Oh, the Horror

My teenage daughter, S, is solidly in her horror movie phase. Luckily, she doesn’t want to watch the gory movies because I would not be able to participate. I can’t butcher a chicken without feeling queasy, and even fake blood can make my stomach turn. She and I much prefer the kind of suspense that makes you watch from between your fingers or through the weave of a blanket, my preferred viewing method. I have seen more scary movies over the past year than I did in the previous forty-odd, but I suck it up in order to spend time with my lovely child, periodically shrieking and knocking over popcorn.

The good news is I am not nearly as frightened as I used to be. I am able to walk down the hall alone and use the bathroom by myself. I can even look in the mirror, and I don’t have to turn on all the lights. The bad news? I fear, between the constant creepy movies and the daily news, we may have become jaded. We don’t seem to scare quite as easily as we once did, yet the real world provides enough terror without having to search for it as entertainment.

A few months ago, my girls and I were at the beach for a long weekend. We brought along one of S’s beloved friends, AH, who shares S’s passion for spooky movies. We had gone out for dinner and decided to stop at a Redbox, one of those DVD vending rental machines, on the way back to the condo for a night of thrills and chills. My other daughter, E, stayed in the car in the Kroger parking lot because she has not only outgrown horror movies, she also insists she cannot sit still for over 90 minutes, even though she does it every day at school.

AH, S, and I stood in the fading sunlight by the outdoor Redbox kiosk, trying to agree on a movie. The usual underage degenerates squatted nearby on the bench, probably waiting to approach a sketchy adult to ask for an illegal beer purchase. We ignored them and got down to the business of selecting a movie, which was scary enough on its own. Three people trying to agree on anything? Someone could end up in a body bag.

As I scrolled through the titles, I read them aloud. Ouija Board? Stupid, they said. The Forest?Already seen it. The Visit? More funny than scary.  Pride and Prejudice and Zombies?  No, just no.

I made my case for the zombie movie. E was in the process of reading her first Jane Austin book for school, and I thought the movie would be great if she didn’t finish it in time, kind of like SparkNotes. S and AH thought it looked boring and stupid and definitely not scary.

I had the feeling we weren’t alone anymore. The little neck hairs stood up, telling me to turn around.

Directly behind the two girls, these young, vulnerable teenagers, stood a middle-aged man, reeking of alcohol. He sported a tank top and a leathery tan, an overgrown mustache, and some seriously bloodshot eyes.

He practically leaned into them, and he mumbled, “Whhaa arrre we playin’?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

He took a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket. “I gaaa a dollar for the nex’ game,” he said, and tried to push past us to shove a dollar into the Redbox.

I put my hand up in the universal Stop and Back the Fuck Up position. “Sir,” I said loudly. “This is a movie stand, and we are selecting a movie. You will need to step back until we have finished and then you can have a turn.”

S and AH were paralyzed with fear, eyes bulging and unblinking.“Don’t move a muscle,” I whispered through my teeth at them.

The man lurched closer and continued to slur his words in our direction and wave his sweaty dollar bill around. Finally, another intoxicated man came over and hauled him away, over to the rough-looking teenagers who thought they just won the jackpot. I glared at him until I was comfortable enough to turn back to the Redbox.

“Pride and Prejudice and Zombies it is,” I said to the girls. “We are not spending another second picking out a movie.” I swiped my credit card and grabbed the DVD, and we race walked back to the car, where E was waiting for us.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she greeted us warmly. “Where’s the fire?”

“Did you see that guy walk up to us?” I asked her.

S and AH both talked rapidly, over each other, to explain to E what had transpired at the Redbox.

E pointed at the man. “That guy?” she asked.

“Yes, him. God, he’s drunk,” I said.

“He smelled horrible,” S said, “like old beer bottles and raw onions.”

“And pee,” AH added.

“He just pulled up in that car over there,” E said. “He was the driver.”

The movie wasn’t very scary, but after the Redbox drunk, nothing fictional would have frightened us. I only hoped that when E had her test on Pride and Prejudice, she would throw in something about the zombies.

The Girl Scouts Always Ring Twice

Here’s a cautionary tale for your evening.

This afternoon, while I shopped for overpriced organic food at Earthfare, my older daughter, E, called me on the phone. This was indicative of something being catastrophically wrong. Teenagers do not call unless they have broken hearts or fender benders. I knew she was at home, still half-dressed (or half-undressed, depending on your worldview), so it couldn’t be the car accident. Chances were pretty good it wasn’t the heart ache either because she has yet to let any boy get close enough to have an emotion. I answered the phone, and she was squawking about girls and cookies and something about the stairs and no pants. I couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying, but either way, it didn’t sound good. I interrupted her to make sure whatever it was could wait until I checked out and got home. She hung up on me, which meant it could.

When I pulled my car in the garage, my younger daughter, S, met me at the door.  She looked excited.

S: Girl Scout cookies are here!

Me: Those little girls delivered them today? Cool! Who paid for them?

About a month ago, a couple of neighborhood girls actually went door to door selling Girl Scout cookies instead of having their parents just take the order form to the office. They were so cute and sincere and naïve, so I purchased two boxes, Peanut Butter Patties, which were better when they were called Tag-Alongs, and Thin Mints, because the law requires a minimum of one box per order. Today appeared to be delivery day.

S: I did. You owe me 8 bucks.
Me: I don’t have any money right now. Thank you though.
S:  That’s cool. I’ll get it from Dad. Did E tell you what happened?
Me: Well, she called me, but I couldn’t understand what she said. It sounded like she was crying.
S: She may have been. They rang the doorbell, and I answered it and took the cookies in the kitchen. I had one in my mouth when I went back to the door with my money.
Me: Which flavor?
S: Thin Mint.
Me: Sweet.
S: I gave them the money and closed the door. E heard me pay for the cookies, so she ran downstairs…
Me: Did she fall? No wonder she called me crying. E! E! Are you okay?

I screamed this last part at the top of my lungs so she could hear me from the garage doorway.

S: No, worse.

E, screaming: What do you want?
Me: How worse?
S: You know how she never got dressed today?
Me: Yeah.
S: So she’s still in a t-shirt and underwear. And when she ran downstairs to get at the cookies, the Girl Scouts rang the doorbell again. With their parents. I must have given them a dollar too much, and they came back to return it and say thank you. When I opened the door, E was in the middle of the stairs in her hot pink panties.

I’m sorry but I kind of felt that detail was necessary, not so much that you needed the visual, but more so that you could understand what that unsuspecting family saw through the open door. That almost adult child of mine buys her own underwear now because she doesn’t want me to have any input on her choices. I do not have veto power when it isn’t my money. I am not saying she needs to stick to the six pack of Hanes in original granny pant white, but damn, girl, no one even sees those strips of flimsy cloth. When my husband folds the laundry, he doesn’t know if he should have an erection or a heart attack.

Me: So what did E do? I’m guessing she didn’t fall down the stairs, as I had originally assumed.
S: She stood there like a possum, paralyzed with fear. It was awesome.

I started dinner, and E sauntered into the kitchen, still wearing a t-shirt and underwear. She went to the pantry and grabbed a Girl Scout cookie out of the open package.

Me: Have you learned nothing today?

E, with a cookie in her mouth: mumble mumble

And…scene. The takeaway here is that you should always have pants at the ready during Girl Scout cookie season. You never know when innocent children will arrive at your doorstep with cookies and possibly a couple of parents. Don’t scar them for life.

Olive's Fair in Love and War

I have two teenage daughters.

I don’t need to say anything else for you to know how life is in my house. Ups and downs do not adequately describe it. Roller coasters are not a fair comparison. Jumping out of a plane with no parachute, free falling onto an extra strength trampoline that catapults me across the sky only I’m still attached to a bungee cord that brings me right back so I am dangling precariously until I get whacked like a giant tether ball around a pole, never ending twisting and untwisting and twisting and untwisted…still not quite what it’s like.

Take a moment to appreciate your sons. When you aren’t driving them to sports or band practice, chances are good they are holed up in their rooms playing video games and pausing briefly for some feverishly furtive masturbation before they come to the kitchen and eat all the food in the pantry. You might have some moodiness, some acne, perhaps some other hygiene issues. Sneakers and armpits stink.  The sleeping makes up for it.

Daughters, well, my daughters, are just raw nerve endings with twenty pounds of makeup to dress up those synapses. There are a lot of moods. Trashcans overflow with tear filled Kleenexes and used feminine hygiene products. Sometimes the two of them are witty and smart and impressive. Other times one is a bitch, the other an asshole.

Our latest waste of time issue is fighting over clothes. The older one is on her fourth or fifth look since middle school. I’m running out of money and storage space to accommodate her ever evolving signature style. We’ve gone from funny t-shirts to a sort of rock edgy look to extreme suburban preppy to surfer girl. We are now settling on a sort of college co-ed hipster vibe. That’s a lot of transition if you ask me, but she isn’t on drugs or pregnant so I keep quiet.

The younger one is a lot easier to please for now. She favors a flowy bohemian kind of thing, but she’s really not too picky. She just appreciates something new. Don’t we all?  Now that they are the same height (well, the young one is a teeny bit taller), the hand-me-downs have ended. It’s all new to her these days, and she is pretty happy.

I was hoping they would be the kind of sisters that gave each other advice and shared each other’s secrets and swapped clothes back and forth. Instead, the older one is the kind who sneaks into the other one’s room and takes what she wants without asking, shoes, shirts, pads, you name it.

The younger one will ask to borrow something from the older one, who always says no thank you, because she thinks manners soften the no blow. Occasionally I intervene and tell the older one to share and also to appreciate the fact that the younger one is respectful enough to ask first. That subtle dig is always lost on her.

Currently, they have been at war over an olive green tank top. I found it at Old Navy, on a clearance table. It’s made of cotton and has thin straps and comes up high on the chest. It might be called a high choke neckline, but how the hell would I know? I’m not up on fashion terminology, but I know it’s cute. Also, it was on sale for $1.99. I bought it and brought it home for the older one. She likes to wear camis and tanks with a blanket or bathrobe type schmatta on top, so I thought it was perfect for her urban homeless chic.

She loved it. Unfortunately, so did the younger one. She asked the older one repeatedly if she could borrow it, and was always answered with the no thank you bit. The younger one complained to the older one about taking her things without asking permission and how unfair she was being, but the older one just looked at her phone and ignored her.

After a week or two of this, I went back to Old Navy and bought another olive green tank top. I brought it home and gave it to the younger one, and she was happy and began wearing it immediately.

A little while later, the older one came to me to complain about the younger one taking her things. I asked what things she had a concern about, and she said the olive green tank top. “Oh that? I bought her one too so you would stop fighting over it,” I told her.

She couldn’t believe I would do such a thing. I pointed out that for an extra $1.99, I eliminated one of the daily battles, which was worth the two bucks. Her response? “But it’s exactly like mine.”

“Won’t it be fun when you wear it on the same day accidentally?” I said.

That happened once with a side braid. They came downstairs for school sporting a side braid, only on opposite sides of their heads, because even their parts have to be different. I don’t think the older one has worn a side braid since that day.

Come to think of it, I don’t think she has worn her olive green tank top either, which is fine, because I’m only out $1.99.

 

 

 

Walkabout

Let’s travel, shall we, back to the beginning of the summer, for another installment of what I did for my summer vacation.

When we left off, my family and I had arrived and spent our first partial day in London. We managed to take in a good bit of the airport, a wee bit of the natural history museum, and a flaky bit of Harrods’ pastries.

Our first full day in London became a quest to fulfill my husband’s desire of recreating a walk from our Lonely Planet guide. It promised to be a meandering sightseeing stroll that would take us from one side of the Thames to the other. No one in my family is very skilled in the art of map reading, although only one of us is woman enough to admit it, so we weren’t entirely sure how long the walk would be, especially since there were many sights to see along the way.

We began our morning at the Tower of London. The Tower is where the crown jewels are housed, guarded by a few of the Queen’s own guards, with their festive red coats and tall furry hats. The rest of the staff are Yeoman Warders, but we know them as Beefeaters. They too wore fabulous uniforms, but my family disappointed me by refusing to pose with any of them.  I kept pointed out that we were tourists and therefore it was not only acceptable to do touristy things, it was expected of us, but they were having none of that.

The tour book recommended taking a tour led by a beefeater, which began just behind the main gate, in what at one time was probably some moat or reservoir of blood and disembodied heads. What they don’t tell you is you wait with three hundred of your closest strangers to begin the tour. All those people with their selfie sticks and annoying children kicked up my autism, so we skipped the informative portion of the tourist attraction and opted for the more confused and less organized system of going the wrong way and trying to avoid the crowds.

Spoiler alert: the Tower doesn’t have as much torture as you might hope for, unless you count that tour at the beginning.  It is perfectly fascinating in other ways. Medieval graffiti carved on the stone walls. A collection of body armor for both man and horse.  Ravens, which are big AF and not crows at all, so suck it, you dumb Yanks.  What the Tower doesn’t have is good feng shui, air conditioning, or gin.  Keep that in mind when you plan your visit.

After we had exhausted ourselves and grabbed a snack at the Tower café, we, along with a million other out of towners, crossed the Tower Bridge to get to the other side. The Bridge is an engineering marvel and really cool in a Disney sort of way. It’s also not that old, and also not that bridge. London Bridge is actually in Arizona, in case you forgot. The Tower Bridge is probably the one you thought was London Bridge, so that’s good news, I suppose.

When we crossed over the Thames, we started to sort of lose our way, because none of us can read a map, whether it’s in a book, on a giant piece of folded glossy paper, or Google maps on an iPhone. We worked our way up and down some streets, passing fish and chips shops which all boasted the best, but really, is that possible? Afternoon fatigue and jet lag settled down on us, a fishing net of bitch and moan.  

 

 

Finally, under a portion of a railway bridge, we found the perfect oasis: the Borough Market. If you like to eat food, look at food, smell food, shop for food, or just be anywhere near food, Borough Market is the place for you. It’s loosely divided into categories, the breads and pastries, meats and game and fish, dairy and cheeses, teas and flours and spices. We wandered, overwhelmed by the freshness and the plenty.  Everything, even the things we don’t like, looked amazing and fascinating. Paella pans bigger than my kitchen table. Indian street food that met food safety standards. Chocolates made by magical elven hands. I wanted to sing and dance with a large umbrella and pick up Scotch eggs and mushroom logs to show someone, anyone, and then I wanted to eat until I exploded.

If you go to London, you should check it out. It’s pretty cool.

We found a small spot in a church courtyard next door and ate the few snacks we purchased with the money we could figure out. Around us Londoners did the same, all the while smoking their fancy European cigarettes and kicking at their annoying pigeons like people do in any big city. We took a quick detour through the church, which turned out to be Southwark Cathedral, to see an ancient Greek artifact that had just been discovered during some renovation work. We also needed to use the bathroom. Thanks, Church of England!

The walk, much like this blog, wasn’t yet over. We strolled down garbage scented alleys and back up to the water’s edge, stopping to marvel at the patch of modern buildings, an interesting juxtaposition to the older and more iconic landmarks of the London skyline.  Our feet hurt. We paused to rest in front of the historic Globe theatre. Check! Seen it!

 

 

I secretly delighted that no one wanted to see any ‘Speare in its natural habitat.

Finally, we reached the end of the walk and my husband’s main goal for the day, the Tate Modern Gallery. Located in the South Bank area in what used to be a power station, the Tate appeals to his aesthetic. He’s really into old power stations and modern art. It was perfect for him.

If you want to experience a modern art gallery to its fullest, I recommend taking two teenage girls who have been walking all day.

It’s good to know that my daughters are not into neither power stations nor modern art. We made the best of it, which isn’t true. What we made is fun, fun of all of it. Of the hexagon paper cutouts taped to the wall, the weird ropey dreadlock thing hanging from the ceiling, of the endless nipples and penises and vaginas and different combinations thereof. Most artworks elicited one of two responses from my girls: “I made that in preschool” or “How many more naked people do we have to look at?” It was, in a word, delightful. 

My husband opted to appreciate the art on his own. My children found every available seat and took selfies of their pissy faces or pictures of detritus on the floor. Art, they said.

 

I want to thank the person who created that walk for the Lonely Planet guide. Anyone who thinks one day should be spent going from early English monarchy to awesome food under a bridge to modern art in a power house has a real spirit of adventure.

It was another perfect day in London.

Dress to Kill

School began two weeks ago, and I am already tired of fighting about clothes.

My 15 year old daughter, the older and least responsible of my two children, has been pushing my buttons over what to wear to school in the mornings. She refuses to pick out her clothing the night before, no matter how many times I ask her to or threaten to do it myself. Instead, she waits until the moment she should be getting in the car to decide on something questionable at best, making her late and causing an argument at the same time. We both start the day in a bad mood.

I wish I understood how this game is played.

Before school started, we did the whole back to school shopping thing. She has pretty high standards in attire, which I indulge due to a combination of Jewish guilt and a childhood of wearing hand me downs or just going without. There was no such thing as back to school shopping in my childhood experience, so I admit, I overcompensate for my girls. I prefer things be on sale, but I understand that some jeans cost a hundred bucks, and I rationalize buying two pairs if they last the whole school year.

Despite the trips to Anthropologie and Lucky Jeans, my daughter claims, falsely, to have nothing to wear. Honestly, when you look at a lot of her clothes, her Birkenstocks, her ripped jeans, her oversized beige cardigan sweater, she looks like a wealthy homeless person.

What she does have, in addition to her Big Lebowski chic, is an entire wardrobe of summer only clothing, things that don’t follow the rather specific school dress code. The code involves things like no spaghetti straps and no shorts more than three inches above the knee and no yoga pants or leggings and no jeans with tears or shreds or rips and absolutely no midriff showing ever because bare stomachs are like windows to your vagina.  I don’t know if you have gone shopping for teenage girl clothing lately, but the only things available are specifically what the school prohibits.

I would like to point out that the dress code issue is primarily one for girls. The boys don’t have to worry about spaghetti straps or yoga pants or short shorts. They might have an issue with inappropriate graphic t-shirts or wearing loose pants too low, but other than that, they don’t generally get sent home for being a distraction. Not that there’s a double standard or anything.

What would solve this problem, in theory, are uniforms. If we went in the khaki pants and polo shirt direction, we might have the issue of mine is nicer than yours, but we wouldn’t have the problem of how short is too short in a dress.

The other morning was particularly rough.  At 7:30, the exact moment my daughter is supposed to back out of the driveway, she stood upstairs at the balcony overlooking the family room and said, “Does this look good?”  She was wearing an old stained white cami top, an unbuttoned chambray shirt, and a pair of pants that she got from a friend who outgrew them. They are somewhere between a yoga pant, a sweat pant, and a pajama pant, none of which meet the dress code.  I refer to them as her clown pants.

“It looks okay, I guess,” I said.

“That’s exactly what Dad said,” she groaned.

“Well, I guess the consensus is it’s an okay outfit. Do you know what time it is?” I asked.

“I’m going to be late and I have nothing to wear and you don’t like this,” she complained. “I wear shirts like this all the time. It’s no big deal.”

“I don’t care about the shirt, it’s more the clown pants I don’t like’, I said.” But I am not the one wearing them.”

“I guess I have to change,” she yelled as she ran back to her bedroom.

Five minutes later, at 7:35, she stomped down the stairs. This time she was wearing a short black dress with the same chambray shirt open on top. The dress was not three inches above her knees; it was about two inches below her butt cheeks. “I’ll probably get sent home for this,” she said.

“Then why did you put it on?” I asked her.

“It’s really short. I know I’ll get in trouble for it.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. I am pretty sure she was waiting for me to say it was fine or not to worry, which I was not about to do.

“I’m late and this is all I have,” she said loudly, not quite a scream, but almost.

“Why did you take off the clown pants?” I said.

“You didn’t like them, but they fit dress code,” she snapped.

“Well, I didn’t tell you to change. But I am now. You can’t wear that to school, so you better go change again. Why don’t you wear one of those short sleeved shirts I bought you a couple of weeks ago?”

“I don’t want to wear one today,” she said.

I just stared at her. “Sure am glad I took you shopping for things you could pick out and then reject,” I muttered.

“I don’t have time for this!” She finally reached the yelling stage.

“Make time for it,” I said. “Now. Go change into something that isn’t going to get you in-school suspension. I am not about to bring you a change of clothing because you wore something you know you shouldn’t.”

She stomped back up the stairs and slammed the door. I continued to eat my breakfast.

Five minutes later, at 7:40, she came barreling down the stairs. She had on the original cami with the chambray shirt and a pair of jeans.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I asked.

“Thanks a lot for ruining my morning and making me late,” she pouted as she grabbed her lunch box but left her water bottle on the counter.

“My morning isn’t exactly off to a good start either. Don’t forget your water bottle!” I said.

“I don’t have time to stop for it,” she said.

“But you have time to have a fight about it!” This time I yelled at her.

She slammed the door and left, leaving me to wonder how fast and careless she would drive. Did I mention she was fifteen? Fifteen year olds aren’t known for their ability to compartmentalize their emotions and focus on being safe or cautious.

When she was a little girl, she and I would spend time together every night before her bath and bedtime picking out an outfit for the next school day. She would lay it out, finding matching socks, maybe a hair ribbon, so she was all ready to learn bright and early the next day and look sharp while doing it. Now she is a few years away from a college freshman who sniffs the armpits of a t-shirt to see if it is clean enough.  

I blame the school dress code.