holiday gathering. 

An interesting side note: people from England aren't familiar with the rhyme that begins, "I see London, I see France...," which puts them at a huge disadvantage when spotting someone's underwear. They really should have their own version of the poem, because if you're already in London it wouldn't make sense to say "I see London." To help out I've been working on a poem which I'll gladly hand over for their use--no royalties or anything like that, it'll be completely gratis. Payback for the "brilliant" comment. I'm almost done--all I have to do is come up with the right word to rhyme with knickers.

November 22, 2004

Over the weekend I experienced a memory lapse that left me as confused as Sybil after a personality switch. 

I was attending an event at my son's high school when I saw a woman I thought I knew; she glanced over at me and we both had a flash of recognition. Unfortunately, on my part, it was only a flash.

"Hey!" she said, coming over to talk, "How are you?" She was so glad to have spotted me, so very pleased. In fact, I can't remember the last time anyone looked that glad to see me. I didn't have the heart to confess I had no idea who she was. 

            While we chatted I frantically tried to piece the clues together. She mentioned her children's names and ages as if I wouldn't have known them--that ruled out the most obvious connection. Then she talked about her family's recent move back from out of state. They’d moved from Ohio? So she hadn't even lived here until recently? I was baffled. I had a sense I'd somehow missed something very important--never got the memo, as they say. I wondered if I knew her at all; maybe I just reminded her of someone. Soon she would figure out there was no connection between us and I would look like a complete idiot for not correcting her. 

And yet.

 She looked so familiar. I could almost picture her in a different context, but that context refused to come into focus. I kept smiling and answering questions, afraid to put a halt to the whole thing, but somehow certain I was getting in deeper with every sentence. 

Finally she said something about her husband that clarified things. "Bill went to West, too. But he graduated in '76." The words "high school" came to mind as if someone had turned on a neon sign. What sweet relief, I wasn't crazy after all. 

When I got home I dug out my yearbook in order to match the face with a name. My thirteen-year-old daughter sat next to me while I flipped through the pages. Once I saw the mystery woman’s photo it was hard to believe I couldn't place her. She was a cute girl, a cheerleader, well liked. She looked very much the same as she had twenty-some years before.

            "So where are you?" my daughter asked looking down at the yearbook pages. I found my picture and pointed. I'd thought the photo flattering at the time; I’d spent hours with the curling iron getting the effect just right. 

"Do you think I look better now or then?" I asked. 

"Now," Maria said. "Your hair before," she shook her head in disapproval, "--not so good."

So there you have it--my recall is shot, but my hair has improved.  I've heard the herb Ginkgo Biloba can help with memory--I'll have to pick up a bottle the next time I'm out. If I remember.

November 18, 2004

Last week I was touring a mansion, thinking disparaging thoughts about the excess of the wealthy and feeling superior because I'm not materialistic, when I saw something that made me sick with envy. In a backroom of the basement stood a water heater as big around as my mini-van. It was beautiful: a perfect, enormous cylinder so large a group of kids could stand behind it when playing Hide-and-Seek (though that's not the best strategy for that particular game). 

Who even knew they made water heaters that big? They aren't in stock at Home Depot. 

I walked around it and admired the way the overhead light reflected off the copper connecting pipes. I thought, If I had this water heater I'd never want anything else.

Hot water, as you might have guessed, is an issue at my house. Despite the fact that we recently upgraded to a 50 gallon tank, we still run out. Four family members take morning showers, or maybe I should say two (separately, of course) luxuriate under an endless stream of perfectly heated water for an indeterminate period of time, while the other two of us (one at a time) lather up, rinse and get out. For some reason, I always seem to be in the second group.

I'll knock on the door after fifteen minutes to tell one of my kids their time is up and they'll yell back they haven't washed their hair yet. What? I could have scrubbed the occupants of a petting zoo in that time. It's a shower, people, not a think tank.

Since I work from home, I have the option of waiting for the water to heat up after everyone's left, but, and maybe I've mentioned this before, I hate waiting. And with good reason. The one time I waited on the water, I wound up having to run a forgotten homework assignment up to school in my unwashed state. With my sticky-up hair and bleary eyes, I arrived looking like one of those drinking moms. I really need to get my shower in first thing in the morning.

So now, despite my best efforts, I want something I didn't even know existed a week ago. I'm not sure where you buy a monster water heater, how we'd even get it down our basement stairs, or if we can afford to run the thing, but I can dream, can't I?

November 10, 2004

My friend Michelle is a mother of six and has a degree in education. So of course it made perfect sense that she'd call yesterday to ask if I could help her clean a mansion in the middle of the night. The house was newly built, and the woodwork needed to be wiped clean of construction dust before the owners returned from vacation. Significant money was involved, and Michelle was willing to share in the bounty. She was in a bit of a panic because the job turned out to be more time intensive than she'd anticipated. 

I found myself leaving home during my normal bedtime to meet up with Michelle at the job site. I asked for a quick tour before we started cleaning. 

Michelle pointed out a few of the house's more impressive features. "That," she said pointing upwards, "is a $10,000 chandelier." I looked up to see a chandelier as big as my kitchen table, constructed of thousands of prisms all beautifully connected like strings of diamond necklaces. I only had one question. "How in the hell would you clean that?"

Michelle gave me a look. "Oh please, Karen."

"No really, can you imagine how dusty that would get? And changing the bulbs must be a nightmare."

She pressed the switch to turn off the light. "If you owned this house you'd make it somebody else's problem."

We wandered through rooms I couldn't name--they weren't identifiable as a bedroom, living room, bathroom or kitchen. We started labeling them. "We'll call this the study," Michelle said about one that didn't look particularly studious, but whatever. Others became the sitting room, the thinking room, and the resting room.

I saw bathrooms as large as my bedroom and wondered how secure I'd feel using facilities where I couldn't reach out and touch the door.

Once we started working, the house grew in size. The baseboards stretched for miles and the ceilings expanded upwards until they could accommodate a basketball game. I'd leave our work area to refill my bucket in the laundry room (large enough to house a third world family--the running water being a bonus) and have to follow Michelle's voice to find my way back.

This morning I staggered out of bed to tell my husband about the mansion. "I'm not saying I wouldn't like a bigger house," I said. "And it would be nice to have more closet space. But this place was unreal--and for just two people." I shook my head.

As so often happens, Greg got right to the heart of the matter. "It's just so much more than is necessary." He shrugged. "But it's their money."

I told Michelle I'd help her again tonight, and the night after that and even after that if need be. As it turns out, having more than is necessary adds up to a lot of baseboards and custom cabinetry. It all seems pretty wasteful, but as Greg says, it's their money. 

November 9, 2004

Some people believe we're all attending Planet Earth School, each of us here to master a specific lesson. I'm thinking mine might be patience. Or learning to get everyone else to adhere to my rules. One or the other.

I grew up in a strict Midwestern household where slackers weren't tolerated and being late was never an option. And if you said you were going to do something, you better do it, by God. That was the right way to live and if everyone else did the same, the world would be a better place. 

Okay, it was sort of a joyless existence, but at least we always showed up on time.

Fast forward to my current life, where like in a reality show, I'm matched with housemates of completely opposite temperament.

The word "hurry" means nothing to these people. I once yelled the word at my daughter as she walked slooowly out to a waiting school bus, and she actually stopped in her tracks, turned around and looked at me quizzically.  Her expression said, what? so I switched from “hurry” to “JUST GO!.”  She seemed to understand “JUST GO!,” but still did it in her own sweet time.

 My oldest takes it even further: for him dawdling is an art form.  Like a human sloth boy, he puts on socks more slowly than anyone I know. His movement might be captured on one of those time-lapse cameras; the type that record flower buds opening and butterflies exiting cocoons, but it’s nothing that can be detected with the human eye. 

My husband is relaxed about time as well. He and I have an ongoing debate every time we go to the movies. As we're driving I check my watch and update him on the situation at the theater. "It's now 7:30; the movie already started."

"They never start on time. If anything we'll miss a few previews."

"I like the previews." The knot in my stomach grows from walnut-sized to softball-sized as he finds a parking space and we enter the building to get tickets. To torture me, he buys popcorn and a drink, and makes small talk with the kid behind the counter, who he knows from his soccer-coaching days. 

As we settle into our seats (at the tail end of a Mountain Dew commercial), he turns to me and says, "See we didn't miss anything. You worried for nothing."

I hate that. 

I try not to get so uptight, really I do, but I'm afraid if I let go of the rope the whole world will fall apart. It's a lot of responsibility and not one I'd take on willingly. So far I haven't made much headway getting my family up to speed; maybe at some point I'll try that patience thing. But only as a last resort.

November 2, 2004

On Sunday I had a message on my answering machine from Arnold Schwarzenegger; yesterday I heard from George W. Bush again. The President's message referred to everything we've been through together in the past four years. I hope my husband doesn't get wind of this...

My sister got a prerecorded message from Bill Clinton, which made me feel slighted. She is younger and prettier, but still.

Since Wisconsin is a swing state we've had more than our share of campaign events. Both candidates have been here so often that every time traffic was backed up I knew someone was in town. Meg Ryan came in support of John Kerry (in an interview she said it was her first time in Milwaukee, but I didn't get the impression she'd be rushing back). Bon Jovi appeared another night, also for Kerry. President Bush defied the laws of science by being everywhere at once, including a rally in Racine, which is apropos of nothing--I just like the alliteration. A rally in Racine. A really rollicking Republican rally in Racine. 

But enough of my blathering. Soon it will all be over, and I for one, will be glad. May the best man win and by best man, of course, I mean the one I'm voting for.

October 30, 2004

I really have nothing to complain about, but sometimes I just feel like griping. So here goes...

Yesterday the "service engine soon" light on my dashboard went on. But not consistently. It did this on again, off again thing, like it was taking breaks. As if to say, you've got a problem, oops--now it's okay, wait--now it's a problem again. If one of my kids was this indecisive I'd be saying, "Make up your mind already, would you?"

My husband refers to this automotive feature as the "pay money" light. The frustrating part of is that most of the time the light indicates emission problems--i.e. the stuff coming out of the exhaust isn't as clean as it could be (no!), the spark plugs need changing etc., but the car runs just fine. So to my mind, there's no cause and effect. Normally if you spend a couple of hundred dollars at the repair place you have something to show for it: the engine no longer pings or worn tires are replaced. In this case nothing seems different, except you've lost a morning and a chunk of money.

I secretly suspect that the "service engine soon" indicator was designed as a money making scheme for car dealerships. What they'd like us  to believe is that computerized chips in the car act as sensors, detecting problems at an early stage. But I'm a little too savvy to fall for that. What I believe is that the "pay money" light is actually linked to some sort of timing device. When I bring in my car, the mechanic resets the timer for say eight months or so, and then takes a coffee break to decide on his story. I can't prove it, of course.

Gripe number two: prerecorded political phone messages. Because I'm home during the day, I get these aplenty. My Caller ID says "blocked call" or "caller unknown" but I still pick up thinking it might be one of my kids calling from the health room at school, or the library telling me my requested DVD, Groundhog Day, is in. 

Imagine my disappointment when it's yet again the President wanting to give me an important message. If it was anyone other than the leader of the country, I'd be taking out a restraining order on the guy.

But I'm not just picking on Mr. Bush--they're all annoying. Do they think badgering is the way to get me on their side? Just ask my kids; it never works.

And for the last gripe of the day: the name of my bank. It used to be called First Wisconsin, then it switched to something else, then it was the Firstar Bank and now it's US Bank. They pronounce it U.S. Bank, but I refuse to.  If they're too lazy to put the periods after the initials, I'm not enabling them. Two can play at that game.

Those are my complaints for the week. As you can see, none are of any importance in the scheme of things. Still, it's fun to grumble now and then.

October 27, 2004

What People Say

I just got back from my oldest son's parent/teacher conference where the biggest news was not his spotty academic performance, but the fact that three of his teachers, unbeknownst to the others, shared the same anecdote with me. All of them said they loved having my son in their class and added, "Charlie and I have kind of a thing going--I razz him by saying 'Do you have a McAnswer to my question?'"

 Now, when your last name is McQuestion, you hear something along these lines on a regular basis, and learn to roll with it. The amazing thing to me, is that each teacher thought they were the first to come up with it. 

Similarly, an acquaintance tells the story of stopping in at a social gathering in head-to-toe camouflage attire (it's Wisconsin--don't ask). By the end of the evening he'd lost count of the number of people who said, "Heh heh, sorry, I didn't see you standing there, you blended in so well." 

I can say with certainty that most original thoughts aren't as original as you thought.

The only good defense is a really snappy comeback, the kind I think of two or three hours after the fact. If at all.

One friend often hears commentary about his upright bass, a large unwieldy musical instrument. Without fail he'll be carrying it to a gig and someone will say, "I'll bet you wished you played the flute." For some reason it's always the flute, he says, never a clarinet or harmonica. The last time it happened, he was in an elevator. When a woman gave him the flute line, he wickedly answered with, "I used to play the flute--until I got throat cancer." Dead silence until they reached his floor, where he cheerfully said, "Have a nice day!" before exiting.

I'm still looking for a clever response to the whole McAnswer thing. If anyone comes up with something, feel free to let me know.

October 21, 2004

Upon hearing that my older son attended a rock concert this summer, a friend emailed to ask, Metallica? Is that safe? 

Putting aside the fact that this is a woman who hitchhiked across the country when she was 17, I can answer her question in a word: Yes. As in yes, going to a Metallica concert is a safe and entertaining pastime for today's youth.

A rundown of events in my son Charlie's life illustrates my logic:

Age 18 months--embedded a wire spring in his finger--had to be rushed to the emergency room.

Age 6 years--a piece of hard candy lodged in his throat. A visit to the emergency room followed.

Age 12--broke wrist sledding. Inevitable visit to ER.

Age 15-- went to Metallica concert. Came home fine.

Age 16--went to Metallica concert. Again, fine.

By following this line of reasoning, any intelligent person would conclude that going to a heavy metal concert is safer than sledding, eating hard candy or playing with springs. 

I didn't always feel this way. The first concert Charlie attended was two hours away in Chicago, and ten hours in duration because it featured many fine bands. Also, it was held at an outdoor race track. When Charlie broached the subject of going with four of his friends, I was hesitant. I carefully considered his request for several seconds before telling him, "Forget it. No parent in their right mind would let a group of fifteen-year-olds go to this concert."

Two weeks later my husband had ordered the tickets and agreed to take them.

Other mothers called to ask, "Is your husband out of his mind?" The consensus was yes.

The day of the concert all the moms worried needlessly, as required, until the kids came back sunburned and happy. Charlie was totally stoked, as they say, which caused me to ask, "Was this the highlight of your summer, so far?"

He answered, "It's the highlight of my life so far!"

So much for all the money we spent taking the kids to Disney World. Apparently the "Happiest Place on Earth's" theme song isn't It's a Small World  but Enter Sandman.

Since then I've learned more about the heavy metal culture. Head bangers are a caring and creative bunch.  Case in point: Charlie's not-so-tall friend Ralph, was body passed during the concert by complete strangers, who, I can only surmise, worried about his inability to see the stage. 

Also, I was told by my son, a view-blocking gate was taken off its hinges by several strong concertgoers. You don't see that kind of camaraderie and consideration just anywhere.

So yes, Metallica concerts are safe, but if your kids go, tell them to leave the hard candy at home.

October 14, 2004

Okay, I admit it--occasionally I Google my own name. Mostly to see if anything I've written has been mentioned elsewhere. Usually there's not much of interest. 

Until yesterday.

I wrote a piece titled "The Art of Saying No,"  which was picked up by a book called Life Lessons for Women. The essay described my growing appreciation for my mother's way of doing things. One of those "lessons from Mom" type stories (I know, those things usually gag me too. But it really wasn't that bad. Trust me on this). What I found during my Google search was a translation and reprint of this story in a Vietnamese publication, which you can see online here. 

From looking at the title, my guess is that the word no in Vietnamese is không. I love how forceful it sounds, almost more like "no" than "no" itself. I may start using it.

One of my kids: Can I have a friend sleep over?

Me: KHÔNG! 

My favorite part of the reprint is the tiny cartoon characters at the top depicting a mother and daughter. In this version we're both Asian (a major improvement over my usual pasty-white skin tone), and my mother sits in a rocking chair. I'd love to show this to Mom, but unlike her cartoon counterpart, she's not home but off traveling again. 

I'm thinking the Vietnamese reprint entitles me to say I'm "read worldwide" or am an "internationally acclaimed writer." It's just a bit of a stretch.

October 6, 2004

You know you're middle-aged when: