Random Memories: Circa 1990

The house I grew up in was long. My and my sister's bedrooms were at one end and my parents' room was at the other.

Once my sis and I became talkative teens, my parents had the bright idea to get us our own phone line so that they, too, could actually get some time on the phone.

After my sister went off to college, the phone was pretty much mine. (Yes, these dull details are relevant.)

One night at about 2 in the morning, the phone rang. I stumbled out of bed and grabbed the receiver.



I don't recall the first words that passed between myself and the person on the other end, but whatever they were, it was clear that it was a wrong number.

I just wanted to go back to sleep. He, however, was intrigued at his dialing mistake and decided it was time to make a new friend.

Okay, here's the really stupid part: I thought it would be rude to just hang up.

Yeah.

Duh.

So there I was, exhausted, sitting across the room from my nice warm bed (this is pre-cordless and cell phone days, friends), shooting the midnight breeze with some completely socially backward stranger.

I remember a few things from the conversation. He had an accent and I soon discovered that he was calling from New Zealand (or so he said), he claimed to be an excellent tennis player and at one point he referred to NZ mailmen as "posties" which I thought was funny.

Then he asked me a thought provoking, meaningful question.

"So...are you fat?"

Charming, no?

(What weirdo doesn't ponder the appearance of the sleepy teenage girl he has managed to keep on the phone for far too long?)

"No," I responded. "But presently my hair is a rat's nest and the smell of my breath could fell a rhino."

Okay, so I didn't actually say that. I have no idea what I did say 'cause what teenage girl doesn't think she is fat?

Finally, he tired of our conversation and we said goodbye.

Ahhh...back to bed.

However, a few nights later, he decided to while away a few more minutes by calling me again. Somehow, he didn't even have the decency to figure out when would be a convenient time for me. Again, it's 2 in the morning and my phone is ringing.

Grrr...

I will point out the completely obvious which is that I had the power to squelch this whole unchivalrous situation and yet I didn't. Again, I thought it would be rude to tell this asinine stranger who deemed it appropriate to call me in the middle of the night because he was bored and wanted to chat.

What was wrong with me?

That brings me to why I bother sharing this story at all--I want my daughter to be polite and sweet, characteristics which she naturally exhibits, but I only want her to be polite and sweet to good people who won't use those attributes against her.

There are people out there whose morality ranges from whatever's-convenient-to-me (like the aforementioned oaf of a Kiwi) to those whose sole desire is to commit horrific acts against others.

We need to teach our girls to protect themselves, but how do we do that without scaring the crap out of them?

My own folly wasn't the fault of my parents. I don't think they left out some vital element when teaching me about dealing with strangers. I just had an over-active-must-be-polite-at-all-costs mentality.

Actually, when I was a young kid, my parents were of the it's-important-to-let-your-kid-express-herself mindset. In other words, I was, at times, a brat. (Once, when I was about seven, I basically told one of our family friends that he was a loser because he smoked. Nice, huh? Poor guy probably wanted to express himself by throwing me over his knee and spanking my butt. Sorry, Leonard. We were both victimized by a pop-psychology theory from the 70s.)

Looking back, I don't think my drive to be super-sweet-in-all-situations began until I became a Christian at the age of 12. In my naivety, I interpreted Jesus's commandment to "love others as myself" to mean that I needed to behave unwisely and too trustingly.

Now I know that God doesn't want me to be stupid in hopes of "winning others into the kingdom". If that means I'll be misinterpreted occasionally, then so be it. God knows my intentions and His Spirit is the One who does the truly effective work in others anyway.

There's peace in that realization.

So what happened to my "friend" on the other side of the world?

Well, he called back a third time, but I wasn't home that night. I don't know if he let the phone ring and ring and ring or what, but somehow my dad woke up and answered my phone. As you can imagine, Dad went off on the heavily-accented guy who was asking to speak to his teenage daughter at dumb o'clock in the morning.


And that was that.

Since both of my random memories thus far have focused on my interactions with foreign men, I may as well complete the trilogy with the following tale--

A few months after my phone calls from that Place-East-of-the-Land-Down-Under, I had the pleasure of being a foreign exchange student to England.

One day, our group of about thirty went into London to take in the sights. At lunchtime, we made our way to Covent Garden to eat.


It is now that I must confess to yet another of my failings: my natural tendency to not pay attention to important information whilst others are imparting it to me. (Since this experience, actually hugely due to this experience, I have made huge strides in improving in this area.)

Therefore when the meet-up time and place were announced to the group, I was apparently not paying attention because when I turned around, I suddenly realized that I was all alone and had no idea where to find anyone in my group. (Remember, these were pre-cell phone days.)

Lost in London.

It was not as titillating as it may sound.

Trying not to panic, I attempted to look around the general area without getting too far away from the last spot at which I had been surrounded by familiar faces.

It was at this time that a man approached me. He introduced himself and informed me that he was from France.

(No, not an actual photo.)

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice thick with his accent.

"Yes," I lied, suddenly suspicious of everyone.

"You look sad. Are you sure you are alright?"

Sad? I look sad? I'm not sad! I'm freaked out 'cause I'm lost and scared of weird men like you!

"No, I'm fine."

He then invited me to join him and his friends who were sitting at a table on the sidewalk nearby.

I thanked him, but declined, just wanting to get away from him.

"Well, perhaps we can meet up later, then. Take in a show?"

It was time to get blunt with this creepy fellow, show him the error of his ways.

"Ummm...I'm only 16."

His eyes lit up. "Oh, then you are a woman, old enough to make decisions for yourself and...live life."

WHAT???

I think I literally snorted in my aggravated-amused-verging-on-panic disgust and walked away.

I may not have been the smartest lost girl in London but I wasn't a complete moron. I knew when some guy was behaving inappropriately toward me.

Unless, perhaps he did so over the phone...

Poor Old Man

This is Bruiser.


He is 12 years old which, if you're doing your canine math, equals completely geriatric.

It's beginning to show.

You see, he wants to keep up with this spry 2 year old fellow, Duncan, who...

...can leap several feet high and streak after a frisbee as if his very tail depends on it.

But keep up, he can not.


*sigh*

He's got a little vim and vigor left in him. Check out this action shot:

However, we're beginning to wonder if he should go on daily walks anymore since they sometimes leave him hobbling around the backyard.

But this is what we see when the boys sense a walk is about to begin:

How can we resist?

And the eyes! Oh those eyes...

*another sigh*

Poor dear, furry, drooling old man...

Random Memory: Circa 1993

When I was in college, I worked at a sub sandwich shop that was just across the street from campus. Not only did I work there, but it was also there that I ate nearly every lunch and dinner for about nine months. (Delectable sandwiches for half-price? Who can argue with that?)

Unfortunately, I was not the best "subber".

There are some things that I'm just not good at and remembering that there are to be NO onions on the double cheese pastrami, but EXTRA onions on the turkey/avocado (even when the instructions are written down right in front of my eyes) is one of them, especially at lunch hour when the line is out the door and the pile of order slips begins to resemble a stack of flyers.

My ineptitude resulted in me being an irritant to the competent sandwich makers, a couple of whom could be rather nasty even when they weren't having to fix my dumb mistakes.

I can laugh about it now, but back then I'd spend several minutes in the bathroom before leaving my apartment to go to work (my nerves have often manifested themselves in my digestive system; there will be no more details on that point) and once I returned home, my hands would often tremble for about 15 minutes afterward.

My roommate at the time (who happened to be my sister) saw my shaking, vinegar-and-onions-reeking hands and declared, "You should quit."

Surprisingly, that had never occurred to me! I entertained the notion for about three seconds and then dismissed it. Loose bowels or no, I would not be beaten by this menial job.

I would become a savvy subber.

I would! I would!

Or...I wouldn't.

Due to my sub standard sub skills, I was usually appointed to man the register, taking orders and making change. After awhile, this demotion was fine by me because I noticed a cessation of the pre-work sludge and the post-work tremors.

I learned a few things whilst employed at the sub shop. One was that toaster ovens melt cheese on sandwiches delightfully (thus the reason I have owned one ever since) and another was that although tears can earn one comfort and care from parents and teachers, they will likely only get you eye rolls and stern lectures from coworkers and bosses.

However, none of this is what I intended to write about today. On with the memory...

There was a large population of foreign students at my university who would flock to our shop to sample the American delicacy known as sub sandwiches.

One particular student seemed to take a liking to me.

(This is amazing to me as I look at pictures of myself from that era. What about my denim-overalls-clad, retainer-sporting, acne-sprouting-chinned self could attract any member of the opposite sex? However, it was at this same time that Jeff proposed to me so apparently I had it going on, though how that is possible remains a mystery.)

When he would order, he would choose my line in which to stand. When he needed more napkins, he would seek me out to make his request. Once when I took my break, he sat near me to chat. After that occurrence, the coworker who had taken her break with me burst into the backroom, laughing and announcing to all the other subbers, "Some guy has the hots for Aimee!"

Yeah, I didn't get it either, but I didn't find it amusing.

There was nothing appealing about his attention, even if I hadn't been engaged elsewhere. Instead of fun and appreciative, it was patronizing and weird.

I did nothing to encourage this fellow who came again and again to buy sandwiches throughout his several week stay. I mean I'm an outgoing person, but I know when a guy is watching for those subtle hints that a gal is interested and trust me, I was sending him none of them.

There's a delicate balance that a worker must find between being a friendly and helpful representative of an establishment and someone who is letting a guy know that he ought to fish elsewhere. As time wore on, I became less of the former and more of the latter.

One day, I saw my opportunity to free myself of the would-be suitor and I seized it with both hands.

(I have no desire to slam an entire nation, so I won't say from where this student hailed, but I believe it is perfectly fair to say that in his culture, women do not enjoy the same level of equality that we do here in the US. This explains the weird turn of events.)

On this momentous occasion, I was behind the counter, busily doing something (besides making sandwiches, of course) when said student stormed into the shop from the outdoor eating area.

"You!" he said, shaking his finger at me. "You...ruin...my shirt!"

His tirade was riddled with pauses because apparently his English fluency level wasn't on par with his anger level.

"Excuse me?" I said, my own ire rising.

"You...not clean table and...is messy. Now is...on my shirt!"

(Our delicious subs dripped with oil and vinegar.)

"You! You...clean table now!"

Realizing that he assumed our "relationship" had developed to the point that he could treat me like an unappreciated, perhaps even abused, female, I shot him my steeliest deadpan expression and told him, "Say please."

"What?" he looked like I had just spat in his sandwich.

My coworkers, too, were shocked, all stopping whatever they were doing to watch this novel worker-customer interaction.

"Say please," I repeated slowly, calmly and ever so seriously.

It worked better than I even imagined. He completely deflated and mumbled, "Please...clean table."

I deliberately grabbed the spray bottle and towel and sauntered out to wipe down the offensive eating surface.

He stood by, watching and once I was finished, he meekly said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome." I said, brightly and returned to my non-sandwich-making duties.

As I reentered the shop, a girl named Kristen told me, "Good job, Aimee."

As you can imagine, over the years I haven't kept up with the foreign exchange chauvinist, but I hope that wherever he is, he still knows that not all females are eager for his fawning, creepy flirtations nor are they willing to put up with his ridiculous allegations.

Not even those of us who can't make sandwiches worth crap.

Operation Sock Puppet

I've never claimed to have "normal" children. In fact, I've consistently declared otherwise. (I mean with parents as odd as Jeff and myself, our offspring had no chance at making it anywhere on the Scale of Normalcy.)

Therefore, when I asked Delaney what she wanted her 13th birthday party to include, I knew it wouldn't involve Justin Bieber, a marathon viewing of the entire Twilight saga or makeovers of any sort. However, I wasn't expecting the answer I got which was:

"I want to make sock puppets."

Ummm...okay...

Now being the good steward I am (or should that read cheapskate?) I immediately looked around the house to find socks which had been widowed by the clothes dryer. However, one glance let me know that I couldn't possibly hand out that pile of threadbare and stained garments saying, "Here, girls! Cuten these up."

So off to Target and Michael's we went to purchase a bunch of supplies which you see below, littering the table:


I made a sample one before the girls arrived so that I'd have an idea of what they'd be dealing with as they plotted and stitched.


Yes, I know it's hideous. Hey, I'm not the one who requested this activity.

My experience made me fearful that the girls would get frustrated. (It's hard getting a needle back and forth through a long tube.)

However, they all seemed to do just fine. Here's Delaney's:


Sock puppetry was not all in which they partook. They also played Mafia (a card game), Fishbowl (a game that is nearly impossible to explain) and of course there was a bit of food on hand.

Welcome to the world of teenagery, Delaney. You, my girl, are a genuine delight.








<----Prismacolor markers for the artist.













And as for the boy...

Most young men experiment with their burgeoning allotment of facial hair by growing out a mustache or a goatee.

Not our boy. No, that would be far too normal.

Tobias's experimentation over the past few months has centered on the hairs pushing their gruesome way out of his neck.

No, really.

As I began to see the stubble grow into a festering force to be reckoned with, I asked why he wasn't shaving it off.

"I'm Neckbeard the Pirate, Mom."


Here's an upclose shot of his namesake:


See what I'm dealing with here, friends? It's like he had the skin from one of his armpits grafted onto his neck.

Well, it grew and grew and by the time I began to wonder if his throat embellishment was braidable I carefully suggested (so as not to bruise his ego) that it was completely vile and thoroughly disgusting.

"It's supposed to be, Mom," he said. "It's girl repellant."

His words stuck in my brain. Visions (scenarios similar to Axe commercials) ran through my head, looping, day after horrible day of my son being chased by girls...

...girls scantily clad and steadfast on vice and impurity.

I instantly developed an appreciation for said neck hair which was apparently safeguarding my son from utter ruination...a chastity belt of sorts.

He did finally shave it off a week ago after about three months. It was with a sense of trepidation that I viewed his newly-shorn throat, but after 24 hours with no girls trying to bust through our doors and windows like the zombies from 28 Days Later I began to relax.


You, my boy, are an anomaly.

And a remarkable one at that. ;)