One Down (comma) Two To Go

Posted on June 22, 2007 by onesanevoice

This morning was my first final exam for this semester and it was in English.  I was an English major in college.  I’ve worked as a newspaper reporter and a columnist.  I write a blog.  I asked the administration if I could test out of this class like I did last semester’s Introduction to Keyboarding snoozefest but was told English class was required attendance.  The instructor, a seasoned veteran, called me over to her desk after being told I was trying to place out of her class and assured me with an arched eyebrow that she would try to make the material as worthwhile as she could for someone with my experience and expertise.  I’ve never been told to get over myself with an eyebrow before.

The class was a bitch.  Did you know there are SEVEN rules for commas?  I use one rule and it wasn’t even covered:  If I have to pause to think of the next word I use a comma.  If I have to think a really long time I use a semicolon.  Did you know that words beginning with semi are only hyphenated if the next word begins with an ‘i’, like ‘semi-invalid’?  Are you aware that the sentence I just wrote didn’t even require a comma but I used one anyway because I live my life with that kind of reckless abandon?  Don’t you envy my freewheeling style?  Do you think freewheeling is a compound word or would you go with a hyphen?  Do you give a shit?

I didn’t think I did either but Mrs. D’s English class kicked butt with a capital B which is not to be confused with the capitol that has an ‘o’ and means the building in which the government operates.  The money it uses to operate?  That would be the capital with an ‘a’.  Also known as ‘our’ money which has an ‘o’ so it gets confusing.  Try and put any unnecessary commas in my sentences and I will chop off your hand, I swear I will, unless I chop your hand off, which makes the verb either active or passive or does something to the noun and it doesn’t matter anymore because the test is over.

English was my first class this semester, beginning at 8:30 every morning, another reason I hoped to test out so I could sleep in.  But any grogginess was cured by Mrs. D’s booming voice and her compelling desire to guide us down the path of proper grammar, truly the road not taken these days.  Halfway through the semester she revealed to us that she was 80 years old, which blew us all away since we had her in her late 60’s at most.  And sharp?  I was routinely 5 minutes late to class every day and would try and slip in while she was taking attendance.  One day she looked up at me and then consulted one of her lists.

Mrs. D:  What zip code do you live in?

OSV:  The same zip code as the school.

Mrs. D:  There are students in this class who take trains and buses to get here.  How long does it take you to get to school in the morning?

OSV:  About 10 minutes.

Mrs. D:  And yet you’re 5 minutes late every day.  Why is that?

OSV:  I miss the light?

There’s that eyebrow again.

Thanks (comma) Mrs. D.  You were worth waking up for.

And to atone for not arriving on time, the theme today for Daughter’s Featured Fotos is transportation.

one down 1 bikerearview

bikeview

one down 2 L_train_Montrose_stop

L train Montrose stop

one down 3 bicycles

New Orleans post-Katrina

one down 4 large_cityview

planeview

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To Do: Post Office, Car Wash, Brain Scan

Posted on June 18, 2007 by onesanevoice

I go for an MRI of my brain every two years to monitor the little white spots that verify I suffer from migraines.  It occurred to me during this latest scan that putting a headache patient in an enclosed cylinder filled with deafening noise is like taking a double amputee swimming in the ocean.  Except you’d never do that.

Husband and I had been married a couple of years when he ventured a suggestion that Advil was not an FDA sanctioned food group to be consumed at every meal with an occasional Fioricet chaser.  He asked if I had ever checked this situation out and of course I hadn’t, but as every mother knows, the really important thing was that my kids had regular dental checkups and every inoculation recommended by the Department of Health.  The fact that my head usually felt like a rocket on a launch pad was just an inconvenience.

I went to see an Orthodox neurologist who was referred by my internist, Dr. Hebrew National, and after a thorough neurological exam, he sat with Husband and me and the results of my MRI and blood work.

OSV:  What do you think?

DR:  I think your cholesterol is high.  It’s 260.

OSV:  What does that mean?

DR:  When it hits 300, sell.

I really like an amusing doctor because extremely educated and respected medical professionals tend to be very impressed with themselves.  If I’m going to be told I have a chronic condition I want to at least hear it with a smooth delivery.  Our attention was directed to the MRI report.

DR:  The tiny white dots you see are migraine markers among other things.  In your case, they confirm the diagnosis we suspected and in a moment we’ll discuss treatment options.  But first I want to point something out.

He indicated a small spot the size of a pill at the outer edge of the scan.

DR:  This is an ancillary finding, something revealed simply because we were looking for something else, but having found it I need to share it with you.  It is nothing to worry about.  It will not grow, it will not move, it will not cause you any problem whatsoever and to assure you we’ll monitor it in the MRI every two years.

HUSBAND:  What is it?

DR:  Technically, it’s a small mass within the brain area, so for lack of a better term we call it a brain tumor.

As the color drained from Husband’s face, I placed my arms on the doctor’s desk and leaned toward him.

OSV:  Okay, so now let’s brainstorm about that better term.

We settled on ‘anomaly’, a good word for something not quite ordinary but also nothing to obsess about.  Renamed and reassured, we left the doctor’s office that day with our newly discovered anomaly and my doctor’s guarantee that I will die of something else.

A few days later, Husband and I were retiring for the night when he opened his sock drawer and sighed in exasperation.  “You keep doing this!  Rolling my socks up into little fists.  How many times have I asked you not to do that?  Why can’t you remember?”

I pressed my hands against my head.  “I have a brain tumor!” I wailed.

He had to see that one coming.

In keeping with today’s science theme and in memory of Don Herbert, TV’s Mr. Wizard who exited stage left earlier this week, Daughter’s Featured Fotos are from her grad school Science for Teachers class wherein they had fun with Walking Sticks.

brain 1 solo_shot

solo stick

brain 2 pooping

pooping: so they curve their bodies and propel poop pellets over their head. defense mechanism?

brain 3 trapped

trapped

brain 4 the_money_shot

the money shot

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Testing One Two Three

Posted on June 14, 2007 by onesanevoice

It’s coming on Finals Time again and the reason it seems like I was just saying that 10 weeks ago is because I was.  I’m on a ten weeks on, three weeks off schedule at school and the three weeks off are loaded with several hours a day worth of assignments, if you insist on calling that time off.  Right now I’m studying for the test before the finals, the pre-final if you will, the equivalent of drinking the gallon of chalk juice before the colonoscopy.

I was feeling like I haven’t seen Husband much lately since I’m either at school or doing schoolwork and he’s either at work or doing workwork so I sprawled out on our bed to study instead of going into my study room, previously Daughter’s bedroom, which I redecorated by bringing in a laser printer.  Husband asked if the TV would bother me and I said no but that was before I remembered that the History Channel guy’s voice sounds like the films they used to torture us with in elementary school — “…the earthworm is nature’s most remarkable creature, let’s examine its digestive chambers one by one…” — until our brains explode with boredom and no one even notices we’re dying right here in this auditorium that smells like peanut butter and farts.

Husband is addicted to the Discovery Channel and all related programming and in fact one of our first evenings together was accompanied by The Search for the Woolly Mammoth, a legendary animal dating back to prehistoric times and now you can add the seven years we’ve been married because they still haven’t found him.  This clever fellow could teach a trick or two to the stars over at Husband’s other TV destination, Forensic Files, featuring the guys who join search parties to look for the wives they murdered the day before.  And I have to watch The Shield alone because it’s too violent, go figure.  At least you know where you stand with Vic and the Strike Team.  You don’t want to stand there too long but that’s your choice.

I brought my camera to school last week and took pictures of my classmates because it’s the end of the term and you should always have pictures, right?  I made a collage of our faces and hung it in the doorway of our main room and it gave everyone a kick.  Today we looked at it and reminisced about our first, disastrous semester, the one with Mr. Magoo, and how far we’ve all come and how we might not be together in the same group anymore when school starts up again in July.

For some of us, this is the second or third career path we’ve followed in our lives and we certainly could have chosen an easier road than this particular program.  But we are a dedicated bunch and I know we’ll all finish, together or separately.  I feel very lucky to have a supportive husband who thinks there’s nothing I can’t do.  And maybe this time next year my family will watch me walk for my diploma, and like the Little Lebowski Urban Achievers, they will look at my class and say, “and proud we are of all of them.”

This photo is from the Party Set in Daughter’s Featured Foto Gallery

testing chew_orchard_street

chew (Orchard Street)

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Hold the Onions

Posted on June 10, 2007 by onesanevoice

Husband and I went to a Democratic fundraiser in Brooklyn tonight, 400 people in an upscale catering hall in southeast Brooklyn, a big event attended by all the political names of the borough and many from beyond the boundaries as well.  Husband is the executive director of a large community center in the vicinity and he is adept at targeting who to see, talk to and engage with in a very short period of time.  I accompanied him in a nice dress and heels and was as surprised as I always am to locate our assigned table, look over the dinner selections, introduce myself around and then have Husband nudge me that he’s ready to leave.

This evening was unusual in that as I was strolling the cocktail hour while Husband chatted up his local councilman and vice versa, I heard my name called out.  I looked around and saw a woman approaching me who I recognized immediately as a former, beloved neighbor.  Susan O. was one of the first people I met in my neighborhood back in the late ’80’s after my ex-husband and I moved in with our kids.  The second week of school, after Daughter reported that her fellow first-graders confused her socially, I was approached by a cotillion of women in the playground who would reveal themselves to be the mothers of those same youngsters and proceed to be just as socially confusing to me:

MOMS:  Well, hello! Are you the mother of the new girl in the first grade?

OSV:  Yes, I am!  Hi!  We moved here from Brooklyn over the summer.  This is such a lovely neighborhood.

MOMS:  It certainly is.  Do you have any other children?

OSV:  Yes, I have a son who’s three.  I just enrolled him in nursery school.

MOMS:  Which nursery school?

OSV:  (giving name of school)

MOMS:  (nodding approval)  Yes, that’s a nice program.  What kind of work does your husband do?

OSV:  He’s a doctor with a practice in Brooklyn where we used to live.

MOMS:  (smiling and more nodding)  Isn’t that nice.  You’re going to love living here.  Everyone is so friendly.  Do you happen to play Mah Jongg?  We have a regular weekly game.

OSV:  (cheerfully)  You know, I have my mother’s set but I haven’t played in years.  I remember how though.  What night do you play?

MOMS:  (exchanging glances)  Oh, our game is full.  But ask around.  You’ll find a game that will fit you in.  We’re so happy to have met you.  And welcome to the neighborhood!

The Stepford Wives filed off and I stood in the playground, aware I’d been shot and but not yet clear about the damage.  Then on that beautiful September day I heard a voice behind me.  “Did I hear you say your son is three?  My son is three, also.  We live up the block from you.  I’m Susan.”  And on that day in 1987 I met a straight-shooter of my own who I would cheer with at little league games, exchange snide remarks with about the plastic moms, laugh with about our children’s adventures, and ultimately lose touch with as the earth continued on its measured spin.

Until this evening.  Great to see you again, Sue.  We’ll keep in touch.

It just started to rain after threatening to for days.  So we’ll make water the theme for Daughter’s Featured Fotos

onions 1 rainy_day_subway

rainy day subway

onions 2 hoover_dam

Hoover Dam, Nevada

onions 3 6_inches_in_one_hour

the sky opens up in New Orleans

onions 4 frozen_footprint

frozen footprint

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Minding the Store

Posted on June 8, 2007 by onesanevoice

A large percentage of the students in my class are either pierced or tattooed, making my classroom representative of our current local culture.  My philosophy as a baby boomer is this:  We were intentionally outrageous in our youth and we have only ourselves to look to when we see the bar for outrageousness raised ever higher.  My husband was a campus radical back in the day, one of those authority-questioning college students who stormed the administration building and took over the premises refusing to relinquish control until their voices were heard.  The administration listened, sent in a lunch cart because it was on the news and parents were watching, and then dispatched invitations home not to come back next semester.  Husband went on to earn several advanced degrees after completing his undergrad at the College for Expatriate Students for a Democratic Society, aka Weatherman University, or as it is known today, SUNY New Paltz.

My classmates’ body art reminds me of a job I had about seven years ago and a young man I worked with there, let’s call him Kegger.  Kegger joined our staff fresh out of college and he was brash and funny and frequently inappropriate.  For some reason, we got along right away.  One day we were eating lunch at our desks in the office we shared and we began reminiscing about the goofy things we did in college that we had since lived to question, he at the ripe old age of 23.  We went punch for punch until he delivered his knockout:  One drunken night in college he got his nipple pierced.

This hit a sore spot for me, figuratively and literally, since like many women I had spent my entire lifetime protecting my nipples.  I always watched the closing doors, I tried to gauge a room’s temperature before I let them enter, I kept them as uppermost in my mind as they were in my date’s.  Now I was listening to this former frat boy from Corona Delta Pizza Pi who had anesthetized himself out of thinking mode and into a pierced nipple.  Not wanting to be the overreacting older colleague, I asked calmly, “And how’s that working for you?”  “Shitty,” said the Kegger, “the nipple ring gets caught on stuff.”  At which point my nipples could have piped up with, “YA THINK?”

In her teen years, Daughter once brought a friend home for dinner and I noticed as she introduced him that his tongue was pierced.  I had never seen this up close before.  Daughter was obviously amused watching me watch the silver bar prance around the inside of his mouth as he spoke, but again I tried to be worldly.  I could still hear my parents wailing at my brother to cut his damn hair back in high school so I was determined to respect self-expression in whatever form it came at me.

In an attempt to make our guest comfortable at dinner but not call attention to his mouth metal, I said to him politely, “We’re having chicken tonight, dear, is that something you can eat?”  Daughter shook her head despairingly.  “He’s pierced, Mom.  Not vegetarian.”

And because good food will never hurt you, here are Daughter’s Featured Fotos of the day

Vienna waits for you

Vienna waits for you

Mother's Day sushi

Mother’s Day sushi

americana

americana

plum

plum

Closing Notes:  Thank you to the gentleman in Gramercy Park who found Daughter’s phone, took it to Verizon for a charge, and then called me a second time.  Phone and owner happily reconnected.

Also, yesterday I republished Before the House Comes Down with one of Daughter’s photos added, and although I neglected to give her credit, it is of course one of hers.

For subscribers:  I will on occasion be republishing a previous entry with an added photo or link.  So if you receive an article that it feels like you already read, go with the feeling.

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Six Degrees of Connection

Posted on June 1, 2007 by onesanevoice

Earlier this week, I read a newspaper piece about how accessible we all are these days with our cell phone and BlackBerry and email and on and on.  The author created various ranks of technology users ranging from Call of the Wired to Dunces with Blogs (these are my own titles) with the groups noticeably divided by age and gender.  Highly trained as I am, I could send you to that article with a link once I located it online since I read the paper version, meaning the one that was thrown at my front door in the morning.  But to do that I would have to consult my blog support notes and put on my Linking Cap so I’ll just tell you about it instead.

The gist of the article was that (surprise!) those consumers who did not spend their childhood begging for an iPod feel somewhat dogged by technology even as they master the skills needed to stay current.  The pressure is always there.  I get a call from my wireless carrier every other evening now that my cell phone contract has expired and I haven’t re-signed.  They keep offering me perks like extra minutes and a new phone for free.  I don’t want a new phone.  There is nothing more pathetic than someone standing in the mall with a ringing phone that they can’t figure out how to answer.

The day I read the article I’m not sending you to I noticed at 8:00 in the evening I had just missed a cell call from Daughter.  I had neglected to put the ringer back on my phone after school and I was surprised there was no message, only a missed call notice, very unusual for Daughter who shares my tendency to always have something to say.  I was viewing my email at 8:30 when I received a message from her that said, “Hi, Mom, this is terrible.  I lost my cell phone.  I just searched Union Square for two hours.  I’m miserable.”

I called her land line (not used for outgoing calls, apparently, because the number 6 doesn’t work) and we figured out that the missed call I had received must have been from whoever found her phone since she certainly didn’t have it and the finder no doubt hit “Mom” in her contacts as a surefire thing.  But they didn’t leave a message.

DTR:  I’ve left like a dozen voicemails since I noticed it was missing.  Whoever has it isn’t answering.  Maybe they’d read a text.  Would you send a text for me?

OSV:  Of course.  I’d do anything for you.  How do I text?

DTR:  Don’t kid with me, Mom.  You are kidding, right?

OSV:  Right.  Just remind me.

DTR:  Okay, let’s do this fast.  Go into Messages.

OSV:  How do I do that while I’m talking to you?

DTR:  I’ll hold on while you get your phone.

OSV:  I’m talking on my phone.

DTR:  You called me on your cell?  (deep breath)  Okay, then.  Let’s hang up and you’ll call me on a different phone.

OSV:  Why don’t you call me?

DTR:  You have a 6 in your number.

OSV:  Right.

OSV:  Hello?  Hi, I’m on the house phone now.  I’m in Messages.  Now what?

DTR:  Write this with the letters and I’ll tell you how to do the numbers when we get there.  (dictates sentence)  Did you get that?  Are you ready for the numbers?  (gives instructions for numbers)

OSV:  Wait, what do I hit for a comma?

DTR:  A what?  No comma, Mom, you don’t need a comma.

OSV:  No comma?  Well, you’re right, it’s a complete sentence.  I can use a period.

DTR:  Mom?  No period.  No punctuation.  It’s a text message.  Did you hit Send?  All right, I’m going on Craigslist to post a notice.  I’ll go anywhere in the city to pick it up.

OSV:  But with caution, right?  You’ll use caution?

DTR:  Yes, I’ll use caution.  I’ll even use a comma.  Okay, I have to go.  Thanks, Mom, goodnight.  I love you.

More of Daughter’s exceptional photos since you liked the NYC ones.  She took these last month at JazzFest in New Orleans.

six degrees Harry_Connick_Jr__at_Jazzfest_07
Louisiana native son Harry Connick Jr. performing

six degrees Washing_Away_New_Orleans
It rained 6 inches in one hour – this city keeps washing away

six degrees Hotel_entrance_Jazzfest
Entrance to the hotel lobby

six degrees New_Orleans_Jazzfest_Sunset
Long live New Orleans

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No Longer Available

Posted on May 28, 2007 by onesanevoice

I was all set to recommend this new razor I just used but I’m going to hold off.  I took it in the shower this morning and couldn’t believe how the blades slid across my skin like there was no blade at all.  When I got out and put on my glasses to inspect this breakthrough in shaving technology I noticed I had neglected to remove the protective plastic film the manufacturer put across the blades to prevent nimrods like me from slicing themselves up handling the razor.  So it felt like no blade at all because it was no blade at all and I’ll try again tomorrow and get back to you.

I’m tempted to blame Gillette for abandoning the razor I was used to but they are not the first entity to discontinue a product I’ve fallen in love with and welcomed into my life.  Clinique changed my Chestnut blush to New Chestnut which made me look like a clay pigeon so I had to go back to the sales counter where you stand in line for one of their consultants like you’re waiting to be picked for dodge ball.  Physicians Formula cosmetics has made it a point to introduce a mascara or eye shadow, wait for me to realize I can’t look good without it, and then send it out to the cornfield.  Remember that Twilight Zone?  This seemingly normal little kid had the creepy power to make people disappear by wishing them into the cornfield if they aggravated him.  Let Physicians Formula discontinue one more product I need to maintain my natural look and that’s where they’re headed.

To challenge my struggle with change, I recently considered replacing the photo at the top of this blog, but that would mean discontinuing a picture that I love, the view of the Chrysler and Empire State buildings as seen from the Queensboro Bridge.  This photo was taken by Daughter, an accomplished photographer who I always assumed snapped the shot while riding in someone’s car.  A signed print of the original recently sold at a charity auction for $250 sparking the renewal of our conversation about who was driving while she took the picture and finally she admitted that it had been her.  As I gasped for breath at the thought of someone I gave birth to driving over the 59th Street Bridge while focusing a camera, Daughter threw her hands in the air and said, “I would have told you I was on foot but everyone knows they don’t let you walk across the Queensboro.”  Except that once I did.

On August 14th, 2003 at 4:15pm, I was just boarding my train for home at Penn Station.  I had spent time with both my parents that day, both terminally ill in different locations.  Soon I would watch the landscape rush past the train windows and let my mind be quiet.  Then everything went silent.  And dark.  The train doors had already closed.  We waited for the announcement telling us about the delay.  No announcement, no lights, no sounds, no opening doors.  Minutes passed and we started saying to each other that something was wrong.  There was too much nothing, let’s get the doors open and see what’s going on outside.  Several men pried the doors apart.  The platform was empty, bleak in its desertion.

We ran up the stairs and into the huge station, our footsteps like echoes, the rotunda filled with swarming crowds of commuters and an air of hysteria.  It was the terrorists, I heard someone saying, just like two years ago, only this time they’re after Penn.  Get out of the station.  Or is it better to stay inside?  Ask the policeman over there.  He doesn’t know.  Call somebody and ask.  No cell service.  Is your phone working?  No?  Why aren’t the phones working?  Go outside.

Seventh Avenue and 34th Street is gridlocked.  The traffic lights are out and horns are honking and a bus is on the sidewalk.  A businessman in a suit is directing traffic in the street, a young guy with a backpack on the next block doing the same.  Pedestrians step over locked car bumpers, trying to cross the street.  Why?  Where are they going?  There’s noise but it’s not normal noise, it’s unnatural, suspended.  And everyone is talking, asking, everyone is worried.  Nobody knows.  Two people standing near me say they’re walking to Queens, over the bridge, they’ll find a way home from there.  I start walking with them.  We introduce ourselves on the way.

Most of the city walked somewhere that day, the Great Blackout of 2003, unless they slept on the steps of the library or a museum or in the park.  Once we knew it was a manmade catastrophe and not an imminent tragedy we could relax and work through it.  It was only time and distance, not fear and death.  I walked to Queens with some nice people that day.  I walked across the 59th Street Bridge and looked back at the Chrysler and Empire State buildings, leaning over the railing to take in a sight on foot most people never get to savor for as long as they want.  And now that I think about it, the picture stays.

More NYC photos by Daughter

no longer available south street seaport

south street seaport

no longer available brookly bridge dumbo

brooklyn bridge at dumbo arts festival

no longer available downtown from 24th street

downtown from 24th street

no longer available 59th street bridge

59th street bridgeview

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Say what you mean, mean what you say, and don’t be mean

Posted on May 24, 2007 by onesanevoice

I received a remark regarding my last entry about Son’s graduation saying that my ending seemed like a put-down and I felt badly about that and wanted to address it.  I could not be more thrilled with my children’s accomplishments and I have written in previous entries that Son worked over 40 hours a week managing a restaurant in addition to taking a full course load.  He paid his own tuition senior year.  He made the Dean’s list more than once.  The fact that my phone calls always woke him up, day or night, prompting him to groggily assure me he had just been studying became a running joke between us.  At his graduation dinner he made us all laugh with his sly comment and I played on it in my entry.

My goal with this blog is to entertain my readers with experiences that may be reminiscent of their own, either as a parent or a child.  Sinking into the sea of mothers bragging about their kids in print is not my idea of a good time as a journalist so my hand was forced here and I apologize.  As penance, I am willing to receive a limited number of gushing, over-the-top descriptions of your prodigy’s most precious remark or achievement.  I promise I will read them all.  I won’t print them but I will read them.

This was a big graduation weekend and if I’m not mistaken I also detect the scent of hair gel and orchids, which can only mean prom season.  I didn’t go to my prom and I think it was because I wound up unexpectedly graduating a semester early but there could be another reason I’m not recalling.  You know what they say about the haze of that era:  If you can remember the sixties, you weren’t there.

Proms and graduations, these are Catcher in the Rye moments in my book, milestones where we learn to wrestle with partings and make our own peace with the rhythm of endings and beginnings.  I think of Holden Caulfield standing in the hallway of his dorm at Pencey Prep, about to leave and trying to get his goodbye.  He couldn’t walk away from memories too valuable to let go so he had to make himself recall all the crappy things that annoyed him about living there.  Standing alone in the hall he shouted, “Sleep tight, ya’ morons!”  Then he could go.

In the folio that contains my high school diploma there is a poem given to me by a friend who graduated a year before me in a state that could only be considered Dazed and Confused.  At the time, it spoke to the mire our generation was in as we watched friends go off to war and clouds of napalm billow on the cover of Life Magazine.  Here are the words of advice given to me by that former graduate at my ceremony in 1972:

this is the
time of year for handshakes
and kisses on the cheek
when the conceited are outgoing
and the frightened are the meek
y’know ya can’t cash your paycheck
till the end of the week
here’s your diploma
less the taxes.

i’ll sign your
high school yearbook
“don’t forget me and good luck”
they’ll try to make you a secretary
even though you wanna drive a truck
y’know you can’t float on water
by pretending you’re a duck
here’s your reward
now go out and earn it.

i know
there will be times
when you will be depressed
they’ll take you aside
like they’ve done with all the rest
‘n tell you, the reason ya run a race,
kid,
is so that you can be the best
but you’ll win every time
if you try to lose
rejoice and dance upon their chest
you know there is no use.

Thirty-five years later we’re in a different war and the endings and beginnings keep coming.  We do what we can to get the goodbye we need.  After Son’s graduation dinner, I gave him one last lift to his apartment so he could finish packing his belongings after five years at school in another state.  As we drove down the main street, a pedestrian walked in front of my car and I had to swerve to avoid him.  Son shook his head with disdain.  “That’s the thing about this place,” he said, pitiably, “the people don’t mind getting hit by cars.”

Okay, sleep tight now.

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Last row, 6th seat in from right

Posted on May 20, 2007 by onesanevoice

This weekend was Son’s college graduation from The State University of Out-of-State Full Tuition and we all drove there in different cars at different times to accommodate varying work and school schedules.  What is normally a 5-hour drive took Husband and I over seven hours due to huge construction delays on the interstate, whereas traffic is never a problem for Son who does his traveling in the middle of the night.  Daughter arrived the next day in plenty of time for the afternoon ceremony so it came to be that the whole famdamily was together to celebrate Son’s achievement, and I would have gladly driven twice as long to be even half as happy.

This was our second densely populated college graduation, Daughter’s having taken place 4 years ago in Boston at the mobbed Fleet Center.  Son’s was at the University Stadium, his school being one of the Big Conference sports schools and I know this because his fall meal plan was always supplemented by crashing pre-game tailgate parties.  Those publications about choosing colleges that the families of high school seniors are advised to consult never give the really clutch information needed to make the wisest decision so I’ll share it with you here:  The town that lives for football will always keep your child alive.

All the pomp of a major university graduation was no doubt wasted on Son who would have been willing to swipe his report card somewhere and have a diploma pop out the slot and then go to dinner and get on with his life.  From our seats high up in the stands all the students looked equally fidgety and we were actually focused on someone else’s offspring until Daughter went down with Husband’s camera to get close-ups and texted up to us with his true location.  By that point the university president was intoning with emotion that the graduates were joining a special group of individuals, the 159,000 alumni of State U, and no matter where they go for the rest of their lives they will never be without copious mail soliciting donations.

Then a singer broke into the State U alma mater which made the graduates look at each other like, “What the hell is that?” since most school anthems are pretty much identical and equally unmemorable unless you’re at Notre Dame, and the majority of students have never paid any attention to it until they’re sitting there getting diplomas.  My high school alma mater began, “‘Neath the lakes and hills lies Ourtown…” and the girl next to me at graduation said, “We don’t have a lake” and I could have added we didn’t have any hills either but she was obviously so hung over she didn’t care.  I mentioned to Son after the ceremony that it sounded like one of the lines in his school song was, “Stay my heart and swell my feet” and his response was, “Possibly.”

We then went to the restaurant where Son had made reservations for us and had the most wonderful dinner.  At first we were a little surprised when our waiter introduced himself and drew our attention to the latex gloves he was wearing and explained he didn’t have anything contagious, he just had paint on his hands.  When we didn’t respond right away he added, “I wouldn’t have brought it up but I think honesty is the best policy and I don’t want you to think I have a rash or anything.”  We gave him our drink order and after he left Daughter suggested that maybe we should tell him that there are things that remove paint, like paint thinner, and Son responded that he probably couldn’t use paint thinner because of his rash.

We talked some more about what a lovely ceremony it was and how proud we all were and Daughter said it seemed like a lot of students stood up when the dean announced the recipients of Highest Distinction.  To which Son replied, “I could have been one of them, you know, if I hadn’t done the bare minimum.”  And honesty being the best policy, the future awaits.

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No Stupid Children

Posted on May 15, 2007 by onesanevoice

People fluent in computer-speak know what a link is and although I am familiar with the term I didn’t know I could actually create one.  For blog purposes, a link is useful in referencing something in a previous entry and enabling the reader to click on that reference and be taken in a new window to the entry cited.  A link can also be formed to take a reader to a different site if your reference is at a site other than your own.  I ran this by Son who used to be a Computer Science major and he brought up the interesting point that occasionally when he’s sent to another site via link he finds the other site so compelling he never returns to the site that sent him there.  I thought this over and since my mother didn’t raise any stupid children I will only be forming links to entries within my own site.

I bring this up because I am about to ask the indulgence of my subscribers to ignore the entries that arrive immediately after this one as I will be going back and putting links in two or three articles that were published before I knew how to do this.  I figured it out for the entry before last, the one titled Before The House Comes Down (see the link!) when I referenced Brooklyn Girls and put it in a link to Odds, Ends and Friends (another link here would be overkill) in the event that entry hadn’t yet been read.

It turns out creating a link wasn’t really difficult; it just required some concentration and 37 support e-mails from my blog host.  I sometimes wonder if the support staff at GoDaddy, who I have referred to in the past as StopMommy (just one more to show off), compare notes during their Snickers break as to who spoke to the most clueless customer that day.  At my last job, I sat at the desk in front of the tech support guy and his patience was astounding.  I would overhear him on the phone saying, “Now right click on that.  No, right click.  Use the right button on your mouse.  Now click on that.  No, you want to right click.  The other right click.”  I would turn around expecting to see him with a gun to his head but he was just patiently speaking into the receiver while glancing up at his monitor.  On closer inspection it would turn out he was also perusing the Chinese takeout menu while talking which was totally appropriate because if he was giving this call his full attention he would have had to kill himself.

Yesterday I received my second moving violation in two weeks which is ridiculous considering I haven’t had even one in the past ten years.  I was with Daughter and we had just passed the location my GPS had given as the restaurant we were trying to find and Daughter said it looked like the windows were boarded shut and so rather than hunt for parking I decided to circle around again to make sure.  The next thing I heard was her voice telling me I just went through a red light and I said “No way!” and then a police officer was standing by my window telling me the same thing.  My grandmother always said that if two people say you look sick, lay down, so I got out my license and registration.

The ironic thing is that I got my very first moving violation at 16 when I was driving with my friend to Bloomingdale’s a few months after I got my license.  I had never even been to Bloomingdale’s let alone driven there.  When the officer handed me this ticket I looked down to see how much it was and noticed the location of the infraction was Bloomingdale Road.  No Clinique bonus this time.

The ticket before this one came just last week when I was going to see the Wise Man where parking is sometimes difficult.  I saw a spot open up in the railroad commuter lot across the street from his office and I zoomed in.  A policeman walked right over and said I had driven in the exit and he had to give me a ticket because the railroad asked the police department to watch the area due to the high number of accidents reported.  I said maybe they should mark the exit better because I thought it was the entrance and if they’re seeing a lot of accidents there that may be the reason.  He said that’s possible and I could certainly dispute it in traffic court but here it was anyway and he handed me a ticket for $155.

I went upstairs to whine about it to the Wise Man who let me show him the scene of the crime which was directly across from his window.  He pointed to the exit and said, “You went in there?”  I looked out at the area I had driven through which had a Do Not Enter sign on one side, a One-Way Only sign on the other side and NOT AN ENTRANCE painted on the ground between them.  We stood there looking out the window and because he is a consummate professional and never breaks character, he said quietly, “That would seem to be an exit.”  Which is kind of like looking at a mountain of elephant shit and saying you might be at the zoo.  It was classic.

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