As the mother of two teenagers, I’ve witnessed a lot of changes in our family dynamics during the last sixteen years. We’ve gone from losing sleep because of 3 a.m. feedings—to losing sleep because the kids won’t stop playing video games into the wee hours of the night.

We’ve gone from begging my picky-eater toddler son to “open his mouth and let the airplane fly in”—to making sure that none of our unprotected limbs get between him and an open refrigerator door.

We used to carefully spell words over their heads at the dinner table whenever an “adult” subject needed to be discussed—and now we purposefully bring up controversial topics in order to keep the lines of communication open. (Embarrassing them to death is just a bonus.)

We used to watch over them like penguins guarding their eggs—but now? Well, now they’re so busy we hardly see them anymore.

But just when I thought I was ready to handle this “independence” thing, the unthinkable happened: my daughter got her driver’s permit.

Thankfully, as long as it was just a permit, I could remain in denial, thinking of it as a giant homework assignment, instead of as a Permanently Life-Altering Situation. We embarked on the new project with enthusiasm, and drove together every chance we could. Like all great partnerships, we had our share of successes and failures, arguments and giggles, steering wheel grabs and skid marks.

There were good times:
For example, one of my best friends and her 17-year-old daughter came from out of town to investigate Valparaiso University as a possible college choice. Because my daughter and I lived so close to the university, we met them for dinner in Valpo. My friend and I—who rarely ever get a chance to see each other—each had a celebratory margarita with dinner. After our meal, when the server came and asked us if we’d like another drink, our first instinct was to decline—until it dawned on both of us at the same time . . . O. M. G.! The girls can drive us home!

Suddenly, all of those diaper changes were paying off!

“Yes, thanks, we’ll have another round!” (But just one.)

And there were the obligatory not-quite-as-good times:
One afternoon, as my daughter was driving us down a two-lane country highway, a large trash bag came fluttering into her path. Since there was an oncoming car in the other lane, she had no choice but to drive right over the trash bag in my new, low-to-the-ground car, “Sheldon.”

Me: “Did we leave the bag behind?”

Her [peeking in rear view mirror]: “Um, I think so.”

Assuming that she had seen the bag in the mirror, I didn’t think anything of the incident until several minutes later, when I felt a rattling under the car at a stop sign.

Me: “Now you DID see the bag left behind on the road, right?”

Her [guiltily]: “Um, I don’t remember…”

Me [sighing self-righteously]: “Okay, let’s find a place to pull over.”

She found the parking lot of a small church, pulled in and parked. We got out of the car, and were instantly overcome with the unmistakable smell of burning plastic. Sure enough, she got down on the concrete and pulled most of the tattered bag out from under the car, even though a significant chunk was permanently melted onto the bottom of the vehicle. (A quick, reluctant peek inside the bag revealed some plastic flowers; understandably, we were simultaneously relieved and unwilling to delve any deeper.) Of course there was no trash receptacle in the parking lot, and we certainly weren’t going to leave an unidentified, partially burned bag of fake flowers littering a church parking lot, so we had to throw the smelly sack into the trunk of my ALMOST BRAND NEW car and drive on.

Still giving off the fumes of molten polymer, we finally pulled into our garage, rapidly threw our newly adopted plastic passenger into our trash can, and ran inside to literally wash our hands of the whole affair. Of course, to this day we are reminded of the tragic encounter with an olfactory blast EVERY SINGLE TIME I park the car and get out. (Good thing I’m not bitter about it.)

Which brings us to last week:
Finally, the dreaded highly anticipated Sacred Day of the License arrived, bright and sunny. I left work and hustled home to pick her up and bring her to the Driving School to take the road test. As we rode over to the school, she was nervous and excited . . . and a little confused about why I appeared to be so melancholy. I started to explain to her that it was just yesterday that I dropped her off at preschool for the first time . . . but I didn’t think she’d believe me.

Oh, she was nervous, but nothing like me. When we got there, the man administering the test assured me that it would only take 15 minutes (cue rapid glance at cell phone time: 4:01 p.m.), so I should just wait in my car in the parking lot. As my baby jumped into the driver’s seat of that Terrifying Vehicle of Certain Doom, it felt like she jumped out of my soul, leaving an unsettling empty place.

As they drove off, slowly, cautiously, I was left sitting in my car to think. Since thinking was a Bad Thing at this point, I decided to face my own fears the way my daughter was facing hers at that very minute, and I used my cell phone to make a scary call that I had been putting off for days:

I called the dentist’s office to reschedule my son’s appointment for a teeth cleaning.  *shudder*

[Not to be overly dramatic, but for some reason, just the mere thought of calling this particular dental practice makes me anxious. When we go to the office, everyone is professional and courteous. But when I have to call and ruin their lives inconvenience them by changing an appointment, it's as if pitchfork-shaped icicles grow out of the phone, trying to stab the life out of me. I can feel the Arctic chill on my fingertips as the phone gradually realizes which number I'm dialing and tries to resist. But, galvanized by the desire for the ultimate distraction, I persisted in making the call. Voice quavering, I pleaded my case to the Appointment Czar, and, after long, awkward silences, heavy sighs, audible eye rolls, and an inordinate amount of keyboard activity--- she graciously relented, and allowed me to reschedule.]

As I terminated the call, bolstered with relief, I made the mistake of checking the time on my cell phone: 4:17 p.m.! Yes, it had been 16 minutes since my baby had pulled out of the parking lot with a strange man—60 entire seconds later than he promised she’d be gone. My heart started pounding just a tiny bit faster and harder than was normal. I slipped on my sunglasses so casual observers would not be able to see my Rear View Mirror Death Stare, and kept a frantic vigil for the next 88 seconds or so, until I saw that car inch carefully into the parking lot again. Judging by the grin on my daughter’s face, I knew that it had gone well. My heart tried to leap and sink at the same time, so I’m pretty sure it ended up just ripping slightly, as I pasted on a big smile of congratulations.

Next, we went over to the BMV for the written test, which she naturally passed with flying colors.

It was official.

My first-born had her driver’s license.

We rushed home, because she was late to work, and as she changed clothes upstairs, I got my car keys out of my purse. She came rushing into the kitchen, and I gave her the keys without a word. There was no point in putting off the inevitable. She excitedly grabbed the keys and rushed out of the house.

Her younger brother videotaped her departure on his phone for posterity.

I couldn’t look.

*****

It’s been a couple of days now, and for the most part, things have been going pretty well. I even sent her on her first emergency run to the store—and I can’t help but smile when I think about what it was that we needed so desperately:

Garbage bags.

They say that an essential component of successful child-rearing is the legendary “Family Dinner.” Apparently it’s crucial to maintain a regular schedule of eating around the table (yes, all at the same time) in order to reinforce the ties that bind us together.

Or something like that.

Well . . . okay . . . but anyone who has teenagers in the house knows that the phenomenon of the whole family being under the same roof at the same time is about as rare as a clean gym uniform.

But it was the night before Easter, and lo and behold, we were all: 1. home, 2. happy, and 3. hungry. The stars were magically aligned, and by golly, we were going to take a stab at this mythical “Family Dinner.” I had spent the afternoon doing housework and cooking for the next day’s holiday feast, so my husband and son graciously offered to run to the store to pick up some groceries.

Upon their return at 5:30 p.m., they announced, proudly, that we would be having pork chops (grilled!) and baked potatoes. Sounded perfect–a quick and easy meal, leaving plenty of time for enlightening and fulfilling conversation around the table. I was startled to see the size of the baking potatoes they brought home (each one roughly the size of a chihuahua), but I got them into the oven as quickly as possible so we could eat before 9 p.m. A couple of hours later, we were really making progress in the potato department, so my husband started cooking the chops outside in the dark, and the kids set the table while casually debating the placement of the [fictional] bread plates.

It should be noted that while waiting for the potatoes to bake, we had been watching the 5-hour-long epic TV movie The Ten Commandments. Since we had already invested several hours in this mission, we decided to break the first rule of the “Family Dinner,” and kept the TV on in the background while we ate, marveling at the formal, sometimes cringe-inducing dialogue, like the following:

“Water before love, my girl.”
“Oh, does it take the entire Nile to quench your thirst?”
“No, only your lips.”

AND…

“You will be king of Egypt and I will be your footstool!”
“The man stupid enough to use you as a footstool would not be wise enough to rule Egypt.”
“Oh Moses, Moses, you stubborn, splendid, adorable fool!”

[You get the picture.]

Anyway, what follows is a transcript of “Civilized Family Dinner, Take One”:

The Scene: We all contemplated our potato strategies independently. My son sat and waited for everything to cool, so as not to scorch his delicate palate. My daughter ate her pork chops first, in order to make room for the Great Potato Massacre to come. I knew I couldn’t possibly eat the entire thing, so I cut mine in half the long way, and discreetly placed one section on the table right next to my plate. My husband, on the other hand, sliced into his with great zeal, releasing a jet of steam into the air that threatened to set off the smoke alarm.

[Overheard from the TV]: “God opens the sea with a blast of his nostrils!”

Wiping the condensation off our faces, we ate silently, ignoring the Potato Elephant in the Room. Finally, my daughter spoke up:

“Um, yeah, these potatoes are really big!”

Husband: “Well, your brother picked them out.”

Son [defensively]: “Well, you told me to pick out the biggest ones I could find!”

Husband [busted]: “. . .”

Meanwhile . . .

Moses [from the TV in the background]: “Your shoulders should not bear a burden, old woman.”

Me [under my breath]: “Tell me about it, Moses!”

Daughter [refusing to let it go]: “They’re like mini-footballs. They’re ridiculous. They’re ridonkulous! What’s a good word for a ridonkulous potato?”

Me: “Potonkulous?”

[Increasing our vocabulary is a primary goal of family conversation, right?]

We resumed chipping away at our potonkulous spuds, when all of a sudden my daughter spied my extra half potato lurking next to my plate.

“Mom! Your potato is escaping! Get it!”

Me: “I put it there on purpose. There wasn’t room for it on my plate.”

Son [illustrating his point by making inchworm-like movements with his hand on the table]: “I think it moved a little!”

While contemplating the sudden animation of my shriveling demi-potato, I was startled to feel something warm press down on my foot under the table. Oh, it was just the dog, who didn’t want to be left out of this cultural seminar.

Daughter [logically]: “Well, NOW we have to name the potato. What should it be?”

Me [resignedly]: “Ummm……Eric?”

Daughter [clapping excitedly]: “Perfect!”

Now the dog put his wet nose in my lap, hoping for a pork chop bone handout. Even the cat, who normally ignores us, could sense that this meal was a momentous family gathering . . .Although he was recently diagnosed (to the tune of $300) with a mysterious “wrist” injury (do cats even HAVE wrists?), he limped pathetically over to the table in a 3-legged salute to our grand “Family Dinner” experiment.

Husband [in a Clark-Griswold-esque attempt to change the subject]: “So, when I was outside grilling, I think I heard the Easter Bunny hopping around!”

As if on cue, we all retreated to our happy places: Even at the ages of 16 and 14, my kids love the Easter Bunny. My daughter was clearly imagining a basket brimming with nauseating colorful marshmallow Peeps, and my son licked his lips in anticipation of the Reese’s peanut butter eggs he was sure to receive. The dog, hearing the word “bunny,” gave a contented warm-up growl as he fondly imagined “getting his bark on” while terrorizing the arch-nemesis rabbits that taunt him all summer from just outside of our deck rails. And the cat? He just couldn’t wait to get his good paw on the Easter grass, so he could eat it and cough it up in a strategic, carpeted location to be determined later. Myself, I just became nostalgic for the days when the kids were toddlers, as visions of egg hunts and Easter bonnets lazily floated through my consciousness.

By this time, we were all feeling the onset of carbohydrate comas, so we fell silent. As our 1st Annual Family Dinner came to a close, we realized we weren’t sure how to adjourn. Luckily, the TV intervened:

Moses: “Let my people go.”

We got up from the table, and went our separate ways.

So maybe it wasn’t the most sophisticated dining experience we’d ever had. And maybe it wasn’t what the Experts had in mind when they suggested that families who eat together stay together. But for OUR admittedly quirky family, it was just what the doctor ordered.

“So let it be written. So let it be done.”

I woke up yesterday morning, and was instantly depressed when I remembered that it was the last day of Spring Break.

Oh, and it was violently snowing.

Me: “Really, weather? Is this your idea of hilarious?”

Weather: “Almost as hilarious as your *cough* alleged To-Do List.”

Me: “Okay, you made your point.”

Flash back a week:

My teens had Spring Break coming up, so I decided to take a few days of vacation at the same time so they wouldn’t be trapped at home with nothing to do. This was going to be AWESOME. Not only was I going to spend quality time with the kids, but I would be able to get to some of those projects that I had been putting off for the entire winter (and maybe the year before that, but who’s really keeping track?). Oh, I was going to clean out drawers, closets and cupboards. I was going to go through all of my paperwork, balance the checkbook and pay all of the household bills. I was going to work out, plan and shop for healthy dinners, walk the dog every day, and catch up on my ironing (which consisted of 18 wrinkled male dress shirts at last count…). I was even going to UPDATE MY BLOG (I know, right?).

Well, by the last day of break, I finally got around to actually making the To-Do List. By last night at 10 p.m., the only item that was crossed off the list was “1. Shave legs.”

Where the heck did all of that glorious time go?

Well, I admit that I went off-list a couple of times, and substituted the following tasks:

1. I transported the children to: the orthodontist, piano lessons, driver’s ed, taekwondo, the library (twice), the mall (twice), a study session, confirmation class, a tournament, Taco Bell, McDonald’s, Blockbuster Video (twice), and a friend’s house (twice).

2. My daughter and I re-imagined the lyrics to the entire soundtrack to Jesus Christ Superstar. Our new version, Danny Gokey Superstar, is based on American Idol’s deification of the saintly and overrated contestant from Milwaukee, and casts polarizing bad boy Adam Lambert in the Judas role and the Top 12 as the disciples. Seriously, if you’re a fan of both American Idol and Jesus Christ Superstar, try it yourself–it’s eerily intuitive. (If you’re not a fan, do yourself a favor, and skip to number 3.)

SAMPLE LYRICS (and I’m only changing a few words…):

ANOOP: “What then to do about Danny of Wisconsin?
Miracle wonderman, hero of fools.”

MATT G.: “No riots, no army, no fighting, no slogans.”

SCOTT: “One thing I’ll say for him — Danny is cool.”

KRIS: “We dare not leave him to his own devices.
His half-witted fans will get out of control.”

SIMON, PAULA, RANDY, KARA: “But how can we stop him?
His glamour increases
By leaps every moment; he’s top of the poll.”

LIL ROUNDS: “I see bad things arising.
The crowd crown him Idol; which the judges would ban.
I see blood and destruction,
Our elimination because of one man.
Blood and destruction because of one man.”

ALL: “Because, because, because of one man.
Our elimination because of one man.”

AND, for the Group Song at the beginning:

“Look at all my trials and tribulations
Sinking with these rabid fans of mine.
Don’t disturb me now, I can see the answers
‘Till this evening’s elimination, life is fine.
Always hoped that I would be an Idol.
Knew that I would make it if I tried.
Then when the season’s done, we can go on iTunes,
So they’ll still talk about us when we’ve cried.”

[Okay, I'll stop now. Sorry.]

3. I threw a Sweet Sixteen birthday sleepover for my daughter. This included baking a white cake (which involves SEPARATING EGGS, people!) with pink frosting, and staying holed upstairs in my bedroom for 18 hours while the girls took over the main floor.

4. Our plasma flat-screen TV caught on fire. With actual smoke. And hissing. This may not seem like a time-consuming project, but we had to expend a lot of energy on grieving, calling a repair person, grieving, bringing a small TV from the basement upstairs, setting it up on a card table in the living room, and grieving.

5. My daughter and I went to see Mary Poppins at the Cadillac Palace Theatre in Chicago. It was amazing, and I highly recommend it to children and adults alike. The singing, dancing and special effects are spectacular, and overall, it seems to have more substance and heart than the movie. Go if you can! (It will be playing until July 12.)

6. My son and I went to Borders and browsed. I bought him a Creme Caramel Javakula (a coffee drink with a name that’s almost too silly sounding to type…) and a CD by his favorite bass player, Victor Wooten. (Check him out here. He’s truly amazing.) We sipped and jammed all the way home in the car.

But getting back to this morning:

Before getting the kids back to school and heading back to work, I was temporarily paralyzed by the realization that I had accomplished nothing on my nonexistent list. Then, galvanized by guilt and panic, I leaped into action.

*I wrestled the 18 wrinkled dress shirts into the kitchen and told my husband to pick one, which I custom-ironed while he waited. (Ironing? Check! And really, what’s better than a crisp shirt, hot and fresh from the ironing board?)

*I dumped all of the old mail onto the kitchen table and furiously sifted through it to find the Top Five Most Ominously Overdue Bills. I quickly wrote out checks to cover them, and stuffed them into envelopes, vowing to go buy stamps over lunch. (Household finance? Check!)

*I herded the sleepy dog outside and brushed him with a lightning-fast enthusiasm that resulted in a storm of fur gently wafting into the sky before coming back down to land in my hair and mouth. I tossed him a heartworm pill, and moved on. (Dog care? Check!)

*Cupboards and closets? (Well, I mostly kept up with washing the dishes over the break, which is technically cleaning, so….check!)

*Work out? (Well, I was breathless by then, so….check!)

*Update blog? (TOTALLY CHECKING!!!!)

*Quality time with the kids? (You know what? I wouldn’t change a thing.)

Check.

We’ve all had one of “those” days. Those overly emotional, frustrating, busy, tired days.

Days when you Just. Need. Some. Chocolate.

Not a lot of chocolate.

Just a taste.

Recently, I identified the following subtle signs that it was a Chocolate Day:

~I noticed tears unexpectedly trailing down my cheeks when “Killing Me Softly” by Roberta Flack came on my car radio on the way to work. (That’s just so sad…He’s strumming her pain with his fingers! *sniff* He’s singing her life with his words! *sob*)

~When speaking to my husband, I found myself referring to the kids as “Your Children”—as in, “No dear, the laundry ISN’T done, because Your Children are still waiting patiently for the Dirty Clothes Fairy to come and use her magic sparkle dust to transport their undergarments from the bedroom floor to the hamper.” Or, um, something like that.

~I had trouble closing the crowded kitchen drawer that holds all of the bulky utensils (Who REALLY uses a potato masher, anyway?), so I dumped the contents out onto the kitchen counter…and suddenly realized that I was ENTIRELY SURROUNDED BY CLUTTER…which initiated a cleaning frenzy that culminated in two sulking teenagers dragging four garbage bags down to the curb and retreating to the solace of their bedrooms.

~My husband volunteered to “run out and fetch” a bottle of chardonnay for me, and then escaped dashed out of the house before I had a chance to answer.

So on this particular Chocolate Day, I remembered that I had a bag of mint Hershey’s Kisses in the pantry that I had been saving to use in Christmas cookies. This was a TOTAL upgrade from my usual desperate maneuvers, which have included polishing off an ancient, but open, bag of chocolate chips, scavenging a [barely chocolate, but it will do in an emergency] miniature Tootsie Roll from the cookie jar (a.k.a. the “Island of Misfit Halloween Candy”) or making a sad cup of sugar-free hot chocolate. This was REAL CANDY.

But the bag was still sealed.

I think we all know what can happen when there is an open bag of Hershey’s Kisses in the house on a Chocolate Day—I like to think of it as a coiled rattlesnake, ready to strike at any time—but I felt fairly confident that I could resist its siren call after I had that tiny taste I craved.

The trick was to open it just a wee bit, to preserve the illusion that it was still actually closed. I grabbed the corner of the bag and started to ease it open…but it wasn’t budging. I grabbed the other corner, and tried to pull it open with even, gentle pressure. I managed to slightly distort the plastic, but I could NOT penetrate the sanctity of the wrapper.

Trying to keep my panic in check, I held the bag in the middle, and slowly started to pull the two sides apart. I could sense that it was starting to give, when all of a sudden the bag just completely ripped open from top to bottom, utterly destroyed by my eagerness.

It was a disaster. Not only was the bag OPEN, but it was OBLITERATED, leaving the poor Kisses vulnerable to attack. Suddenly I understood. It’s a conspiracy. The Hershey company knows that its product will be devoured if exposed, and has clearly invested years of research in developing this insidious break-away bag.

But I am stronger than the bag, and refused to be manipulated by a chocolate (mmmmm…) company. I could CHOOSE to have just one Kiss, right?

Right?

(right?)

Wrong.

It didn’t matter how many times I changed locations; everywhere I went, I left behind the following evidence:

My husband, returning home with a bottle of Kendall Jackson chardonnay, saw the demolished bag, the piles of wrappers scattered randomly around the living room, and the newly sedate look on my face. Without a word, he opened the bottle, poured a glass for me, and retreated up to the bedroom to watch football.

Alone now, I put my feet up, took a sip of wine, and had just one more Kiss, to top myself off.

Aaah, life was good. I love Chocolate Days.

I just don’t understand why everyone makes such a big fuss about it.

I have a competitive personality.

And so does my husband.

Which makes it potentially alarming—yet strangely exhilarating—on the extremely rare occasions when we actually compete against each other. And what better time for cutthroat tactics than during a simple board game with our children over Christmas break?

It started with an innocent trip to Barnes & Noble. My husband has the distinction of being born on New Year’s Eve, so it’s always a scramble to find birthday gifts for him after the Christmas rush. This year, I ran into the bookstore, hoping to be inspired, and I came across a “Deluxe” version of Scrabble.

“Deluxe”!!!

I had visions of tiles made of gold, a marble game board, and a delicate parchment score pad with an accompanying peacock feather quill pen. And the price reinforced my misguided fantasy.

Okay, I’m in.

Of course, upon opening the game, we discovered that the “Deluxe-ness” (by the way, don’t try using that word in the actual Scrabble game…) referred to the fact that the board is bigger than a regular board and rotates—but it really didn’t matter. The important part is WHO WINS.

So, determined to implement our inaugural Wholesome Family Game Night, we called the kids over to the table. They reluctantly (and by “reluctantly” I mean “As If They Were Being Asked to Swallow a Ferret Soaked in Acid”) shuffled over to the game board, and sat down.

For those of you who aren’t Scrabble aficionados, each player is given a set of letter tiles from which they must construct words, crossword-fashion, on the game board spaces. Certain spaces have double or triple (and even QUADRUPLE in the “Deluxe” version!) scores, so strategic placement of the letters is crucial.

We began.

My husband and I spent a long time on each turn, agonizing over how to maximize our scores. My son soon got into the spirit of the competition, and we overlooked the fact that his pride-and-joy word (”Quran”) was a proper noun. The Competition Gene is clearly absent in the case of my daughter, who only looked up from her Agatha Christie novel long enough to slap two letters around a vowel, creating such stunners as “M-A-T” and “F-I-N.” (She did, however, impress us somewhat with “V-E-X.”)

But things started getting a little dicey when my husband put down “F-A-T-B-O-Y.” Ever the bluffer, he dared me to challenge him and look it up in the dictionary (the “Deluxe” Official Scrabble Dictionary, no less!), knowing full well that I would lose my turn if it were indeed a word. He insisted that it was “a type of motorcycle,” so I let it go. (It turns out that there IS such a thing as a Harley-Davidson “Fat Boy,” but it’s TWO WORDS. Whatever.)

The game was close, the letters were almost gone, and it was my turn. I had O, Z, O and T left to work with.

OZOT? TOOZ? ZOTO?

Spying the word “RAIN” already on the board (probably one of the more exotic creations from my daughter), I was elated, and added my letters to the beginning to make “Z-O-O-T-R-A-I-N.” And the “Z” went on a Quadruple Letter space! I hit the jackpot!

My husband, dubiously: “What’s a zootrain?”

Me, defiantly: “It’s the wee little train that you ride around the zoo! Duh.”

My children were in stitches by this time, and my daughter high-fived me for the off-the-charts “cuteness” factor of the word—the only thing that REALLY counts as far as she is concerned. I gave my husband my best “If You Really Value Our Marriage, You Will NOT Challenge Me” look, and I could see the wheels turning as he weighed his options.

Finally, coming to the most logical (= wife-pleasing) conclusion, he shrugged his shoulders and started adding up my points.

Knowing better than to look it up then and there, he added, “But I’d better see the word “zootrain” written somewhere!”

I still haven’t looked it up. But I DO know that it’s the title of a blog, out there for the whole world to see. (And you can believe everything you read on the Internet, can’t you?)

Take THAT, Fatboy!

(Love you!)

Oh, and I win.

I recently discovered that when it comes to the vending machines at work, I have a slight reputation. Apparently, I tend to be a “spaz.” A source of mirth for my colleagues. A true entertainment spectacle. To which I firmly retort:

Yeah, I know.

I’m not talking about the ordinary stuff. I think that everyone can relate to the age-old tale of getting one’s cash “eaten” by a vending machine. You put the money in, carefully make your selection, push the button, lick your lips in anticipation, and . . . nothing happens. You push the refund thingy, and . . . nothing happens. You give the machine a gentle nudge with your hip, and . . . nothing happens. You pound that bulletproof safety glass with your fists, mutter obscenities under your breath, push EVERY ONE of the buttons, and . . . you guessed it . . . nothing happens. Out of money, you skulk out of the break room as someone else is going in. (You resist the temptation to follow them in and watch them lose their money. Barely.)

But my relationship with vending machines goes deeper. I typically purchase a Diet Mountain Dew and a bag of Sun Chips at lunchtime. You would think it would be easy . . . but more often than not, something goes wrong. Resigned to my status as the Bridget Jones of the Workplace, I didn’t think too much about it until last week, when my embarrassed colleague came out of the break room claiming to have had a “Kathy moment” in there.

There’s a “moment” named after me!

So I’m coming clean now about my typical vending machine confrontations. Let me know if any of this sounds familiar to you:

It begins with the exchange of currency. Now we all know that there is no way that the “Accepts Dollar Bills” sign is telling the truth. (Trust me on this: DON’T LOOK DIRECTLY AT THE SIGN! It’s an evil conspiracy, designed to lull you into a false sense of security when you have no change.) So, because I am a person who likes to be prepared for all contingencies, I generally comb through my wallet at my desk and pull out every dollar bill I can find before my journey, saving my precious coinage for a true vending emergency. (Of course, I end up bringing the coins too, because every trip to the break room is a potential vending emergency.)

I start with the most pristine bill I own. A dollar so slender, crisp and perfect you would swear it had just been FedExed directly to my office, hot from the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. Making sure to insert it face up, with good old George Washington gazing in the direction that matches the [totally misleading] “Accepts Dollar Bills” sign, I gently and optimistically release the bill into the greedy grasp of the machine’s slot. With a whiny buzz it gets sucked in. And there is a pause. An almost imperceptible delay that dangles a shred of hope in front of me like a carrot. During that fraction of a second, my emotions ricochet from disbelief, to relief, to joy, to . . . and then the dollar is spit out again with great disdain.

What the . . .?

Time to get serious.

I snatch the dollar back out of the machine and reinsert it with GW facing the OTHER way. Spit. Upside down, facing me? Spit. Upside down, facing you? Spit.

Fine. Let’s try another dollar. I just so happened to bring seven of them, you lying piece of crap! And you’ll be sorry; they’re not as pretty as the first one. You wanna play? I can go all day!

Spit, spit, spit, spit . . .

Resigned, I start plugging the machine with the motley assortment of nickels and dimes that I retrieved earlier from the bottom of my purse, as the now-pompous pop machine starts to display my pathetic journey to its asking price of $1.00:

$.05, $0.15, $0.25, $0.30, $0.40, $0.50, $0.55, $0.60, $0.65, $0.75, $0.80, $0.90, $0.95 . . .

And, smelling victory, I get cocky, and shoot that final nickel into the slot.

And it goes through to the change return.

I grab that nickel out of the change return, and humbly press it into the slot again, using normal force.

And it goes through to the change return.

I muster up all of my patience, take that nickel one last time, and gently, reverently, approach the slot. I slowly slide it through, making sure that Jefferson’s head remains upright, facing the machine during the final approach. I let gravity itself dictate the velocity of the entry as the trembling coin starts its descent, and . . . bingo! $1.00!! I am cleared for takeoff!

My confidence regained, it is time to choose my beverage. Clearly a dry martini is in order by this time, but I remain focused on the task at hand and select D-2 for my Diet Mountain Dew, at which time one of four options may occur (all of which did occur during the last two weeks, by the way):

Option 1. The machine has randomly decided it will not accept D, E or F selections. If someone pushes one of those buttons, nothing happens. But we consumers are free to choose from the egregious selections contained in rows A-C! Of course, those rows contain beverages like $2.75 Starbucks frappuccinos, scary “energy” drinks with dragons on the label, or $1.25 bottles of water, all of which would involve finessing more cash into the machine. I visit the drinking fountain.

Option 2. The machine noisily vends my plastic bottle of DMD down into the bottom receptacle, and I am supposed to predict which one of the three openings is hiding my beverage. (Is it door number one? Or door number two?…) I finally choose the right opening, only to discover that the bottle fell perfectly vertically, landing standing up, completely blocking the opening, and, consequently, dashing any hope of retrieving the beverage. And I ask you, is there any chance that I was alone in the break room when this freakish physics-defying fall occurred? Of course not. With the amused spectators looking on, I flapped that little door over and over again, as each nudge caused the bottle to list a micrometer to the left until it finally fell over in surrender.

Option 3. All systems are go. In this scenario, my bottle of Diet Mountain Dew falls onto its side in the receptacle. I choose the right door, and grab the bottle, only to discover that it is completely warm. Room temperature. The result of a recently replenished machine. And the only thing worse than pop that isn’t ice cold is coffee that isn’t scalding hot. No thanks.

Option 4. The stars are aligned: my money has been grudgingly accepted, my selection has been approved by the vending overlords, the bottle is sideways AND ice cold. I get back to my desk and set it down. And then I look closer:

It isn’t full! The above picture shows what it looked like right after being dispensed. No Photoshop tricks, no misleading tactics (And yes, I’m talking to YOU, “Accepts Dollar Bills” sign!). I examine the cap, and it hasn’t been opened. It’s just . . . not filled up all the way. Words like “tampering” and “cyanide” come to mind, and I decide that I am certainly NOT going to drink it now. I don’t care HOW cold and refreshing it looks.

Okay, pop machine. You win this round. I admit that I admire your fortitude and creativity. But for the record, I moved on to the chip machine right after that, put my money in, and selected my Sun Chips. The little restraining coil started to spin lazily, the chip bag inched forward, and I swear to God, it got stuck in the coil and didn’t drop. I hit the machine with my fist, and lo and behold, the coil started back up and graciously dropped TWO BAGS of Sun Chips gently into the bottom.

I quickly retrieved my two bags of chips before it changed its mind, grabbed my ominously tainted bottle of Diet Mountain Dew, and sauntered out of that break room, whistling, without looking back.

I’m willing to call it even.

The problem with naming inanimate household objects is that you run the risk of anthropomorphization—attributing human characteristics and personalities to them. For example, when our built-in microwave was broken, we purchased a cute, smaller one to use until the repairman came to replace the big one. My daughter, in a typical burst of affection, named the new little appliance “Georgia.” (Why Georgia, you ask? I’ve asked before, but I’m honestly still not completely sure.) After our built-in microwave was operational again, we decided that instead of putting Georgia in storage in the basement, we’d send “her” to a “good home”—as a housewarming gift for a colleague who was moving into a new apartment. Luckily, this (very tolerant) colleague is always willing to give my daughter an update on how Georgia is faring in her new environment.

Another example of our delusional imaginative behavior, of course, is my new little car Sheldon. His “humanity” became evident when I turned the car on for the first time and his little dashboard display said “Welcome.” Adorable!

But I took it a step further.

Because my teens have so many activities that require me to wait in parking lots for interminable periods of time—prompting me to read the car’s start-up manual from cover to cover to alleviate my boredom—I was able to program the dashboard display to greet me by name when I turned the car on. Creepy? Maybe. But it always makes me smile, and that can’t be ALL bad.

The other night, it was dark and rainy as my daughter and I were driving home from her cello lesson (in Sheldon, of course). We were listening to my iPod, which was on “Shuffle,” and we weren’t really talking. All of a sudden, in the middle of my favorite Todd Rundgren song, my daughter said, “Look! Sheldon’s talking to us!” And sure enough, there on the dashboard display was the following:

My first response was to think to myself, “Sheldon? Is that you? What’s up, honey?”

But then I realized that the car was simply displaying the title of the song that was playing.

Still, it was a little eerie.

We laughed about it, listened to the rest of the song, and wondered what would come up on Shuffle next. But when one of my favorite Joni Mitchell songs came on, things got a little weird:

“Sheldon? Honey? What’s wrong?” Now I was getting a little nervous about what the next song might be. And sure enough, it was time for an oldie by the Police:

“Okay, you’re kidding, right? I spend more time with you than I do with my husband. Or my bed. We’re together ALL THE TIME. Remember yesterday? When we went from work to home to pick up one of the kids, to bass lessons, back home to pick up another kid, to taekwondo, back to bass lessons, to McDonald’s, to confirmation, back to taekwondo…”

And this time, Sheldon interrupted my thoughts with a great song by the Crystal Method:

“I KNOW, RIGHT?!!!!!! But pretty soon they’re going to be driving themselves, so you’ll have even more company.”

“Okay, now you’re just being a big drama queen! It won’t be THAT bad! I’m sure they’ll be perfectly good drivers when they get their licenses, and I won’t worry AT ALL. I won’t watch anxiously out the window whenever a few flakes of snow fall. I won’t miss listening to each other’s music together in the car, and hearing all about the high school gossip, and talking about boys…And I won’t miss being needed and appreciated and called when it’s time to be picked up…(*sniff*)”

“I know, I know. I’m trying. I just can’t believe they’re growing up so fast.”

“Thanks for listening, Sheldon. Anything else on your mind?”

Of course there wasn’t anything else. He’s It’s a car, for crying out loud. But as we pulled into the garage, I couldn’t help but wait to see what song was coming up next before I turned off the car. I smiled as the familiar guitar chords of an old John Mayer song began:

That, my friend, is a question for the ages. You’ll have to ask the “Busy Child.”

*The Official Crazy-Lady-Who-Talks-to-Her-Car” Playlist for a Melancholy Rainy Night:
“Hello, It’s Me,” by Todd Rundgren
“Help Me,” by Joni Mitchell
“So Lonely,” by the Police
“Busy Child,” by the Crystal Method
“Smile,” by Lily Allen
“That’s All,” by Genesis
“Why Georgia,” by John Mayer

I haven’t driven a car in about 18 years.

Okay, that’s slightly misleading. I have driven a full-size Ford Bronco (1990-1994), two minivans (1994-2002), and a Dodge Durango truck (2002-present) during that interval. The Bronco was purchased BK (”Before Kids”) to roar around in the snowy, Iowa City winters, the two minivans were driven when I was muddling through the SK (”Small Kids”) years, and the Durango was the result of a severe case of BF (”Busy Family”). In other words, the Durango fits seven passengers, is dog-friendly, and is way cooler than a minivan—just ask my husband.

But the Durango recently passed the 108,000-mile mark, I have a commute of 40 minutes each way—and did I mention that the Durango gets about 12 miles to the gallon? So we decided that we should keep the truck for bad weather, hauling, and as an extra vehicle for the kids to drive, but it was time for me to get a smaller, more fuel-efficient car for commuting.

I still don’t know what came over me, but a couple of weeks ago I ended up getting a cute little 2-door (a 2-door!) coupe with a moon roof. Oh, I was so happy, zipping around town in my diminutive, sporty vehicle, which my (occasionally eccentric) teenage daughter named “Sheldon.” Even though the back seats folded down easily to accommodate things like cellos and electric bass amps (everything, that is, except for this), my new purchase was definitely not a “family” car!

I felt slightly scandalous driving Sheldon. Like I was pretending to be someone else. Someone whose other car wasn’t encrusted with ketchup and Monster spills. Someone who didn’t find stray athletic socks, candy bar wrappers and school fundraiser announcements crumpled under her seats. Someone whose vehicle had that “new car” smell, instead of that “old dog” smell. Someone who got 30 miles to the gallon. Someone who actually enjoyed driving again.

Last Saturday afternoon was beautiful and sunny, so my daughter and I decided to take Sheldon on a joyride to Target to pick up some odds and ends. We were in a great mood as we opened the moon roof to let in the early-autumn breeze, and we turned up the radio as we sang along to T.I.’s “Whatever You Like.” Mother-daughter bonding at its finest. As usual we turned into the deserted road that goes behind Target instead of driving across the parking lot–when it happened. What shall forevermore be known as “The Incident” in our family.

The Incident:

In short, something mysteriously dropped out of the sky and fell with precision through Sheldon’s moon roof, landing on my leg as I was driving. Oh, and I should probably mention that the “something” was alive. As in, some sort of bug/insect (moth? hornet? tarantula? frog? bat? badger? piranha?). Me being me, of course I instantly started shrieking and batting at the poor Creature as though we were in Egypt, surrounded by a plague of locusts. My daughter picked up on the screaming/batting, and the scared Creature started buzzing around the car, looking for a way to escape from the two hysterical passengers.

Naturally, a sane person would have merely opened both car windows and gently guided the Creature out. But this would have required 1) me to be sane, which clearly doesn’t happen in the presence of uninvited Creatures, and 2) a solid knowledge of the car’s electronic controls, knowledge I DIDN’T HAVE BECAUSE, UM….THE CAR WAS BRAND NEW! So, in the chaotic 20 seconds or so that followed, I’m pretty sure I honked, cleaned the windshield, popped the trunk, engaged the emergency brake, swerved, unlocked the doors, and changed the radio station (all while frantically smacking myself in the head in case the Creature was in my hair), BUT I COULDN’T GET THOSE WINDOWS DOWN in my panicked state.

So I threw Sheldon into park (luckily, all this careening took place as we were still behind Target) and my daughter and I tumbled out of the car, along with the grateful, gasping . . . grasshopper. There he sat on the pavement, looking at me like, “Really? That was necessary?” Before he could change his mind, we jumped back in the car, CLOSED THE MOON ROOF FOR ALL ETERNITY, and slowly drove around to the front of Target, sheepishly looking around to see if the Incident had been witnessed by anyone else. Luckily, it appeared that we had made a clean getaway.

Our hearts pounding, we were silent for a while as we parked. Finally, we started quietly giggling, trying to imagine what we must have looked like, our mirth increasing until we ended up out of breath from the laughter. Seriously, what are the odds that a grasshopper is going to jump through your moon roof? My daughter finally said, “I think it was a practical joke from above. I’ll bet that God and Jesus just high-fived each other up in heaven!”

Well, I suppose I can take a joke.

Just this once.

Here on “Married, with TiVo and Teens,” I have talked about my TiVo, and I’ve certainly talked about my teens…but I haven’t talked about the “Married” part yet. This is an unfortunate oversight, because as the title of this blog suggests, the marriage definitely comes first in our house (even if there are some days when we barely have time to say hi to each other). So, in honor of our 19th wedding anniversary (today!), I’d like to take a moment away from television and parenting to write a little something about my man. *blush*

As most great love stories start, he grew up in New York, I grew up near Chicago, and we met . . . in Iowa City. A classic tale of love amongst the cornfields. We worked together in the same lab/research group in graduate school, and became friends as we commiserated over our recent long-distance breakups. (Note: in general, it is wise not to place a lot of faith in “rebound” relationships; however, in our case, the “double rebounds” seemed to cancel each other out.) As time went on, our pep talks turned into deeper conversations, we discovered that we both were addicted to music, sarcasm, thunderstorms, and the TV show Love Connection—and the rest is history.

Of course, we disagree on just enough issues to make things interesting (cilantro, the merits of Starship Troopers, household climate control, medical dramas on TV, camping…). In many other cases, however, I have managed to get him to appreciate some things he never would have tried (Wicked, corned beef, the symphony). And, I have to admit, he has turned me on to the joys of several things I never would have embraced without his influence (Syracuse basketball, the Rolling Stones, wine that costs more than $5 a bottle). But the biggest change has been the effect he has had on my outlook in general: Before I met my husband, I was always in such a hurry to get somewhere or do something that I never just took the time to say, “Hey, look at that!” But in the nearly 20 years that we’ve been together, he’s taught me to slow down, look around (Ferris Bueller-style) and notice the world around me. Every car ride is an adventure; every adventure is a memory.

And when it comes to fatherhood, no dad could be more devoted to his children, especially during those sleepless, exhausting early years.

No baby daughter has been more adored:

And of course, Daddy was the one to elicit Baby’s First Giggles:

By the time our son came around, my husband took his Male Role Model responsibilities very seriously.

Lesson One–the best way to watch a Bears game on a Sunday afternoon:

Lesson Two–the proper way to hang a Christmas stocking:

Macho pursuits aside, nothing warms a mom’s heart as much as a man who’s not afraid to show his softer side. Who can resist a dad helping his little girl put on her Easter gloves?

And he always seemed to be able to find a little extra time to go on hikes with the kids, teaching them, too, to always remember to “look around.”

But most of all, he’s just my guy: willing to listen, willing to laugh, willing to be supportive, willing to be indignant on my behalf, always there for me, no matter what crazy mood I’m in. (And there are a lot of crazy moods. I try to be as low-maintenance as possible, but I am a girl, after all–and astonishingly, he wouldn’t have it any other way.) He’s been devoted to me through thick and through . . . thicker. To steal a phrase from Lost, he’s “My Constant.”

So Happy Anniversary, hub! Thanks for making me feel that I’ve been loved enough for nineteen lifetimes!

I can’t wait to see what the next nineteen years will bring.

Love,

W

Now that another year of school has started, I’m already nostalgic for the hazy days of summer. (Yes, I REALIZE that it’s still August, but just go along with me here . . .)

And because I am an overachieving 21st-century woman (and currently reside on the short list for the coveted Mother of the Year Award—oh, you too? Welcome aboard!), I have carefully documented all of the excitement of Summer 2008 using the finest technology available to consumers: my crappy cell phone camera. So, as I take a trip down memory lane (aka, “clean out my pix because my cell’s memory is full”), I hereby present my photo essay, entitled “COUNTDOWN TO AUGUST 20, 2008″:

The summer started as most vacations with teenagers do—with a trip to the emergency room.

I call this one Still Life with Broken Arm. (It turns out that taekwondo self-defense moves actually WORK. Even when one is just pretending to be the victim during class. *sigh*)

The excitement continued the next day, with a 3-hour stay in the waiting room at the orthopedist’s office, waiting for the cast. Luckily, there was plenty of great reading material available:

Title: Boredom Today

Flash-forward 7 long weeks to the grand unveiling of the healed limb:

Title: When Inappropriate Tan Lines Attack

But there are lots of things that a family can do in the summer, even when one of them is sidelined with an injury. For example, it’s imperative that we attend a White Sox game every summer (and to get the full experience, apparently we have to be one of the first 17 people to take our seats):

Title: Early Bird Special

We also went to an outdoor music festival, where my son really got into the whole spirit of the Back to Nature theme by lounging in the grass . . . while texting someone on his cell phone:

Title: Sunday Afternoon, NOT on the Grand Jatte (and if you don’t recognize that title, get yourself to the Art Institute RIGHT AWAY!)

A festive trip downtown to see Cirque du Soleil turned into a free-for-all at the gift shop before the show. Of course, when I say “a free-for-all” I really mean “messing around with $480 masks.” What, me worry?

Title: The Price is Wrong

I should add at this point that I don’t just train my expert photographic eye on my own babies. I am NOT that self-involved. In fact, on our annual trip to the Lake County Fair, I saw someone else’s babies that caught my eye, so I snapped a picture. (Note: I did not obtain the mother’s permission, so I am only showing them from behind):

Are you ready for the cutest babies in the world?

Can you handle the sweet pink skin?

Wait for it . . .

Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you . . .

Title: Honey, I Have Soooo Been There!

So that was my summer in a nutshell. I hope that yours was just as exciting, and that you have permanent photographic evidence. Because if you didn’t take a picture and share it with someone . . . did it actually really happen? (Discuss.)

Here’s to the first week of school!

Title: Whew! I Made It!