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It was bound to happen eventually, I suppose. There was undoubtedly going to be a point at which My Wedding Vision clashed with that of the Bride’s.

Naturally I hoped it would be over some minor detail; a wrinkle we could iron right out. I certainly wasn’t anticipating a conflict of such EPIC PROPORTIONS. According to some recent alarming remarks from Her Brideliness, it appears as though we don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on what constitutes excellent dance music…

As every wedding guest knows, the dance music is vitally essential to establishing the vibe of the entire affair. As such, on our RSVP cards, we queried our guests as to “which song is most likely to get you on the dance floor.” Just to be clear, I know EXACTLY which songs get ME on the dance floor, I just thought it’d be a nice touch, gracious and “hostessy” to sprinkle a few other songs into the Wedding Mix. You know,  songs other people like.

The response cards have been rolling in to the mailbox for the past few weeks. As expected, all the song suggestions prompted a conversation about our upcoming meeting with the DJ to construct the dance song list, which elicited this comment from Emilie:

“There are a few songs that I definitely don’t want played under any circumstances at the wedding!”

I  nod my head vigorously in agreement, assuming that Mother and Daughter were on the exact same page about some of the ridiculous songs out there that we definitely don’t want the DJ to play. I could only imagine which songs from my personal list of “TOP 10 MOST ANNOYING DANCE SONGS EVER” we would jointly agree to ban.

Instead, she irreverently references music from my catalog of “TOP 10 BEST DANCE SONGS EVER WRITTEN.” She goes on to say: “I don’t know their titles exactly, but one is something about a Brick House and there’s another one where a white guy is encouraged to play funky music!”

Instantly alarmed, I looked immediately over at Jimmy, who is not necessarily invested in dance music, but thoroughly  invested in me.  

There simply aren’t words to express the Joy-Vacuum that I will experience if these songs are unjustly boycotted from our wedding. Most of them are more than just songs, they are the ANTHEMS of an entire generation.

For example, every woman my age, give or take 10 years either direction, genuinely believes in her heart-of-hearts, that SHE herself, is in fact the aforementioned BRICK HOUSE. Maybe she doesn’t exhibit this behavior in her everyday life, but you can sure tell she embraces it when she dances. When she is out on the floor, she is “36-24-36,” the “winning hand,” most especially when she “shakes it down, shakes it down now.”

Impervious to my reaction and the depths of my despair, Emilie turns to Father-of-the-Bride and twists the proverbial knife:

“I’ll never forget all those eternally long road trips when Mom would crank up the radio and torture us kids for hours with her dance moves from behind the steering wheel.”

Apparently, all those years I thought I was making sweet memories, I was actually torturing my own children. Plus, isn’t “torture” a strong word?

I have a week before we meet with the DJ. I’m currently thinking of a few ways to Bribe-the-Bride. This isn’t just about ME, I’m equally concerned about all my Brick House friends, who will be sorely disappointed if they don’t get to “lay down their boogie” next month.

Text from me to Emilie right after I mailed wedding invitations

As we get closer to our wedding date, people have started greeting me by asking, “How’s the wedding planning going?” My usual quippy response is, “I’ll tell you the day after it’s over!” I say that because I have been naively assuming that any WEDDING BLUNDERS I might possibly encounter, or be currently in the process of committing, would not be revealed to me until the actual wedding day itself.  I was a bit wrong.

Last week, after my little Bride spent the better part of a month painstakingly addressing invitations in her best Catholic-school-girl penmanship, I insisted on taking them home, so that I could give them a “once-over” and have the final say in Quality Control. I was not going to take any chances with these babies, as they were handmade in the UK, by tiny little English ladies. I found their company on Pinterest and ordered them post haste, (pun intended.) I don’t know if they have a little invitation factory there in Great Britain, but I rather preferred to picture them sitting around a kitchen table in their little cottage in Somewhere-upon-Somewhereshire gluing the ribbon and adhering the little embellishments.

I could not have been more pleased when I saw the finished product, squealing in delight. When the Father-of-the-Bride feasted his eyes on my little jewels, his first words were:

A. “Honey those are Divine!”
B. “Can I help you address them?”
Or
C. “Dear God, how much did those set me back?”

If you answered “C,” thank you for being a loyal reader of my blog.

The truth is, I couldn’t answer his question about how much they cost, because I paid for them in British Pounds. So, I don’t quite know, but it’s safe to say that they were a pretty pence. Which explains how relieved I was last week, when I finally handed 250 of them into the ever-so-capable hands of the United States Postal Service.

So imagine, if you will, the scene in my home the very next morning, when Jimmy walked into the house carrying an enormous  bin marked, “Property of the USPS” brimming over with my invitations…

I was sitting there working on my Wedding To-Do list (now that the invites were securely mailed out) and struggled mightily to process his words to me, “The best way to do this is just rip the proverbial Band-aid off quickly, so…here are your invitations back, it looks like they need more stamps!”

It seems the United States Postal Service took issue with the unorthodox shape (square?) of my English Envelopes. They RUDELY defaced most of them with large red rubber-stamping that screamed “ADDITIONAL POSTAGE DUE!” which necessitated the ordering of 130 additional un-American envelopes overnighted from Great Britain so we could re-address, re-afix proper postage and re-mail. That set us back a few more pence.

The following day, I received a ransom note from my local Post Office, saying that another 60 or so invites had been confiscated and were being held hostage there. I was welcome to drive over at my earliest convenience and negotiate their release, at 44 cents apiece.

As fortune would have it, things actually managed to go downhill from there, when word started trickling in that various members of the Groom’s family had received summons’ to report to their local Post Office to pay a small fine for the privilege of picking up their invitations…

It’s been almost a week since the debacle and I’ve spent almost every minute chasing down invitations, but I think we have recovered MOST of them. I was thinking about wearing a money-changer belt around my waist at the wedding so I could reimburse my Guests, but I’m concerned that between that and my Spanx, I won’t be able to breathe. Instead, I think I’ll just put out a jar full of change, with a sign instructing guests to reimburse themselves, HONOR SYSTEM style. Much classier…

Speaking of classy, I’ve decided that Mollie and Gracie’s invites will definitely be “Made in the USA.”  I’ll probably just buy them at Walmart!

“I tried it, but I did not inhale!”

We’ve recently entered an inevitable and interesting new season of parenting. Our children’s friends are reproducing themselves…

Babies seem to be coming out of the woodwork these days.  They’re everywhere you look – parties, wedding showers, sporting events etc.

They distract us with their baby antics when we are trying to focus on God at Mass. One even infiltrated our Wedding Party, via the pregnancy of our Maid-of-Honor.

I get that this is all a part of the Circle-of-Life, with the exception that my daughters have become obsessed with this Reproduction Craze. 

I know you’re probably thinking that I’m exaggerating for the sake of literary intrigue, but I’m not. My girls are constantly texting and inundating me with pictures of babies.

OVERT PROPAGANDA.

If that wasn’t alarming enough, my youngest daughter actually has a Pinterest Board entirely devoted to babies she finds “Pinteresting,” (as though she will soon be placing her order and wants to zero-in on what style baby she likes.)

Not only am I wise to what my girls are up to, I’m totally on to how/why God designed things this way. He made the “Newbies” disarmingly adorable in the interest of propagating the species.

For two full decades, in the 80s and 90s, I fell hopelessly into this trap. I brought home baby after baby after baby. I couldn’t get enough of them – just loved the little things. How much fun were they – complete with their little accessory packages.

They were easy to manage, surprisingly affordable and so small, we could practically carry them home in a shoe box.  Like a little Matchbox Car.

In fact, the more I think about it, having a baby is actually EXACTLY the same as buying a new car: Let’s say for example, you have a neighbor that gets a sports car. They drive it home and you can’t rush over fast enough to admire it. Then, next thing you know, you start thinking you might want one yourself…

Your friend says, “Wanna drive her?”

And you say, “Oh my yes! May I?”

You get behind the steering wheel and your whole world falls into place – it just feels so right. So shiny and new; you can’t inhale it’s brand new scent into your lungs deeply enough. So you go right home and tell your unsuspecting mate, “WE need one of those! Everyone has ONE and some people even have TWO!”

The next thing you know, the years have flown by and you’ve gotten the two of you way in over your heads. You find yourselves bogged down with non-stop repair and maintenance.

You’re drowning in “upkeep,” and a delayed “sticker shock.” And, what’s more, since you’re in the turbulent teen years now, there is considerable depreciation in the resale market.

That’s right, people who would’ve literally paid to take your kid off your hands 18 years ago, now keep their distance from you and yours.

Even though my hubby and I are far too young and hip to be anybody’s grandparents, I know I’m the last person that can go on record as being opposed to my babies having babies.

I’m merely saying, be careful not to go for a test drive unless you know what you’re in for. Last Saturday night, at a party, I held my daughter’s friend’s baby.

I purposely did not inhale…

If you get a few minutes between your busy life and your dedicated blog-reading, you should check out the CDC’s 511 page report on the state of Americans’ health. There’s no telling how much this research cost taxpayers, so we owe it to ourselves to give it a look. If the fact that you funded this report isn’t compelling enough, you might want to read it to get a much-deserved pat on the back from The Feds telling you how well-behaved your kids are.

According to these findings, we have managed to raise the best teenagers since the government started collecting this particular behavioral data. Our teens smoke less pot, drink less alcohol, have sex less and exercise more than we did. What a relief it is to have our suspicions officially confirmed by government statisticians touting bar graphs.

So, why do today’s parents continue to complain about these Teen-Angels? Because, it’s every generation’s inalienable right to be disgruntled with their teens, that’s why. The government can’t take that away from us. Despite the overall lack of substance abuse, we never run short on things to grumble about around here…

Perhaps this seems minor, but in the Winter, our children require the thermostat on 80, yet at the first sign of Spring, they need the air blasting at 60. Apparently our minds are too drug-addled to comprehend why 80 isn’t as comfortable May through September, as it was October through April. Every Spring, Jimmy and James have a serious negotiation over thermostat regulation that goes like this:

Jimmy: “I better not go upstairs and find the air lower than 73”
James: “63”
Jimmy: “70”
James: “65”
Jimmy “66”

If we laid a finger on my Dad’s thermostat, back in the day, we would’ve found ourselves in a homeless shelter. Our parents firmly believed that shivering in the Winter and sweating in the Summer built perseverance, endurance and a certain ruggedness that you won’t find replicated in the youth of today.

What about the fact that our daughters can’t abide the hair color they were provided with at birth? I never dreamed of asking my parents to fund the altering of my hair color. And, if we’re being totally honest here, I would’ve been justified. I was a Ginger way before they gave it an endearing moniker; they were practically still burning red heads at the stake when I was growing up. Back then, females didn’t color their hair until the first sign of grey. You stuck out your hair color, and if possible, developed a “persona” around it. It was character building.

Furthermore, we are bewildered that our kids can’t stay within the ample data usage we supply them with. Every month, we get a jarring reprimand from AT&T, with the breakdown of our family’s data abuse. We are always teetering at, or already over, the allotted amount and the “junkies” are our teens. They are every bit as addicted to data as our generation apparently was to illegal substances. It’s actually quite commendable that we were prescient enough in the 70s and 80s to procure all of our much-needed information from The Encyclopedia Brittanica, especially since we were all “high.” Surely, this extra effort built up our problem-solving skills.

There’s more. In a restaurant recently, one of our kids glanced over at the total of the lunch tab and said, “That’s not bad!” Of course “it’s not bad,” since Junior’s not forking over the 90 bucks. Our parents took us to restaurants twice a year, not twice a day.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m comforted that our teens are “partying” so much less than previous generations. It would be quite an accomplishment to party less than I did, though. I’m sure I’m just bitter that I missed all the fun, but the fact is, I didn’t turn to Martinis and Benadryl until I became the mother of teenagers, and that’s actually called “surviving,” not “partying.”

But, I guess I can reconcile myself to the empirical evidence that we have literally “outdone ourselves” with this generation. According to the Uncle Sam, we can’t complain – Parenthood’s been good to us so far.

One of the most perplexing things for me when I was a new mother, was when people told me, “Trust your instincts!” I often wondered, ‘If I have a feeling of foreboding, is that my gut telling me there really is something wrong?’ When you’re inclined to worry about everything, it’s very hard to distinguish the difference and follow your instincts.

Thankfully, the further down the parenting road I got, the easier it became to parse through any given situation and determine what warranted legit concern and what was just garden-variety mommy-angst. I’m quite proud at how sharply honed my intuition and “gut-instincts” have become through the years. Which explains why I was especially disconcerted as the events of yesterday unfolded…

As with most things in life, the situation started out benignly. Early in the day, Gracie received a text from the ex-husband of a regular babysitting client. He asked if she could watch his baby later that night, offering to pay extra and apologizing for the last minute notice. She accepted the gig. Later that day, she expressed concern over babysitting for him, as he had subsequently sent her a “friend request” on Facebook and commented on one of her photos. She said she was a little “creeped out!” Jimmy and I weren’t terribly concerned, as Gracie has a hyper-sensitive CREEPOMETER and is “creeped-out” at the drop of a hat. Our finely-tuned parental instincts told us that her friends probably scheduled last minute plans, rendering her unenthusiastic about an actual income-producing activity. We instructed her to babysit. We trusted our gut.

Nevertheless, I did prudently plug the guy’s address into my GPS and kept my cell phone handy, on the off-chance there was indeed a problem. Later that night, I received the dreaded text from her saying that “The Dad” called to say he was “running a little late,” but would “be home soon” adding that he’d “love to take her to this restaurant” sometime soon. I jumped in my car and was in his neighborhood before you could say “Cagney and Gracie.”

Once I arrived, I realized I didn’t really have a formal action-plan. This guy is probably just a harmless idiot, I reasoned. He mistakenly believes, at the ripe old age of 32, with one divorce and a baby under his belt, he still has a shot at a 19 year old college co-ed. What he failed to understand is that she continually referred to him as, “The Dad.” He had crossed-over a metaphorical bridge; he doesn’t even have a First Name in her world.

Never one to over-react, I considered my options and decided to merely conduct a Stake-Out from my vehicle. This could’ve been me being “chill,” or could’ve been due to the fact that I was already in my pajamas.

A little information and advice about Stake-Outs, for those of you who don’t yet have this covert operation on your parental resume:

-They start off titillating, but can hit quite a dull lull before the excitement picks back up. So, take your cell phone along.

-Make sure your cell phone is fully charged. I speak from experience when I say, you don’t want to run down your battery texting and chatting with your friends. When the “moment of truth” arrives, it’s stressful to be dangling on 3%.

-Don’t park under a street light. The neighbors can see you there, in your PJs fiddling with your cell phone, understandably arousing THEIR suspicion and concern.

-The Suspect will probably have zero regard for your bedtime. Sketchy people are sketchy that way.

The Perp/Perv pulled in his driveway a little after 10 pm, which is well past my bedtime. I yawned 3 times, before Gracie appeared at her car with a check and a to-go box. As we caravanned out of the neighborhood, she called me.

“He paid me $100 for 3 hours and brought me a piece of Key Lime Pie. I’ll take the money and you can have the dessert!”

Motherhood – it may not be a piece of cake, but it’s easy as pie…

Legally Blonde

Every mother fancies herself the epi-center of her child’s existence, and I am certainly no exception. When my daughter packed and left for college last August, I truly believed there was never a child more distraught to be wrenched from the arms of their mother. For months afterward, I was besieged with texts depicting the deepest depths of darkest despair. In fact, so palpable was her homesickness, I thought we would never be able to send her back to Arkansas after Fall Break to finish out her first semester.

So, imagine my astonishment when I learned that she WOULD NOT BE RETURNING to the loving bosom of her family to spend the summer. She has secured a nanny position in Dallas and plans to live with my mother.

It seems that NO ONE in all of Oklahoma, requires the services of a Full-time Nanny. The only people in these entire United States, that actually DO need a SUMMER Nanny, randomly live in Dallas. Coincidentally, so does my daughter’s new boyfriend. Considering what a big state Texas is, it’s even more remarkable that he resides just minutes from my mom’s house. You were right Mr. Disney, it IS a small world after all!

This is not my mother’s first time around the block with a challenging, self-absorbed teenager (my siblings were a handful). Last week, she informed us that she would be drawing up a contract for her new ROOMIE to sign. As soon as she finished drafting the aforementioned document, she promptly emailed it to me and my husband (aka “The Guarantors,”) for full disclosure. There aren’t words to express how delighted I was when it popped into my inbox this morning.
Upon perusal, I found immediate clause for concern:

-The Curfew Clause:

Mom has a curfew for this girl. We never actually imposed a curfew on our kids, because, in this day and age of cell phones, it was easier for them to just connect with us hourly; besides we haven’t slept in over 20 years. Throughout each step of their evening, our teens apprise us of their plans, and either receive a “green light” or a “get your booty home now!” It’s our family’s middle-of-the-night version of the classic children’s game, “Red Light/Green Light.” Grandma does not like this game and expects my daughter to pull in to the driveway at what a 75 year old woman considers “a reasonable hour.”

-The Tidiness Clause:

It seems Grandma would prefer my daughter’s personal effects not be “strewn about the house,” but rather, be confined to her personal quarters. Mom may need to expand her definition of “personal quarters,” as this kid considers her living space to be inclusive of, but not limited to, all of Planet Earth. The entire 18 years the child  lived under my roof, she routinely established small domains throughout the home. These areas started out as juice boxes, hair bows and Barbies, and graduated through the years to cell phones, lap tops, retainers, articles of clothing, and other minutia. This was a daily assault on the OCD that I inherited from my mother, yet, failed to pass on to my own children. As I write this, the theme song from “The Odd Couple” is stuck in my head. That was my mom’s favorite show in the 70s. Hopefully, Mom still finds that entire scenario amusing.

-The Date Night Clause:

To say the least, this is a delicate topic to broach at any age, but apparently, when you’re 75, there’s no need to mince words…Grammie just laid it on out there.

Per the contract, on the nights that my mother’s “Gentleman Friend” comes to call, henceforth and forewith to be referred to as Date Night, My girl is to “scram.” This is the geriatric version of a necktie on the doorknob. The good news is that Grandma has graciously offered to sponsor her evening out on those particular nights.

My daughter has enthusiastically described her summer arrangement as a “win/win,” but she hasn’t actually laid eyes on this contract yet, particularly the codicil at the end, whereby Grandma reserves the right to attach addendums to the agreement, throughout the summer on an “as needed” basis. (Thereby negating the entire concept of a contractual relationship?)

If I thought for one second my kids were inclined to honor any agreement, I would’ve dipped all their little newborn feet in ink before we left the hospital, had them sign off on my terms and conditions and enjoy a lot more Mama-Leverage than I do currently…

“Sign right here kid!”

"Here I Am Grandma – Signed, Sealed, Delivered – I'm Yours!" (Gracie & Stevie Wonder).

“Till Death Do Us Part”

Yesterday must’ve been “Take Your Wife To Work Day.” After a long, exhausting day of my own, Jimmy asked me if I wanted to have a “Date Night.” I mustered up a marginally-enthusiastic,

“Sure… but let’s have a stay-at-home date night. Won’t that be fun? The kids all have plans, so it’ll be just the two of us!”

The next thing I know he is dressed and heading out the door. (Apparently, he had to go in to one of the restaurants with or without me, on a work-related issue and really just wanted me to tag along.) I figured there were worse offers out there, plus a girl’s gotta eat, so I threw on some clothes, splashed on a little makeup and out we went.

After he addressed whatever work matter was at hand, we nestled in to a secluded corner of the bar, which was veritably humming with the vibe from a crowd of our area’s Beautiful People at every age and stage of life. It’ll be entertaining to relax with a cocktail, catch up on life and engage in some frivolous “people watching!”

At this point, I was glad I decided to tag along.

When our drinks arrived at the table, we tipped our glasses to one another, took a big long sip and began to let the troubles of the day melt away…

When suddenly, apropos to nothing, Jimmy says,

“If you die, I don’t think I’ll go too young on my next wife. I’ll probably consider someone in their 40s, but I would go as high as 50s, provided she has kept herself up!”

Isn’t it invigorating to realize that after 30 years of marriage your mate can still stun you speechless?

Perhaps because the bar was dark and my face was illuminated solely by a small candle on our table, he couldn’t see my reaction. So, he continued on descriptively…

“She will, of course, have to be intelligent, amorous, energetic and I would definitely need her to be a bit of a Susie-Homemaker type!”

A little about Me (Wife # 1)

-I’m 52 (which is the new 40, by the way)
– I exercise daily
-I wear my seatbelt regularly
-I don’t drink in excess
-and I don’t smoke at all

In short, I really hadn’t planned on dying anytime soon….

But now, the desire to Stay Alive has taken on a new meaning. It seems my WIDOWER-TO-BE has great expectations, as well as some lofty requirements for his second wife.

Let’s re-cap the REQs for wife #2:

This hot little number in her 40s or early 50s, with above-average intelligence, is up for big fun in the boudoir, just as soon as she pulls her cupcakes out of the oven and scrubs one more potty!

I woke up this morning with a new lease on life. I find that my will to live is stronger than ever. I ran around the block a few times, did 20 push ups, 50 Jumping Jacks, scheduled a mammogram, a colonoscopy and a heart scan. Then I ducked into Walgreens for a huge bottle of Geritol and some SPF 80 sunblock.

I really can’t afford to take any chances. My SUCCESSOR, Mrs. Blanchard-The-Second, sounds positively
“TO DIE FOR!”

Nature, Nurture or Ginger?

“Allow me to introduce my two sons, Nature and Nurture”

Like most parents, my husband and I rolled up our sleeves and got right down to the business of blaming each other for any and all undesirable traits we happened to notice in our children. Predictably, this started before the aforementioned children even made their way to the Birth Canal. Getting kicked 24/7/9 from the inside out, had me convinced they had acquired their Dad’s Restless Leg Syndrome and, when none of them arrived on their due dates, he smugly announced that they were cursed with their mother’s propensity for tardiness.

This continued well into the baby years:

“Wow, he’s loud like your brother!”

“The little darling seems to have acquired your insatiable appetite!”

“She sure cries all the time like you!” (This was appealed on the grounds that she was a BABY.  Pretty sure babies just cry a lot…)

Nor was this practice limited exclusively to negative qualities:

“She does that cute little thing with her lips like your sister”

“He’s smart as a whip like his Daddy!”

The Grandmas have also been known to weigh-in on “Trait Assigning.” After several previous attempts to replicate my Gingerness in a child of our own, we finally achieved Operation “Reproduce The Red” the day our youngest was born. (He was the last of our 5 children, thus indisputable evidence of our enduring commitment to this goal.) When we called my Mother-in-law from the hospital, to tell her the fabulous news, she gushed with pride. Without skipping a beat, she proclaimed, “He’s got the O’Shaughnessy hair!” (The O’Shaughnessys are HER maternal-grandparents!)

SERIOUSLY? Pay no mind to the fact that your Daughter-in-Law lying exhausted and spent on her childbirth bed has flaming red hair…this baby’s red hair is a gift from the O’Shaughnessys – Don’tcha know! (Read this with your best Irish brogue)

Now – guess how long it took everyone to ascribe his ginger-headed temper to ME?

As the children entered their teen and young adult years, the circle of debate widened to include liabilities they may have actually LEARNED from a specific parent. Were they born with that or did YOU make them that way, we muse and accuse…

Yesterday, when we were driving to church, my 17 year old innocently suggested that I might be inspired to spend my beautiful Sunday afternoon mending a hole in his khaki uniform shorts. Albeit, touched by his rare interest in frugality, I advised him that the school year was almost over and we could buy him new uniform shorts this summer. Then I shot his Dad with a disgusted look, coupled with an “I hope you’re happy- he’s JUST like you! You have successfully re-created him unto your own image!”

Big Daddy fired back with, “Wait – you said yesterday that the other one was JUST like me. YOU CANT HAVE IT BOTH WAYS. I’m not taking the blame for both of them!”

Oh, you dear, sweet, simple man, you should know me well enough by now to know that I can ALWAYS have it both ways. Then, I patiently explained to him that he has sired two sons, “Nature” and “Nurture.”

Our eldest son, “Nurture” was born with his mother’s enviable self-actualized and easy-going personality, which unfortunately became tainted along the boy’s Journey-to-Manhood with unfortunate aspects of anal-retentiveness, in direct emulation of his father.

“Nature” is our second son. He was born with my husband’s, Why-the-frick-is-there-a-hole-in-my-donut approach to life. And, as motherhood is so often about simply playing the hand you are dealt, I set about in earnest, the task of re-shaping this inherited quality into something positive and productive. I hate to brag, but it’s been a daily labor of love to reframe my youngest son’s genetically pre-disposed “pessimism” into the more socially-palatable “pragmatism.”

Around here, the “Mending O’ The Men” is a wee bit more challenging and fulfilling than the
“Mending O’ The Khakis” – Don’tcha Know!

It’s official! People love to hear about other people’s sassy and narcissistic teenagers. One of my recent posts about “Upgrade Me Grace” broke my humble little blog’s record for “Most Widely Read Post.” Obviously, that motivates me to write more blogs about the Life-and-Times-of-Gracie, but I promised myself I would bide my time and space them out a bit. She really was such a good sport about the recent post, (where I compared her presence in our home to a disruptive weather pattern) Still… I don’t want it to seem as though her very own mother is picking on her.

Nonetheless, when she called me the other day to tell me that her college transcripts were “frozen” and she just needed my credit card number REALLY QUICK to pay the school for a couple of “INCIDENTALS,” I experienced an immediate change of heart….

After my *INITIAL REACTION, I thought to myself, ‘It’s one thing when my kids screw up and cost me money needlessly, but it’s another thing to forgo capitalizing creatively due to voluntary imposed self-censorship.’ Literally, the only compensatory thing about raising teenagers is that they provide excellent writing material and fodder for the blog. Their behavior continuously elucidates everything parents despise about the age 12-21 demographic.

(*Don’t miss the fun quiz at the end of this blog, whereby you guess my *INITIAL REACTION)

One quick phone call confirmed that those INCIDENTALS were parking citations. One was for $85 and the other one was for $50. It appears as though at The University of Arkansas there are 2 types of parking infractions-Misdemeanor Parking and Felonious Capitol Offense Parking. It looks as though the $50 parking MISDEMEANOR was for parking her car in an “unauthorized space.” But, the $85 one specifically notes on the citation, that there was “signage expressly forbidding”her to park in said space.

…and yet, my daughter interpreted this to mean “This is Negotiable” and scooted on in.

To receive a fine as steep as $85, she had to have commandeered the private parking space of someone pretty high up the University Food Chain. Perhaps the sign said, “Dean Parking” and she thought it said, “Queen Parking”.

It’s just unfortunate that the ticket was already sitting on her windshield before she returned to her car or it’s entirely possible that she might’ve talked her way out of it, like she did recently when she walked up and saw a man actually engaged in the process of booting her car. As the story goes, she started letting him have it about “her hellacious day” and how “hard it is to park legally in Fayetteville” and how “mean it was of him to do this to her”. She flat-out made it personal with this guy. According to one local witness (her roommate) the man held his hands out in deflection of the verbal onslaught, removed the boot and drove away. A grown man traumatized into submission by a 19 year old college co-ed. Tsk, Tsk

In our family, It goes without saying, that you are responsible for paying any and all fines you incur, but I went ahead and said it anyway. As soon as my money effectively thawed out her academic record, I promptly informed her that she would be reimbursing me the $135. She balked for a few minutes informing me that, “everybody gets these” as if to imply that parking tickets were just part of the CUSTOMARY AND REASONABLE expense of any undergraduate degree and a prudent parent would’ve budgeted for this expense.

I can’t wait for her to finish up her exams and move home to start her summer job, so she can pay off her debts to society (Me).

Ironically, she will be working at one of the finest restaurants in town, parking patrons at their tables. We think she’ll be a natural at this. If you’re desperate one night and the joint is full, you know she’ll figure out how to scoot you in anyway…

*Quiz: My initial reaction was-
A. Hang on, Sweetheart, let me grab my Checkbook!
B. Will they take my debit over the phone?
C. Is there Campus Jail, where student can serve time, in lieu of parent paying fine?