R.I.P.

Holy SNAP, it's Sunday, and I missed my daughter's birthday.


I mean YOU missed my daughter's birthday. I couldn't miss my daughter's birthday if I tried. Not with all these shoes in my house.

Is this not the loveliest sight you've seen in pairs since Lulu and diapers? Because where there are shoes, there are people, right!?

Lots and lots of people! Granted some of these people look like serial killers . . . well, at least one of them (in the bottom left hand corner) looks like a serial killer, but I allowed them all to cram into my basement anyway and wish my daughter a happy 17th birthday.

I'm not being rude about the serial killer thing, btw. Just giving my daughter, who thinks all of my high school friends look like serial killers, a taste of her own medicine.


She's not being rude, either. (She's never being rude.)

One of the boys in the photo does not look like a serial killer at all. He looks more like a tall Preference date with a dazzling smile. Do you want to see which boy I'm talking about?


Do you, do you, do you? Hmm? Hmm Hmmm? Do you?

Okay, hold you horses. Sheeeeesh! Here he is.

(I think the boy to his left might have serial killer potential too.)

Notice I strategically placed her Pref date's pumpkin in the background to prick his conscience about how long it took to say those three little words after my daughter asked him to the dance: Yes, Yes, Yes!


Luckily I don't hold grudges. I'm generously tolerant of people with commitment issues and/or time management issues and/or priority issues and/or date-dance-response block issues. As long as he doesn't have abandonment issues, I'm good.

So my daughter's 17th birthday was, as they say at the Moulin Rouge, spectacular, spectacular. She got a rainbow cake from her medical assisting friends, a darling sweater from my sister, and a perm from my mom.

You heard me right, a perm! As in permanent! (Yes, she listens to eight track tapes too!)

She also got asked on a date. Plus she got serenaded by a boy with a guitar and three back-up singers.

I only know this because during the party, while my hub, my twins, my dog and myself were shut up in the master bedroom, huddling together on our California King to give my daughter space, my twins decided to go outside and play football in the dark, where they witnessed the whole thing, from the boys leading her outside to them singing--get this--Baby, Baby, Baby by Justin Bieber. Apparently her Homecoming date isn't the only one who turns into Justin Bieber around my daughter.

Can you imagine having the Justin Bieber effect on so many boys? "I think you've found your gift," I told my daughter, but she shrugged and said, "Oh, mom, they sing that to all the girls on their birthdays."

Hmmmmm . . . . . . that's alls I'm saying.

I was going to give my daughter something for her birthday, but then I remembered that I gave her life, so I pulled out my favorite t-shirt instead: I gave my daughter life and alls I got was this lousy t-shirt!

I did eventually end up giving her something besides life. A modest shopping spree in Park City, with a friend of her choice, and a family of her choice--preferably our family. After day 1 I took her home because she had to work and take the ACT and go on her date. After day 2 I took my boys home because they were overdosing on the steam shower. Oh, and because they begged me to take them home.

But seriosuly, whodda thought steam could be so dangerously addicting?

Must be careful about substances that clear our pores.

"I can't wait until the boys are gone," I kept saying on day 2. But then after I took them home we were all alone. "I wish the boys were here," I kept saying, until, out of nowhere, my hub started a massive pillow fight. Then disappeared to take another steam shower.

Do you think he misunderstood me?

This retreat is actually the result of one of those time share dealios we attended two years ago. You know the ones where they call you and call you until, exasperated, you agree to take a free night, plus $100 cash, just to listen to a 30 minute seminar about the resort. Upon arrival they feed you finger foods and bring you Cokes laced with . . . coke, before they strap you into a chair for four hours and tell you you are getting sleepy . . . very . . . sleepy. Once you are in a trance-like state they ask you to fork out $16,000 for a once-a-year stay at the resort.

This breaks the trance.

"Can we think about it for a few hours? Maybe discuss it?" you say, but the answer is no. Thinking and talking are off limits. This a NOW or NEVER, once in a life-time opportunity. You choose the NEVER option, but instead of letting you go, they tighten your straps and call the manager over to smack some sense into you. He offers you a steal deal of $11,000, then $8,000, then bottoms out at $4,000. Finally he puts his final offer on the table. Three nights for $300.

You can do that. Because technically it's only $2oo when you minus the cash they are about to hand you. A small price to pay for freedom. Only you're not free at all. You are still in bondage to their constant phone calls and emails until you commit to a date.

So this is our date. UEA weekend, 2011. The very same date all the other suckers in Utah County committed to, after apparently being harassed and hypnotized into submission.

We are all victims here, sharing the pool with each others screaming children and maneuvering past each other down the narrow, dimly lit hallways on our way through the maze, a glint of recognition passing between us about where we have been and where we are going--back to our rooms, where the pots and pans are kept just out of reach in the cupboard above the fridge--the cupboard where you might store your punch bowls and flower vases at home.

Back to our rooms where the overhead light flickers and the sheets crunch and the fake plastic marble Kleenex box holds all of four tissues.

Back to our room where if you want a remote for the t.v. or shampoo for your hair, or garbage bags that don't bust open when you pull them out of the pail, all you have to do is place a call and the resort will be happy to provide you with what you need. It may take a few days, but if you hang tight, it will come. I am on a first name basis with the front desk now--an inevitable result of calling for more toilet paper at 4 a.m.

"And can you send the 2-ply this time, Julius?" I asked in all sincerity.

Click.

So last night, which was our last night, as my hub was finishing his steam shower, there was a knock on the door from someone at the V.I.P. desk. He handed me a ziploc baggie full of homemade cookies, and a welcome packet containing our internet access code, a whole bunch of coupons and discounts for local restaurants we might want to try during our stay, and a pair of handcuffs. His eyes narrowed. "You know that you will be in our custody forever and ever, throughout time and all eternity, right?"

I gulped.

"It's part of the covenant you made with us when you purchased your package, that we have to meet with you again before you leave. You know that, right?"

I gulped again. "What for? We did our time here like we promised."

"Oh, we just want to share a few . . . Cokes . . . and close out your account. How did you enjoy the steam shower, by the way?"

I gulped again and looked down at the cookies.

"When can we meet with you?" he pressed.

My mind was spinning like a hamster wheel. "How about tomorrow morning," I heard myself say. "Like say about 9 a.m?" And then he made me sign my name in blood.

Only thing is, we won't be here at 9 a.m. I've been up since 4:3o digging a tunnel to the parking lot with a spoon? After I changed our phone numbers and email addresses and identities? If you don't hear from me again, you'll know there were security guards at the exit.

As for my final wishes? I would like the words DON'T. DO. TIME SHARES. engraved on my headstone.

And if there's enough space maybe add (or steam showers) underneath.

Mahalo, peeps!

R.I.P.

Drumroll, please . . .

Basketball season is underway once again. For my twins. And guess what! Guess what! Guess what! My short twin is starting to grow. Probably due to the large quantities of corn dogs he consumes on a daily basis.

(KIDDING, peeps! Don't call Social Services on me!)

He is as tall as me now! But I think all that growing is effecting his brain cells because the other day we were trying to teach him how to stop people from teasing him. By NOT reacting to them, right!? Because then they just leave you alone, right? So I used the example of my sister, bless her heart, who had to learn this the hard way.

"It was just too easy to get her goat," I told my growing boy.

"Wait!" he said, as sincerely as humanly possible. "She used to have a goat?"

Heee heee heee heee That's my boy!

FYI, the tall twin now has a B in choir, thanks to eating that corndog. Phew!

Oh, and guess what else! guess what else! Guess what else!

My daughter finally got her answer from that Ivy league boy with the dazzling smile, who even though he can score a 35 on the ACT, has a hard time answering a simple yes or no question.

And the answer is . . .

Drumroll, please . . .

He says he would "love" to go. He thinks it would "serve" him well. (And you guys were so worried!)

(Serve him well? Does that sound like a Hahvard boy or what? Except he forgot to add the dahling.) (And the apology for being such an Ace.)

hee hee (J/K peeps! please, PLEASE don't call Social Services on me!)

Btw, the candle in the pumpkin was a trick candle. My daughter huffed and puffed and it wouldn't blow out.

"He's sending you a message!" I told her. That the "love" can never be snuffed out.

But then she used her inhaler and POOF, the flame was gone! Just like that!

Your blog would suck without me!

In case you were wondering, my daughter doesn't read my blog. She doesn't want to know what I'm saying behind her back. But a few nights ago while I was laying in bed composing the letter to her preference date and cracking myself up as I yelled it across the hall to her, she said, "Mom, your blog would suck without me."

Those weren't her exact words, they were Kelly Clarkson's, but that was the gist of it.

And then she called out across the hall, "As soon as you get famous my life is over!" to which I replied, "That's why I'm waiting for you to go to college before I get famous!"

I'm such a rock star mom, don't you think?

Knock on wood.

I only say knock on wood because as soon as you pat yourself on the back for being a rock star mom, you'll fer sure get a one-two punch to the gut, reminding you that your mom skillz ain't that great after all. Elsewise why would your 13-year-old son be getting a C in choir? Besides that fact that he chose to eat a corn dog for his comfort zone project.

I shoulda known betta! I shoulda known! How does eating a corn dog help you overcome stage fright or perform more confidently or get an A in choir?

Call me crazy, but I think he misunderstood the comfort zone project. At least this was my feeling as I read his report this morning:

Ever since I was little, every time I smelled a corn dog it made my nose and my stomach hurt, so I never liked to be around them, but of course my twin brother loves them. He could eat seven corn dogs a day if he wanted so I hate it when he shoves a corn dog in my face.

So now I decided to try a corn dog for this comfort zone assignment. I would never do this in my regular day life, but I’m going to do this because it makes me very uncomfortable. So first I asked my mom to get the corn dog ready for me because I couldn’t bring myself to do it. She put it on the edge of the table but while I was trying to get the nerve to eat it my dog jumped up and ate it. So I guess I can really say my dog ate my homework.

My mom made me get the next corn dog ready myself so I got some ketchup and put it on my corn dog and got ready. Once I took that first bite I hated it. It had a really weird taste. It was sweet and gross and nasty, but I still ate it. I timed myself and it took me seven minutes to eat the whole thing.

The good thing about this assignment is that I learned that you can do things that you’re not comfortable with. You can do new things so when a new thing happens and you’re not comfortable with it, u know it’s good to take risks and good things will happen. But bad things may also happen, so I think it’s good you made us do this assignment.

Ummmm . . . . yea, that's my boy.

FYI: No, my daughter's preference date, if I can call him that, still hasn't answered her. But FTR, apparently he didn't answer the girl who asked him last year for at least THREE weeks!!!!!!!

Ummmm . . . . yea, that's her boy. (Maybe) At least she's not asking him to get married. (Maybe)

A letter to my daughter's preference date

I should change the title of this blog to Crash Test Dummy's Daughter Diaries, huh?

Okay, one more and then I'll start bashing on someone else.

Here's the dealio. When you're in high school and you want to ask someone to a dance you have to get creative.

In other words, it's a big ole' production.

And then your date has to answer you back with an equally creative production.

It all seems very mysterious and exciting to a mom without a life, but to a teenager with three of four lives, it can get a little stressful.

The boys are pretty chill about it all. They begin asking their dates 2-3 weeks before any given dance.

The girls, however, have to move on it 6-8 weeks before the dance. That's because the junior girls jump the gun and place dibs all the senior boys, forcing the senior girls to get in the race if they want to pin down their date of choice.

Like I said before, it's all very mysterious and exciting, this underbelly of the date dance world. Kinda reminds me of Black Friday how everybody waits in line to snatch and grab the perfect date off the the clearance rack.

Some boys, like my daughter's Justin Bieber Homecoming date, got asked four times, eight weeks prior to the dance.

My daughter's first choice got snatched up at seven weeks prior. So she asked the varsity tennis player that she beat. Not a consolation date, though. He's a cutie patootie fer sure, with all his ducks in a row. Harvard bound, dazzling smile, tall enough to be her big brother (who just so happens to be 6'1" now--just sayin').

She asked this tall, dazzling, Ivy leaguer with a sign that said "We could make a perfect "match!" (Get it? Match?) (It's tennis lingo, peeps, keep up.) Unfortunately the second part of that sentence that said "because I beat you, and what's more perfect than me winning!?" didn't fit on the sign so she left it off.

Included with the sign were five tennis balls that spelled out P R E F ?

Then there was a clue. "It's what's inside that counts." This clue referred to the teeny tiny pieces of folded paper my daughter had slipped inside each ball that spelled her name. (She likes to play hard to get like that.)

It was all very symbolic. And it was all very 12 days ago. Or should I say, 12 freakin' days ago! And he still hasn't answered her back yet.

12 days!!!! That's got to be a Guinness world record, don't you think?

Don't get me wrong, it's just a technicality and he's not being rude about it, or anything. Bless his heart. He still talks to her every day and acts normal, like any ole' tall Ivy leaguer with a dazzling smile would.

I told her she should light a fire under him by leaving the drum stick on his porch with a sign that reads, "The annoying drummer boy got back to me quicker."

But of course she isn't worried about it because she has three or four lives, so I took it upon myself to write him a letter in a language I thought he might understand. I'm patient and compassionate like that.

May I?

(BTW, names have been changed to protect the guilty.)

Dear Ace,

Can I call you Ace?

I would like to offer a bit of motherly advice, from one dumb "ace" to another. (Get it? dumb ace?)

Allow me to share the eight simple rules to a successful date dance "court" ship? (Get it? court ship?)

1. To git date dance "love" you gotsta give date dance "love."

2. See, winning usually boils down to how well you "serve" (and how fast you answer my daughter).

3. You can't find your perfect "match" by "default" . . .

4. But don't worry, you can always "rally" back . . .

5. If you get 'cha, get 'cha, get 'cha, get 'cha head in the game . . .

6. And answer my daughter . . .

7. PRONTO!

8. Before I poke your eyes out.

Savvy?

P.S. If you hit the net, you get a "let." So take two (weeks.) But after that it will be a "double fault" (and she will be forced to play the drummer)

Savvy?

Mahalo Nui Loa

Hee hee. Do you think this will make a good impression?