Pumped Up Circumstances

I kicked off my summer vacation last year at this time by attending commencement ceremonies for both of my kids. Fortunately, the graduation gods smiled on me and they weren’t held on the exact same day (that would have been a particularly tricky proposition as they were taking place in two different time zones).

But thinking back on all that graduation attending and the related festivities has led me to one conclusion: yes, the pomp and circumstance is thrilling and exciting for about a minute-and-a-half, and yes, of course, I couldn’t be happier for all the graduates being sent out on their way to conquer new intellectual and/or beer-soaked horizons.

But when it comes right down to it, couldn’t the people who plan these things skip the fluff (read: all the boring speeches) and get right down to the good part when your graduate crosses the stage and is handed his diploma? Personally, after they got through the “J’s” – and we Yarnells were naturally at the bitter end of the processional – I was about ready to call it a day. I was squinting at the black specs down on the gymnasium stage and/or football field astro-turf, trying to pick out the itsy-bitsy one belonging to me, and it was hot and I was regretting the pantyhose and pointy sling-backs (okay, I’d have killed for flip flops). I remember wishing that I could watch the whole thing on closed-circuit TV from my own family room or three-night-minimum hotel room whose prices had been jacked up for the parents as a special parting gift in honor of Graduation Weekend (at least they both were air conditioned).

This year I will be the proud attendee at another graduation, one for my wonderful niece. And I’ll be thrilled to be there. Fortunately, her last name ends in a letter earlier in the alphabet than “Y.” And here’s something to really celebrate: I didn’t have to pay a dollar of her tuition. All the reflected glory and none of the parental grunt work – now that’s my idea of just the right circumstances.

PS: Congratulations, Marnie! We love you and are so proud of you!

The Flap Over the Flapjacks

The hubby “cooks,” occasionally. His two gourmet specialties of the house are (drum roll here please): pancakes and baked ziti. Yesterday, he set about, with great ceremony and many, many dirty pans, utensils, and syrup-encrusted dishes, to whip up his pancakes, only to inform me that it was MY fault that only one of our kids could actually eat some. Why? Because we didn’t have enough Bisquick left in the two-ton box from Costco. (Note: He is the only one in our household who ever uses said Bisquick.)

“Why didn't you put it on the list?” I ask.
“What list?” he replies without skipping a beat.

The list that he has so conveniently managed to block from his memory is the running grocery list that has been hanging on a bulletin board in our kitchen for close to two decades. A list, by the way, on which he has previously scrawled “Double Stuff Oreos” 87 times. So the way I see it is: one of my kids had to make due with stale Lucky Charms because a) the pancake pro forgot to write Bisquick on the grocery list and b) I didn’t have the necessary x-ray vision to see that there was only an inch of pancake mix left in the box.

He’s planning a big baked ziti for tonight’s gourmet feast. I can’t wait to see how he stretches the five lone pieces of pasta rattling around in the Ronzoni box into dinner for four.

Mom Talk, Translated

You, too, can develop fluency in mom-talk, thanks to these handy translations of some sample phrases commonly heard at carpool pick-up:

“Really, if they’re happy, that’s all that matters.” (as long as they’re also brilliant and gorgeous and star athlete material)

“Don’t worry, it’s just a 10-minute drive out of your way!” (that is, if it were 2:00 a.m. and no one else was on the road)

“Wow, you look terrific!” (especially because you usually look like roadkill)

“Oh, I just read it over for her and made a few suggestions.” (like that she should let me re-write the whole thing)

PS: So, what phrases did I miss?

Opposites Attract (Or Just Drive Us Nuts)

Tell me again why “opposites attract.” On the minor things: values, family, raising kids, religion, money, politics, sex, love, and videotape, the hubby and I are totally on the same page. But it’s those pesky major things that tend to trip us up.

For instance, my idea of a good snack is a bowl of raspberries with Cool Whip Lite. His is a family-sized bag of Mega-M&M’s (those are the humongous ones). I read voraciously (granted, we’re not always talking fine literature here unless People Mag counts but still, there are printed words on a page); he incessantly plays this computer game that makes a weird annoying whomping noise. I go for chick flicks or romantic comedies; he prefers something supernatural or gory.

So tell me: are you involved with an “opposite?” And does it attract you or just drive you crazy?

The Collegiate Son Returns

My son and his laundry are back in residence for the summer. Yup, my Freshperson has returned - although now that he’s finished his first year of college, he reminds me, he is officially a Sophomore. Hard to believe this year has flown by so quickly, until I calculate that the “year” was actually nine months minus close to three-and-a-half weeks of vacation.

The minute he and the hubby returned yesterday from the big pack and pick-up, I went into laundry overload mode. As I type this, three super-sized duffels are discharging mountains of sweaty socks, crumpled damp washcloths, and ripe sweatshirts directly onto the floor of the laundry room. I’m on my fifth load and still counting. But as I pick through the remnants of his bedding and wardrobe (if gym shorts and Co-Ed Naked Skiing t-shirts can be called a wardrobe), I can’t help but remember the careful assembling and packing of all this stuff last August.

If I never walk into another Bed, Bath & Beyond, Linens ‘n Things, or any other big discount store it will be too soon. The upside in sending a young man off to school? He’s not a young woman. What a difference, preparation-wise. There were WHOLE AISLES in those places that I didn’t have to even walk down, like, the mirrors! The fuzzy pink pillow section! The shoe racks! The best was no sweating over the whole comforter thing: no going to five stores and searching on-line for THE perfect pink or lilac patterned comforter that would send just the right message (not too sweet, not too punk, not too boring, unique but not weird, etc., etc.).

For my son, it was like: “Do you want the blue – or the blue?” Ten seconds with one of those linen catalogues they send the students-to-be and we were DONE. And now that blue comforter is back home, spinning around in my dryer. And I’m happy to have it and its owner under my roof. Plus, the $1.67 in pocket change clunking around in the washing machine will go a long way to offsetting next year’s tuition bills (or a tall mocha latte no foam, whichever comes first).

Cubicle Conversations

I just moved offices at work this week, so I think it’s okay now to spill some secrets from my former one, a room the size of two combined SUVs which I’d shared with two other people for the past few years. Given its, ahem, cozy size, the three of us couldn’t help but overhear the conversations of the others—our sides of them anyway. What made it interesting (to me, at least) was that while my kids are teenaged and above, one of my officemates had an adorable eight-year-old daughter, and the other didn’t have any children.

So can you tell who received which of the personal calls below, just from our sides of the conversations?

Officemate #1: "Hi sweetie, are you having a fun day? What is new?"

Officemate #2: Silence (the phone rarely rings except for boring work stuff)

Officemate #3: "I’m hanging up RIGHT NOW and no, I will not fund your overnight road trip to LA."

Answers: 1: parent of the still-sweet little girl, 2: my kid-free colleague, and 3: that would be moi, of course.

Yup, I'll miss eavesdropping on (I mean, working with) my officemates. Wonder if they're saying the same about me. Too bad I can't hear 'em.

And The Vote Is In: Mom's Right, Again

You know that classic bit of Mom advice about looking presentable, even if you’re just running out for a carton of milk, because you never know whom you’ll run into? Well, turns out, it's right on the money.

It’s 7:50 Tuesday evening and I am on countdown to the 8:00 pm start of “American ldol” when the phone rings. It’s my friend Sheri, citizen exemplar. “Did you vote?” she asks. “Vote?” I think to myself. I haven’t even seen the performances yet, so how could I vote? Turns out she meant the local school budget/board election, not AI. And no, I haven’t. It had completely slipped my mind. I am in sleeping sweats and an oversized T-shirt. My face is washed clean of make-up, slathered with moisturizer, and my hair is pulling back in a scrungie. Perfect for Idol watching, not so much for public consumption. Plus, the polls close at 9 PM, the exact time Ryan S. signs off. So, the choice: Do I go?

My conscience kicks in. I want to be a good citizen and exercise my civic duty. But. The Idol is about to start and there is also the pesky little matter of my appearance. I come up with a compromise. I’ll watch the three finalists’ first songs, run out in the middle to vote, and hopefully return for the recap, a plan that allows, however, for little more than a two-second brush through my hair while at a stop light. (It’s times like these that I can really appreciate the appeal of a fashion statement like the burka.) But, I reassure myself, how many people that I know could I possibly run into during the six minutes it’ll take to practice good citizenship?

The answer to that would be: plenty, or one for each minute of my polling blitz, including a neighbor, a friend, a friend of a friend, my kids' former babysitter, AND one of their past teachers and his wife. Spotting each, I am faced with another choice: Do I go for the quick power sprint hello and risk being branded unfriendly, or do I go with the longer chatty greeting format, which not only gives the person I chat with more time to get a good look at me (“What’s with Laurie? She looks so tired lately!”) but also cuts into my Idol watching time.

I end up wimping out and going with the combo approach, which only succeeds in leaving people both ticked off and wondering why I look like I just rolled out of bed. The good news? I am soon back in front of the TV having missed only two songs and lots of commercials. The budget passed, my school board candidates won, and no chads were left hanging out for all to see—just you-know-who.

The New Mommy Math

Maybe I should have paid more attention to those annoying time and distance math problems of yesteryear. You know, the ones that start off like: “If two trains were leaving the station at the same time, one going eastbound at 50 mph, the other at 60 mph, etc., etc. Just thinking about them still makes me break out into a cold sweat.

But now that both my kids can drive, maybe it doesn’t really matter. ‘Cause one thing I am especially grateful for is not having to free-lance as a ground traffic controller. Any suburban mom knows just what I mean. Take this New Age Mommy Math problem, for instance: “If Madison has to be at Tabitha’s birthday party at Make-up Mania in the mall at 3:00, and Jeremiah’s band concert at the middle school is not over until 3:45, what time does Mommy leave the house?”

Or, how ‘bout this? “Both your kids have to be picked up at 4:00 tomorrow, Dylan from band rehearsal and Alexis from Little League practice. Who do you keep waiting?”

Any experienced mom knows the answer to that one: An outside venue always trumps an indoor one for safety reasons (i.e. it's probably safer to be indoors than outside on a field somewhere). Thus, you pick up Alexis from Little League first, unless, of course, you can pawn off car pool duty on another mom. Because delegating the driving always trumps all.

Yes, We Can HEAR YOU NOW!

Problem:
You’re in a small confined space (pick one: a doctor’s office waiting room, a plane stuck on a runway, the nail salon). You’re being treated to a LOUD, one-sided, oh-so-boring, play-by-play description of the cell phone-ista’s latest daytime drama ad nauseum (“She did what? Oh. My. God. You have to be kidding. So what did you say? Really? You said that? So then what happened?").

Please, please, please: give me a good line – short of SHUT UP! – to utter the next time I’m trapped in cell phone purgatory to get the offender to dial it down, or better yet, switch to text-messaging.

Mrs. Junk Food Junkie

When we first started dating, I went poking around in my hubby-to-be’s kitchen cabinets only to discover two six-packs of Marshmallow Peeps and a gigantic bag of chocolate Easter eggs – and it was September. My future other half’s idea of grocery shopping was (and continues to be) celebrating Halloween 365 days a year. And herein lies the problem: I am a healthy eating kinda gal married to Mr. Junk Food. We’ll set off on a road trip and I’ll bring some green apples and a granola bar, and he’ll be munching his was through a Costco-sized bag of mega M&M’s. I grab a vanilla yogurt for breakfast; he grabs a handful of Lucky Charms.

Once we married and started a family, our kids grew up complaining that Daddy had finished off the contents of their birthday party goody bags and plastic pumpkins. When any of us brought any junk food into the house, especially something chocolate, the family motto became: “Hide it from Dad.” Don’t believe me? Recently reorganizing the kitchen cabinets (don’t ask, I find it therapeutic and a highly effective procrastination technique), I stumbled across his personal junk food cabinet that I will inventory here: a party bucket of Twizzlers, a family-sized box of Fudge Striped cookies, a huge bag of Hershey’s Kisses, and some Hostess cupcakes.

To add insult to injury, my other half has the metabolism of Kate Moss (without the drugs). His successful diet strategy is cutting back from 12 Double Stuff Oreos to six. I, on the other hand, just have to drive by a Dunkin’ Donuts to put on two pounds. Sadly, to my knowledge, neither Oprah or Dr. Phil has ever addressed this critical relationship problem. So tell me, can this nutritionally unbalanced marriage be saved?

All Di, All the Time: Mum’s the Word

Could it be? Has it really been almost a decade since Princess Di died?

Apparently so. And to commemorate that still unreal anniversary, this summer I’ll be able to choose from no fewer than seven new books about the people’s princess to stuff into my beach bag, with a total of 14 to be published in the remainder of 2007. God, you wonder, how can they possibly find something else to say about her in addition to the gazillions of articles, books (180 titles and counting), and movies (most recently, the much-lauded “The Queen”) that the public has already inhaled over the past decade? (Hint: one of them, “Diana Style,” channels the late Princess through her clothing choices.)

I admit it. I am a shameless Diana-phile. And while I don’t collect the Di tea cozies and commemorative spoons, I do read (somewhat obsessively, the hubby strongly suggests) just about everything that continues to be written about her. So just what is it about this pop culture princess that continues to fascinate me and my fellow adoring Di-addicts? For starters, take the media-anointed “Di,” a breezy nickname that conjures up images of just another gal pal, albeit a veddy, veddy posh one with fab clothes, a to-die-for tiara, and a spiffy accent. (You know, ‘Hey guys, we’re meeting up with Trish and Jess and Di later, wanna come?’)

And while I know in my head that she wasn’t "just plain folks," in my heart there was something about her that I couldn’t help but relate to. I mean, who hasn’t made a mess of things sometimes? Made a less-than-appropriate wardrobe or boyfriend choice? Had some issues with the in-laws? Yet, even now, ten years later, it’s the memories of that giggle, the ready smile, and her touching efforts to reach out to those less fortunate, that remain. That, of course, and her loving devotion to her two boys.

Because our faux friend-who-was-really-a-royal was pretty much universally recognized as a terrific, loving mum. I know I’m not the only one who looks at her handsome sons and, give or take a few typical adolescent missteps writ large on the public stage, thinks “Job well done, Di. You would have been so proud of them.” And when it all comes down to it, what mom among us could hope for a better accolade? That’s why this one is off to order her summer reading list at Amazon.com.

Oprah’s Book Club It’s Not

In my gig at The Magazine, from time to time I have had to ask famous people what they were reading. They invariably come up with these intellectual-sounding serious tomes. So, here’s a sampling of what I (a real person) really read this week:

• "The National Enquirer" (headlines only, in the supermarket check-out line)
• An Advil bottle (with magnifying glass)
• "In Touch Magazine" (in the nail salon; "War & Peace" would’ve ruined the manicure)
• "Nineteen Minutes" by Jodi Picoult (couldn’t put it down)
• An e-mail from an offspring asking for money

So what are you reading these days?

Laurie's (No-Longer-Secret) Guilty Pleasures

If you assume that someone who writes for a living, like moi, is an intellectual, you would be…wrong. In all fairness, I like to think of myself as a more of an “astute student of pop culture” (media addict sounds so harsh).

But c’mon. We all have ‘em: secret guilty pleasures. So what are yours? I’ll start us off:

My (Secret-No-More) Guilty Pleasures

• Deconstructing every last second of each episode of “American Idol" with my similarly enlightened work pals
• Catching afternoon chick flicks in empty theaters with no lines
• Playing computer Scrabble while watching “Oprah” repeats
• Googling old crushes while watching "Law & Order" repeats
• Devouring trashy celeb gossip mags
• Obsessively reading every word about Martha S. and Princess Di

Okay, time to ‘fess up: What are your secret guilty pleasures?

Musings from The Mother 'Hood

We’ve been projectile vomited on, routinely reminded that we don’t know anything, and been ordered to pretend we’re not with our own offspring during the very visit to the mall that we are underwriting. We’re on call 24/7, never receive a raise (let alone a paycheck), and rarely, if ever, get a pat on the back or unsolicited “Great job!” So exactly what do we do get for all that toting, schlepping, worrying, and interrupted sleep? Try stretch marks, droopy boobs, wrinkles, and plenty of agita.

Mama mia. Yup, at times, being a member of the mother ‘hood can seem like a thankless job rather than a lifetime adventure. But the perks: the hugs, the giggles, the joy of giving roots to grow and wings to fly to those smaller people with whom you share your DNA, last name, and/or address? Any mom will tell you: they’re priceless.

So, to my amazing son and daughter: thank you for signing me up for the journey. To my husband and parenting partner extraordinaire: thanks for sharing the driving and helping me keep my cool during the traffic jams. To my own mother – gone much too soon and for much too long: thank you for continuing to be my moral compass and maternal GPS; you are forever in my heart. And to all the mothers who are grieving for the sons and daughters they lovingly sent off to Virginia Tech or Iraq or just to the corner store: know that you are in my thoughts, this day and always.

And to all my fellow sisters in maternal servitude: Great job! Now go enjoy the burnt toast, the overly Elmer’s glued button jewelry, and the covered coffee can pencil cups. Happy Mother's Day!