June 29, 2008
The Darnell & Lorraine Saga...Continued
Lorraine and her pals walked into Trio’s. It was about 10:00 and the place was packed with post-game revelers (who had long ago learned to celebrate their team’s quotidian losses) and a few families that hurried to get their kids out of there before the music and language became too obnoxious. The trio found a four-top and scooped the littered parmesan cheese and dried peppers off the table before sitting down.
“We shoulda gone to the Grog Shop,” complained Patty. “The food’s so much better. And I have a fake ID.”
Lorraine grinned, “Yeah, well I tried to use my sister’s the last time I was in there and got busted, so I have to stay away until my hair grows another two, three inches.”
“You’ll always get carded, Lorraine, probably til you’re like thirty or something,” beamed Alex.
“Thanks, Alex…I think,” said Lorraine, with a squint.
Lorraine looked around and her heart skipped when she saw Darnell in a corner booth, sitting alone, reading the Friday magazine as though perusing for a better place to hang out. She never quite knew what he was thinking. He was an enigma for sure, which made him all the more appealing to her. But he was too old, already in college. What would he see in her – a sophomore, just turned fifteen, a figure like Dorothy Hamill’s (with a close resemblance of her famous bob), barely old enough to date “legally” according to the parental rules? She watched him for a minute. Darnell finally looked up and their eyes met. He gave her a crooked combination of smirk and smile; Lorraine winked back. Darnell sat up and motioned with the universal curled index finger for Lorraine to come thither. She frowned and shook her head and mirrored the gesture for him to come hither.
Neither one moved.
Then, either out of a gallant reflex to free the table for legitimate customers, or his exhaustion from the day’s hegira, Darnell stood up and walked to Lorraine’s table.
“Hey guys, fancy meeting you here. Can I join ya?”
Lorraine reached over and pulled out the chair next to her.
“Take a load off, Darnell,” she said, dispassionately, looking in the opposite direction to appear unfazed.
Alex asked if a large pepperoni would be enough. Lorraine grimaced, wishing there were pineapple on the pizza instead, but resigned herself to peeling the pepperoni off the bubbling pie and dabbing the grease with a napkin.
“What’s wrong, Lorraine, you don’t like pepperoni?” Asked Darnell, between huge bites. He must have been starving.
“No.”
“You want to spice it up?” Darnell shook some dried peppers on Lorraine’s slice.
“Hey!” protested Lorraine. “Whaddaya doin?”
“Try it. You’ll like it,” smiled Darnell. “You should spice up your life, honey.”
Alex looked askance at Darnell. Despite his nerd disposition, his primal male instincts sensed a threat. Darnell was not only older, wiser, stronger, faster and better looking, he was moving in on his girl.
“Lorraine, I think I’d better get you home. You know you have a curfew.”
Lorraine blushed in embarrassment.
“It’s not THAT late. Hold yer horses, Alex. Let me at least finish this dreadful piece of pizza. Kinda goes with the company,” as she sent Darnell a dark glance through slightly squinted eyes.
She was frustrated that both boys were suddenly treating her like a child.
“I’m going to go make a phone call,” she said. She stood up, excused herself and walked out the front door and down the parking lot toward the pay phone at the street.
Darnell and Alex exchanged evil looks.
Lorraine disappeared.
Darnell got up and peered out the front window of Trio's. Where was she goin? He sat back down with Alex. Time for brass tacks. No way was he going to let Captain Kirk ace him out for the girl he had hitchiked back 500 miles to see.
"So, Alex, you're captain of the computer club, right?"
"Yes, indubitably."
"Don't you mean 'incontrovertibly', you twit?"
"I guess."
"So, I was captain of the hockey team, and a National Merit Scholar to boot, and, if I'm not misstaken, we won two City and one State champioships. How'd you guys do?" he snarked.
"Well, we got crushed by Shaker Heights."
"Whatever, no hard feelings. And I'm thinking of getting Lorraine some flowers. What's her favorite color?"
"Dunno."
"Thought so. Good luck."
Darnell just sat back and hoped that Lorraine would return.
Alex and Patty left Trio’s a little after eleven. Darnell sat at the table, listless, finishing the crusts, resigned to the fact that Lorraine had ditched them both. He had to come up with a plan, but he was too exhausted to think. He’d been up close to 24 hours already and was slap happy. He trekked home and fell onto the couch in the living room in a comatose sleep. His mother woke up to his snoring and put a blanket on him.
It was a bright, cold Saturday morning, early November in Cleveland when the weather can vary from Indian summer to arctic blizzards. Darnell debated whether to hike to the rink to join his former team’s practice (they’d love to see him) or think up a reason to call Lorraine. After a breakfast fit for a lumberjack (eggs, bacon, pancakes, oatmeal, grapefruit juice, and a quart of milk), Darnell felt like a new man. He thought he could kill two birds with one stone: ask Lorraine to go skating with him at the afternoon session and he could get in a little workout as well as a little courting. It seemed like a brilliant plan at the time.
He dialed her number. Instead of the ubiquitous busy signal, the phone rang and Lorraine answered it, for a change. Usually one of her several siblings (how many kids lived there, anyway?) bogarted the phone at all hours.
“Hey, Lorraine. It’s Darnell.”
“Yes. Hello. What can I do for you?”
He couldn’t tell if she was messing with him or being polite. One never knew with Lorraine.
“Wanna go skating with me this afternoon?”
Lorraine paused for a few beats. “Sure. I’ll meet you at the rink at 2:00.”
Darnell hung up and began to plot a scheme to get her alone behind the big snow drifts left by the Zamboni. He knew she could skate well enough, but he hoped he could accidentally-on-purpose lead her to the pile of snow and feign a twisted ankle or something. Then her natural nurturing instincts would kick in and she’d let down that cool shell for a minute and feel sorry for him. When she helped him to his feet, he could steal a kiss….
So, Margaret had broken the news that Lorraine was "out for the night", and in a none too friendly or informative way. What, like these girls had their own team and we're just the opposition? OK then, game on.
What to do? Hang around like some chump and wait for her to get back? No way! Wasn't he always first one on the ice? First one to grab a beer out of the trunk of Chopper's GTO in the parking lot after the game? First one to talk to any new pretty face at Trio's?
No way he had any problem with that action. Connie the Cheerleader had practically fainted when he asked if she wanted to go to that party (she wasn't much fun anyway, even though she was kinda cute and perky and top-heavy. When she opened up her mouth he just wanted to run and hide).
But this one, Jeezus, she was just so different. He couldn't quite figure out what she was thinking and he kinda liked that; but, damn, that made it almost impossible to figure out just what to do. And he hated that. What was he, succumbing to some sort of abulia, aphasia, apnea, or something?
He knew he'd find the right thing to do. He wanted to be mad at the whole situation, but he just couldn't. Because, well, the thought of her just made him smile.
Lorraine arrived at the rink and looked around for Darnell. She didn’t want to appear too obvious, so she engaged a friend in a forgettable conversation about trivial events while watching out of the corner of her eye for Darnell’s arrival.
There he is, she thought. Darnell was so competent on skates, adroit, even, and Lorraine felt a little self-conscious at her lack of impressive skating skills, although she could move rather nicely to music in a rhythmic sway with a few skipping steps that looked a little like ice dancing. Her competitive streak withered at the notion of facing an actual hockey player – and a college scholarship athe-lete at that. In her pragmatic way, she decided to keep a low profile on the ice and let him show off if he must.
Darnell spotted Lorraine the minute she hit the ice. He watched her get into a groove with the song, bent slightly forward at the waist, her legs moved with a strong, steady pulse as she gracefully avoided slower skaters without missing a beat.
She’s not bad, he thought, but she’s no hockey player. I could skate circles around her…and I think I will!
Darnell sprinted over to Lorraine and shirred a sluice of shimmering ice on her yellow corduroys as he came to a stop.
“Niiiiice.” quipped Lorraine.
“Hey. Where ya been?” smiled Darnell.
Suddenly, their little reverie was interrupted by Bruce, one of the few decent figure skaters in a town of an endangered species of figure skaters, who cut in front of Darnell with a camelopard move and inquired, “Hi Lorraine! Wanna skate?”
Darnell reddened, stood up straight, and began to roister with jealousy.
“Beat it, Homo!” he growled.
Posted by lorelei at 07:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)May 31, 2008
The (Mis)adventures of Darnell & Lorraine - A Love Story
The following is the first in a series of a fictitous (but somewhat autobiographical) collaborative invention of the imaginary courtship between Darnell and Lorraine; it's a boy-meets-girl story designed to create a history that could not actually exist between a couple that didn't meet until they were in middle age (gah, I hate that term); in other words, an exercise in "what might have been"...
Darnell was but a sophomore, sixteen years old and just starting to wake up to concerns other than homework, hockey practice, and his pride-and-joy '58 Oldsmobile, which he had hopped-up with the help of his good buddy and classmate, Dan.
As usual, after practice he drove over to Dan's and parked on the front lawn so he wouldn't leak oil on the immaculately-kept driveway; either way, Dan's dad was less than thrilled with the arrangement, yet he thought that Darnell was a good influence on Dan (little did he know!), so no real harm done. Darnell and Dan debated the merits of Ram Induction vs. Fuel Injection, Holley 4-barrels vs. 3 dueces, and Rocky River vs. Bay Village girls.
Between stolen sips of their carefully stashed Molson's and wiping the engine grease from their hands off on the driveway bushes, Darnell caught occasional glimpses of Dan's younger sister Lorraine paying absolutely no attention to them whatsoever.
Lorraine, all of thirteen, tanned, kinda cute but really snotty, always had her nose buried in some book. There was something about her...but he just couldn't put his finger on it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Darnell’s parents had a ’73 Mercury Cougar (dark brown hard top) that Darnell drove whenever the ’58 Olds was broken down (quite often), if he wasn’t in any hot water with the folks, that is. It wasn’t much of a cruising car, but it got him from Point A to Point B in relative luxury.
During college break in December of ’75, Darnell knew Lorraine was taking Driver’s Ed and was preparing to take the state driver’s test. It was a typical Cleveland winter (before global warming) and the streets were covered in snow. Lorraine complained that her mom’s car, the Ford LTD station wagon with imitation wood paneling on the side, was an unwieldy “boat” and would surely doom her driver’s test, especially in this horrible weather.
Darnell was seized by a flash of afflatus: teach Lorraine to do donuts in the high school parking lot in the Cougar. That would really help her to learn how to control a vehicle in the snow.
He drove to Lorraine’s house and had her get behind the wheel of the Cougar. “Now, this car is a breeze to drive,” he said. “Just take it easy, it has power brakes and power steering, so don’t overcompensate. Just tap the brakes when you feel yourself slipping.”
Lorraine was seriously nervous, and the Old Spice Darnell had slapped on, obviously only minutes before arriving, made her a little queasy.
“Sheesh, Darnell. What’s with the aftershave?”
“Hey,” Darnell pouted, “You told me never to wear that Brut again or you wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole.”
“I don’t much like this stuff, either. All my men wear English Leather or nothing at all.”
“Oh, Turdblossom!!,” mumbled Darnell. “Just drive. Easy. Easy on that brake, Honey.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Darnell arrived at Lorraine’s house unannounced one Friday afternoon, after spending over twelve hours hitchhiking from Madison to Cleveland along 400 miles of Interstate 90, waiting at truck stops drinking flat Coke and bad coffee to stay awake between rides. He had to rebuff, in his inimitable, vituperous, hockey-player fashion (by threatening to commit grievous bodily harm), a balding, flatulent trucker who took a shine to him. After the trucker spent an hour ogling Darnell’s fine young form from a corner table, and slurping down a plate of runny eggs and a half pound of bacon, the grease dripping from his chin, he wiped his mouth with the back of a grimy paw and stood up, grinned lasciviously (and partially toothless) at Darnell and asked, “Hey, Sonny, you need a lift someplace?”
Darnell’s foul mood grew even darker when he was told that Lorraine was “out for the evening” by her younger sister, Margaret.
“Where’d she go?” He asked, frowning, impatiently kicking the brick wall of the front porch.
“I dunno,” replied Margaret. “Out with some guy.”
“Hillary Rodham Clinton!”, mumbled Darnell colorfully, as he turned to leave.
Where could she be? he wondered. She didn’t go to the football game, did she? Nahh, she hadn’t been to a football game since she quit that pansy-ass band with all those fairy bandos: clarinet players, sissy trombone players and that nerdy trumpet player, whatshisface, Keith? Guy with a stupid polka-dot hat Lorraine liked for awhile. Not with him, please.
Dark, violent thoughts flashed like small fireworks in Darnell’s exhausted brain. He shrugged and walked to the high school stadium, thinking the worst.
From two blocks away, Darnell could hear the cadence of the snare drums and strains of the band playing a pep song. He remembered his own high school football career and its attendant inanity: goofy parents dressed in puffy down jackets, blank eyed cheerleaders waving pom-poms with smiles like plastic dolls, hormone-surged boys eyeing insipid girls who alternately flirted and snubbed with faux derision. Now, as a sophisticated college boy, the mating game bored him, the band bored him, the game bored him, it all bored him. He needed a beer.
From twenty feet away, he spotted Lorraine in the bleachers. On one side of her was her best friend, Patty, an elfin brunette with thick glasses and a heart-shaped mouth Darnell found slightly appealing, but the attraction was immediately quashed once Patty emitted a giggle that sounded like an animal in a trap. On Lorraine’s left was her presumptive date, a blonde geek named Alex who was captain of the computer club, a guy who carried his IBM punch cards with his latest FORTRAN program in his pocket like a talisman. Darnell recalled Lorraine mentioning that Alex dressed as Captain Kirk for Halloween. Probably wore Star Trek pajamas, too, thought Darnell. What a wuss. What’s she doin’ with him?
She must still be in her techie phase, he thought. She was always curious about technology, God knows why. Strange girl, that one. Audiophile, technophile, clown. He nevertheless was a little relieved, because he knew she would never really like this guy. Probably felt sorry for him and went out with him out of charity. She was sweet like that. She could never, well, probably never really like him, could she?
He stopped short of bounding up the bleachers to surprise her and paused, deliberating whether to alert her to his presence. He looked up again.
Sugar.
She saw him. He was busted.
"I gotta go talk to her," he thought.
Darnell hiked up the bleachers, not making too obvious eye contact, trying to look cool and unhurried (even though his heart was thumping), stopping en route to exchange insults with his goalie who was half watchin the game but more interested in his smuggled-in flask of Jack Daniels.
"Hi Lorraine, how are you?"
"Hi Darnell. Fine, thanks."
"Hey Patty...and Hi, uh, Adam?"
"Alex."
"Sorry, man" Darnell offered Alex a firm and friendly handshake.
"So, Lorraine, I don't mean to interrupt you guys, but I've got a paper coming up in English Lit, on Yeats and Shelley. And your brother told me that you were good with poetry, so I was wondering if you could maybe help me with my paper?"
"I could maybe do that."
"Yeah, I'm not all that well versed in those guys, but I really liked Shelley's wife's "Frankenstein"; and I like Yeats a lot. "Innisfree", right? And he was a poet/revolutionary. Pretty cool, eh?"
"We could talk about it."
"OK, I'll call you. See you guys later."
All he could think was "Damn, she's cute. Looks even better up close. And she's smart...I've had it with those vacuous cheerleaders."
Lorraine mused "Hmmm...he's not so dumb, even for a hockey player."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lorraine watched Darnell descend the bleachers, stifling a laugh at his obvious ploy to talk to her. Poetry paper, indeed, she thought. He didn’t need any help with that; not like he needed help in his art class, since even a stick figure proved too challenging for him. She wondered where he was going and guessed he might linger at the only decent hangout in town, Trio’s pizza joint on Lake Road where the jukebox was pretty decent. She smiled recalling one night she and her friends were in there and Darnell and some of his hockey buddies were trying to commandeer the jukebox. Patty kept playing the insipid Steve Miller song:
Youre the cutest thing
That I ever did see
I really love your peaches
Want to shake your tree
After the song came up the third or fourth time (she lost count), Darnell shouted over to their table, “Holy Mother of Dick Cheney, I hate that song!” Lorraine hated the song, too, so it was a little bonding moment.
But Yeats? Did he really like Yeats? She supposed she could test him with a few references of “no country for old men” or “centres not holding.” He could be paying attention, which would be interesting. And if he liked Dylan Thomas, she might have to reevaluate his candidacy. She tried to push aside thoughts of their first stolen kiss that made Keith Talbot seem like a lipless frog.
Wait. Keith Talbot was a lipless frog.
Her reverie was interrupted by a tap on her shoulder from her sort-of date, Alex.
“Hey, Lorraine. They lost again.”
“Yep. As usual. That team is so bad, the marching band doesn’t even know a victory march, just like when we were in it.”
Alex laughed. “So, where do you want to go, now?”
Lorraine paused, pretending to deliberate.
“I know! Let’s go to Trio’s!”
To be continued...
Posted by lorelei at 06:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)April 07, 2008
Once a Cartoonist...
Back in September, I met a gentleman online who was interested in my essays and stories and we began a mutually amusing correspondence for several months. It turned out that he was a somewhat famous cartoonist who had retired a few years ago after his wife suffered a massive stroke. As a result of her confinement, "Jim" was isolated from many people and hobbies he once enjoyed.
I mentioned to him that I once dabbled in cartooning, mostly sketching little caracitures on cocktail napkins and other amateur folly.
"Once a cartoonist, always a cartoonist," he told me. It's who you are, bad drawings and all. Well, they're not really *that* bad.
One time, years ago (1995, I think), I went to Niagara-on-the-Lake with a woman who was, at the time, a sort of therapist/mother friend. Her brother and his family lived up there. It is a beautiful place. His wife was a gourmet cook and while I knew my way around a Dijon vinaigrette, I learned a few important culinary tips and musts that weekend.
They had a sumptuous dinner party the Saturday evening I was there and some discussion was had over mushrooms. I can't recall now what prompted it, but one of the guests said, "I saw this huge mushroom at the market, you know, really huge. What are they called again?"
"Portobello?" suggested someone. No, that wasn't it. A few other guesses were made. Then I said, in a sort of Science Teacher voice, "Oh, that would be the fungi humongi."
They had all had a few glasses of wine, so it took a second.
As a thank-you gift to my wonderful host and hostess, I composed and drew a comic book called, "The Fungi Humongi" which was about a giant mushroom that attacks bad restaurant cooks all across the globe who use, among other things, Kraft parmesan grated cheese in a can.
It was full of bad puns. The illustrations were crazy enough to be funny. At the end, the Fungi Humongi winds up living in Jamaica (mon) and is worshipped as a god. His apostles snip bits of his fleshy top and brew hallucinogenic tea.
I think I still have a copy around somewhere, and if I ever find it I'll scan it for your amusement.
As a child, I used to write captions and draw little balloon thoughts and mustaches, hair, glasses, whatever, in my Religion Book at Catholic school. I got into a lot of trouble for that, needless to say.
I am surely going to Hell.
Posted by lorelei at 07:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)February 07, 2008
I Walk, Therefore I Skate - Redux
The first time I went ice-skating I was four years old, wore double-runner white figure skates, and wobbled and slipped on a frozen pond, its texture similar to the surface of the moon. My parents, both superb skaters, knew what they were doing. By putting me on slow, high friction ice dotted with clumps of tall weeds and the occasional stone, they ensured I would develop my skating feet, work the muscle groups a little harder, and avoid falling as often. To introduce a novice skater to the slick, unforgiving finish of an indoor ice rink is akin to pushing a non-swimmer in the deep end of the pool.
On the west side of Cleveland during that era, virtually everyone I knew ice-skated. By age five or six most of us had graduated to standard figure skates and longed for the day when we would receive, either from hand-me-downs or new (gasp), a pair of hockey skates with their supple, saddle leather boots and razor sharp blades. For some unexplained regional prejudice, white figure skates were solely acceptable on girls who were training in figure skating, and were otherwise considered uncouth. Those poor girls who wore them were ridiculed or shunned, and sometimes rudely showered with a cloud of ice from those of us who could raise a wave of it with a “hockey stop.”
Figure skating in general was not very popular at the time, which explains why, although one was fitted for ice skates shortly after booties, there were no champion figure skaters from this area. Hockey was the preferred sport. Most of the regional high schools supported a team, and some of you may recall that Cleveland had an NHL team, the Barons for a few years that has recently resurrected as an AHL team. Since girls were not allowed to play organized hockey, some of us took up speed skating instead. But, getting to meets was extremely inconvenient to most parents with large families, so we had to be content with just knowing how to skate really, really fast and compete in spontaneous private events like drag racing on the crowded rink during public sessions.
The ice rink of our childhood was outdoors with a few hazardous spots in gaps between the wooden corral walls and the ice. Subjected to northern Ohio winter elements, the ice got a little rough rather quickly, which served to make us stronger skaters. Pop music of the time (some of the best skating music ever) was piped from tinny loudspeakers you could hear from 200 yards away as you approached or left the rink. We sang along, skated in rhythm, coupled up, watched for friends to arrive, and occasionally thawed out on wooden benches inside the spartan locker area where the floor was covered with large, rubber tiles that squeaked against your skates. The concession stand was limited to soda, watery hot cocoa and popcorn, but nobody went to the rink to eat. Most of us went to skate…and to meet boys.
Between the months of November and March, the skating rink was the place to find romance. It was better than a sock hop or school function because skating alone was perfectly acceptable, and if you were a competent skater you’d attract a partner during the “couples only” skates. Many relationships blossomed under the glow of multicolored outdoor lights, amid the crackle of the Association’s Never my Love, while holding gloved hands cris-crossed in the traditional style. The litmus test of any new relationship formed in school was observing the courting ritual on the ice rink. If the prospect was faithful and didn’t skate with any other girls, there was a future. If the prospect didn’t skate, that made for a tenuous long distance relationship, since most of us spent 100 days a year at the rink, often staying for both afternoon sessions on Saturdays and Sundays.
Then one year in the early 70s, between spring and autumn, the city razed the beloved outdoor rink, like the Velveteen Rabbit with its warped surface, shabby edges and mounds of packed snow left by the Zambonis that remained long into April, and replaced it with a sparkling new indoor rink where we could skate without hats or coats on fast, wet ice that challenged even the veteran skaters. At first it was a little like a demolition derby until we all adjusted to the glassy surface and warmer temperatures.
Continued...
Posted by lorelei at 10:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (29)December 24, 2007
Merry Christmas!
Coming up soon - "Where Are They Now?" - five years later.
Posted by lorelei at 08:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (28)December 25, 2006
Quest for the Holy Grail of Christmas Toys
Some of you may remember the Cabbage Patch Doll shortage back in the early 80s, and perhaps the inexplicable “Tickle Me Elmo” stampede of years past. It seems every holiday, manufacturers under produce or under supply a popular new game or toy in order to torment already frenzied and credit-maxed-out parents, drive up the price, and create a frothing frenzy in children across the civilized world. It’s a great example of free enterprise: supply and demand.
This year I, with eyes and wallet wide open, willingly subscribed to the latest scarcity scam.
Ponsa, ponsa time the kids and I were in Gamestop, a place to buy used and new games and systems, to trade some Gameboy Advance games for something new. Nathan looked up at a display of the new Nintendo hand-held system, pointed to it and said, "I want that, Mom!" Had I known how scarce these things would be in December, I might have gone back and bought 10 or 20 ahead of time and would now be sitting in Hawaii sipping a tropical cocktail with a little umbrella in it.
In the back of my mind, I thought it would make a spectacular Christmas present at $129. Maybe I’d even get two, one for each child.
The idea of having portable games, video games, or any type of game is foreign to me. I managed to survive 25 years of motherhood without ever owning a video game system. We still don’t have anything that plugs into a TV - yet. However, two Christmases ago, forces beyond my control thrust me into the 21st century of toys. Lauren got a Gameboy from her east-side grandmother. I had no intention of getting either child this toy, because I could foresee the endless headaches it would cause. I didn’t know the half of it.
When Lauren returned from her dad's with a Gameboy, Nathan pleaded with me to get him one as well. Since it really was right up his alley (and he is quite a natural), I relented. Thus was born the love/hate relationship I have with Nintendo.
Fast forward to the present, I decide, as a sort of afterthought, to get the kids a 2-screen Gameboy system, not even recalling what the system was called. I went to a Gamestop with a friend on the east side, and a 20-something clerk there was extremely helpful. He explained the differences between the DS and the DS Lite, what it did, how it worked, how it has a wi-fi and all sorts of other sophisticated technology, all of which was, I admit, pretty darn impressive.
I was sold. I said, "OK, I'd like a pink one and a black one."
He said, "I don't have any."
I said, "Oh my gosh, you just sold me two and you don't have any?”
He suggested, rather apologetically, that there were none to be found on planet earth.
Well, we know that could not be not true, especially if you are determined to find something and don't mind getting scalped a little. Just a little. After several hours of searching other stores, calling stores, surfing every outlet online and scouting EBay, I finally decided to get the systems from a “Buy Now” retailer on EBay and pay the extra money. What’s another $100 in order to see your children’s thrilled faces on Christmas morning? Chump change!
I paced all morning and half of Thursday afternoon, like an expectant father, waiting for the Lites to arrive. One came by USPS and one came by UPS. I had to think of where to hide the presents, since I don't have a handy neighbor across the hall anymore. Sure, it's a big house, but Lauren is nosey and will scrounge around in the basement and the back porch and my closet, the garage and car are out, and I didn’t want to forget where I hid them.
It came to me: hide them in the crawl space adjacent to Nathan's bedroom. He'll never look there. He thinks a monster lives in the attic! Then Saturday morning he scared me. He walked into the kitchen from watching something on TV and right out of the blue he said, "It's a DS, Mom."
(gulp) "What's a DS?" I ask, casually.
"It's a Gameboy DS that plays Pokemon Red Rescue. That's what it's called."
My heart skipped a beat. Like a good mom, I faked it:
"Oh. OK. Never heard of it."
He still believes in Santa Claus; I think both kids got a big reinforcement this year. This morning, at the ungodly hour of 6:45 AM, the kids opened their gifts to find the 2006 version of the Holy Grail. They have been in awestruck silence ever since.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Posted by lorelei at 08:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (82)December 20, 2006
winter morning
alarm goes off
think about sleeping longer, driving lauren to school
letting her miss the bus
alright i’m up
groggy
walk upstairs wake lauren
lay out some clothes
ok, yes
you can wear your new red sweater
the one you were saving
for christmas
ok
whatever
pad downstairs
auto pilot
unstack dishwasher
somewhere between
washing coffeepot
grinding coffee beans
wrrrrrrrr
making lunch
pouring a bowl of special k
for lauren
i put in a microwave aunt jemima breakfast
beep
look over
see cereal
knew she'd want the french toast
i eat the cereal
you look nice honey
no, no time for pony tails
hairdressing
hurry up let's go
no hat
it messesupmyhair, mom
out the door
one down
zonk boy
dead weight
wake up, honey
it's after 8 already
i let him sleep too late
again
kisses
hey wake up
lay out clothes
sits up eyes closed
let's get dressed
here you go
not hungry
no time
not much for eating in the morning
anyway
packing for the picky one
triscuits
cut up cheese
banana
last donut
milk money
where's my gameboy?
it's in the kitchen
where you left it
washed the backpack
that some kid
threw up on
yesterday
on the bus
go through pile of stuff
i took out before i washed it
putting some of it back
tossing things
papers
coloring
usual stuff
cd in the pile
"ursem family 2006"
who are the ursems
and why does nathan have their cd
have to check it out
where is your hat
no hats
both hats at school
one coat at school
please remember to bring your coatandhats home
you are out of hats
here, wear your hood
ok, glubs match
you must have a few glubs at school too
don't forget them
today is the last day
out the door
very very cold
sunny blue cold
two down
my turn
December 05, 2006
Happy Birthday, Baby!
Twenty-something years ago today, when I was only 20, I was living in “cool, green” Asheville, North Carolina and about to give birth to my first baby. We had moved down there in early July, during Wimbledon, and it rained 22 days straight. I started calling the place “soggy, green Asheville" and contemplated building an ark. I had no family or friends within 600 miles. When it finally stopped raining, I played a little tennis, learned to cook, joined a book club and watched “The Beverly Hillbillies” a lot.
I cooked my first (and last) Thanksgiving dinner and watched my due date come and go. By December 5, the baby was nearly a week late. The day before, I had my regular doctor’s appointment and he told me, with some regret, that I wasn’t showing any signs of impending labor and could go another “week or so.” (Famous last words.) I felt tired and sick for the rest of the day and started feeling contractions in the middle of the night. Since I had gone into false labor right after Thanksgiving, I thought this might be more of the same and decided to wait until I couldn’t talk or walk during a contraction. That never happened. It was the longest day of my life.
After about 12 hours of regular contractions but not much else, my doctor ordered me to the hospital. I was so tired by then and hadn’t eaten in who knows how long, all the excitement and anticipation of giving birth was overwhelmed by pain and fatigue; mostly fatigue. By the time I was admitted to a warm, dimly lit, TV-equipped “birthing room”, I was fading fast. I recall that I was given a little Demerol to take the edge off the labor, but that only made me nauseous and slightly delirious. I don’t think I’d ever had a narcotic before and it only served to slow things down. Finally, a distant 20-some hours after my first contraction in some other lifetime, a nurse hooked me up to an IV and it jump-started me like a battery charger. After that, everything happened so fast, I went from 7 cm to 10 cm dilation in about 10 minutes. That proved to be a pattern for the next three babies as well.
A healthy nine pound, eight ounce baby girl arrived at a fortuitous 7:47 pm with a head of dark brown hair. Back then, we didn’t know the sex of the baby before she was born, and I had never had an ultrasound or any other tests, so we had a boy’s and a girl’s name picked out. We liked Dylan for a boy, and the girl’s name we liked was Allison; however, that, to me, was a blonde name and not a brunette name. After some suggestions from the tennis aficionado dad, we decided on a famous brunette tennis player’s name instead of Allison. But, the joke was on us, since our little girl’s brown fuzz wore off and golden blonde hair grew, eventually, in its place. She stayed blonde, too.
Happy Birthday to this sweet little girl who is now a fabulous young woman of whom any mother would be proud; even if she did take her good old time getting here.
Posted by lorelei at 09:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (150)October 30, 2006
Halloween Costumes of Yore - Redux
Just for laughs, allow me to describe some Halloween costumes I have donned in the past, sometimes requiring last minute preparations, since I was never much of a seamstress or one to spend a lot of money on something I would only wear once, including a wedding dress. Come to think of it, I should have worn my first wedding dress as a costume for Halloween - it qualified as hideous and macabre.
I tend to avoid anything ghoulish, bloody, vampiresque or political, and usually gravitate toward historical or culturally significant. One year in college I went as drug paraphernalia, something called a “Power Hitter,” which is a barrel-shaped pipe that you squeeze for extra smoke. Without the handmade sign indicating what I was (which drew quite a few laughs), I doubt most of the fellow revelers would have recognized it.
About an hour before a party one year, I dressed myself as a bag of jelly beans, using small, oval colored balloons enclosed in a clear dry cleaning bag, cinched at the neck with a ribbon. Beneath the bag I wore a navy long-sleeved leotard and tights, and taped a good resemblance of the purple and pink squared “Brachs” sign on the front of the bag. Throughout the night I had to avoid people threatening my beans with lit cigarettes (this was back when most people smoked), but it was a good, cheap costume that was easy to wear.
The most elaborate costume I ever created was the Human Dart Board. It took me weeks to construct; using a large sheet of thin sponge board, razor knives, silver contact paper I cut into dozens of narrow strips as faux wire, two jars of poster paint, and the final touch of a little plastic music light clipped to the top. I wore it like a one-sided sandwich board, which had to be removed in order for me to sit down. My date that night went as a Human Dart, and I made his costume with cardboard flights attached to a belt, and a paper party hat I put a #9 nail through the top covered with silver contact paper as the dart tip. He looked a little like the Tin Man with a strange skirt. Unfortunately, we were upstaged by the California Raisins and didn’t win the costume contest, since some of the voters confused my costume with Wheel of Fortune and kept asking where Vanna was.
My favorite last resort costume is Cleopatra, which is easy to make the afternoon before a party, and is worth it just to do the eye makeup. I have done the toga style (which is precarious), and a gold robe (recommended), with a cheap, thick gold collar necklace I never wear for any other purpose. I like to make the asp crown with a child's plastic headband, metallic gold cardboard, and stripped wire ties to give it a sinewy bend. Another fallback costume is the ever-popular elf, but I can only pull that off if I am on the skinny side that year. I have a two-piece emerald green short and top that I wear over tights and a Danskin, with a Peter Pan hat. With pixie cheeks and puppet eyes, it's a cute getup but not very warm.
One year I went to a Mardis Gras party dressed as a mime. One of my floor mates in the dorm who did the makeup for the college theatre did my costume and my face with perfect precision. Unfortunately, I only lasted fifteen minutes without speaking, so I think I violated some kind of mime code. My date went as a cowboy. There must be some metaphorical significance to this: Cowboy + Mime? Sounds like the Bushes.
These days, it’s all I can do to organize my children’s Halloween activities and make the Trick or Treat rounds dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans hiking up and down the neighborhood streets inspecting their loot and keeping them from cutting across lawns. It’s fun to see the parents who dress up with their kids or who have elaborate decorations on their porch with sound systems, movie projectors, creepy music and dry ice in cauldrons. I think Halloween is hilarious; it’s probably my favorite holiday.
Posted by lorelei at 11:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (27)September 17, 2006
When We Were Very Young
A selection of tot shots of some of your favorite misfits including Lisa, Barbara, Nadine, Jo Anne, Doe, CountryGirl, Christina, Vero, Anne, Deege, and yours truly.
I would have uploaded a movie/slide show, but the file was too big.
If you have a tot shot you'd like included, go ahead and email it to me.