- If you didn’t go to summer camp, what did you do during the summer when you were fourteen? I spent all day with babysitting or at the pool. The Boy isn’t into either of those, and he’s too young to drive or work.
- I’m lucky he does love the piano, because he spends a lot of his free time playing it, but one cannot play all day. He has a bit of summer work for school, but in the shocking news of the day, he hasn’t started.
- We will not, I repeat, not, wait until August to begin the summer work for school.
- Every August thus far, we’ve begun the summer work for school.
- Y’all will be happy to know I’ve continued to keep my email inbox to a low number of unread messages. Maybe you won’t be happy. Maybe you don’t care. Just know it has been a constant battle with myself. I’m happy with myself.
- I suppose anything would’ve been reasonable after 100,000, but I think you’d agree that emptying it several times a day is within the normal range.
- Carolina Moon distillery, a small-batch operation out of Edgefield, is opening a second location downtown Augusta. They’ll offer their own moonshine along with cocktails and several other small-batch liquors. Whether you drink or not, this is all good news.
- Between World Cup soccer and Wimbledon tennis, my productivity is down. I’ve tabled all binge-worthy shows until after these two sports have handed out trophies.
- I don’t think there are enough hours in a day to watch every show we might like to watch.
- I mean that literally. Even if we stayed up 24 hours a day, 7 days week, I doubt we could get through everything on our watch lists.
- I’m still trying to spend more time reading. The most recent attempt is “Sharp Objects” by Gillian Flynn (who also wrote “Gone Girl”). It’s a great book and had me riveted on my most recent flight. I’m apparently out of the loop, because I didn’t know it was already an HBO series. I’m suddenly having a hard time reading. I can just push play to see what happens. I haven’t done it yet.
- I’m pretty proud of my baby brother. He wrote, produced and performed the theme song for Gordon Ramsay’s newest show on Fox, “24 Hours to Hell and Back.” He’s worked on smaller projects in the past, but this is his biggest to date. Look for his name in lights someday. Or at least in the credits. I hope he gives me some credit.
- We are still in the process of selling my mom’s house. Let’s put it this way: I’m over it. At least we are close. We had five offers on the one day it was on the market. We chose the strongest offer, but it hasn’t been the smoothest process. We found out her basement leaks every time it rains. It rains every day in the summer. Right as it dries up, another storm comes along. House description amended to add: comes with self-filling pool in the basement! I kid. Feel free to pray, cross fingers, hold your breath, send positive vibes, have seances, or anything else to help our cause. I do know that seances are typically performed for communicating with the dead. If it helps sell this house, I’m game.
- My heart breaks for Michael Gentry. His life was unnecessarily cut short last week when he was shot to death in Harrisburg. He was confined to a wheelchair and well known in the community for his positivity and giving a thumbs-up to all passers by. A teenager has been arrested for his death.
- C’mon, y’all. That’s just gross. And sad. We’re better than that. If you’re in law enforcement, please listen to the folks living in Harrisburg. They know what’s up. They know where the problems are. If you live there, stay vigilant. I’m listening, and I’m certain I’m not the only one.
My husband takes the kids camping every Father’s Day. I’ve told y’all that before, but it still surprises me every year. I think it was seven years ago when he first asked, “is it okay if I take the kids camping for Father’s Day?” No one in their right minds would refuse that offer. If my husband wants to take the kids camping every weekend, I’ll squeeze in family time somewhere else. Have at it.
I often get to make my own plans, which have ranged from girls’ trips with other moms to weekends in Atlanta to quiet nights at home alone. This year, I hopped on a plane and spent the weekend with my dad.
Dad made plans on Father’s Day, but they were actually belated birthday dinner reservations for me. I’d taken him out to dinner the night before. I think we made that more complicated than it needed to be, but at least we got a couple of great meals out of it.
His reservations sent us to this old-school, somewhat cheesy Polynesian restaurant, complete with fire dancing and barrels of rum with umbrellas. We knew what we were getting into and wanted an adventure.
The crowds for places like that are all over the place. We saw bachelorette and birthday parties, couples on dates, and a big table of guys drinking fishbowls. The rest of the room seemed to be filled with families, out for Father’s Day dinner. One was very dressed up, with girls and Mom in long red dresses and Dad in a sequined blazer. Fancy.
Surprisingly, that was not the family that stood out most of all.
This place was loud. Polynesian music blasted though the speakers, and since the show was sold out, every table was filled with mostly happy people. That’s not a complaint. It’s to explain just how loudly the kids at the table next to us were listening to a video. They had it turned up loudly enough to hear it over the sold-out crowd and the music. If they could hear it well, guess who else could hear it well? That’s right! All the people at the surrounding tables. The adults, who I’m assuming are the parents, sat there on their phones as well. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, so I’ll assume they were dealing with some sort of emergency that absolutely couldn’t wait until after dinner.
Fifteen minutes or so later, another kid, a teenager, joined this same family. They were briefly happy to see each other, quickly resuming their respective phone activities. The new kid was also on his phone. Y’all, he was FaceTiming someone. I can’t assume this was an emergency that absolutely couldn’t wait until dinner, because I could hear their conversation.
Before you worry, Dad and I were still enjoying our time together. We couldn’t help but notice this electronically occupied family, though. They were at the table directly in front of us.
I told Dad it made me sad that they weren’t enjoying time together. He agreed with me. He also said, “hey, at least they are together.”
As a parent of two teenagers (close enough), these kids’ behavior was gross. They were old enough to know better. Why weren’t the parents saying anything?
I suppose Dad was right, though. They could’ve all been anywhere, but they were together, celebrating their dad. But were they actually present? Next time, they could save the cost of the fancy umbrella drinks and Pu Pu platters and do a group video chat.
If you’re a phone call away, make a phone call. If you can travel together, do that. If you’re sitting down to dinner, eat, talk, and, like, look at each other. I suppose any time together is time spent together, but we can do better, y’all. Put the dang phones down and love your people, people.
Editor’s note: Jenny’s been busy driving her kids to and from and taking potty breaks, so here’s a blast from the past. This column first was published in August 2011.
Ah, the family road trip. I’ll admit that they’re much easier as The Boy and The Girl get older. The list of things to pack shrinks as we have outgrown diapers, bottles and sippy cups. There are some must-haves, but they change from trip to trip.
This time, The Girl had to bring a certain babydoll with us because she couldn’t be left home alone. Because no one would cook her dinner. She has a backpack stuffed with animals who must come with us. She unsuccessfully tried to bring a blonde wig, her Barbie bed and a big golf umbrella.
Per usual, the second we crank the car, someone asks how long it’s going to take. The Man and I reply with a solid, unified “AWHILE.” This doesn’t stop the incessant asking and counting down. The Boy enjoys announcing the time throughout the trip. He’s even sweet enough to read the clock once per minute. Jealous?
There’s the inevitable whining, too. It makes my ears hurt just to think about it. My friend Liz and I turn the tables on the kids. We start talking in the same whiny tone. Not a word comes out of our mouths that isn’t saturated with whine. After about 10.6 seconds, both kids are yelling, telling us how annoying we are. So we keep it up. They angrily request that we stop. Mission accomplished.
The Girl, being 5 years old, is especially impatient in the car. She asks in such a sweet way, but anything that repeats itself that much loses its luster. I finally taught her that if she goes to sleep, when she wakes up we will be there. So far, we’ve had great success. I haven’t tried it on any trips longer than three hours, though.
Growing up, we played games in the car. This was pre-DVD players. You know, when the middle seat of the van was removed so you could set up a pallet on the floor. Punch Buggy and the Alphabet Game were top choices. Last week, we played the watermelon game. The highway between Augusta and most South Carolina beaches is home to a town that boasts a Watermelon Festival. Most homes and businesses hang painted watermelons on everything. Counting them makes for a fun game. We played for about 30 minutes. I declared game over when I had the highest total. Fun game!
The Man always drives. I actually love driving, but I want my passenger to stay awake and keep me company. The Man loves to sleep in the car. Therefore, he drives. Using a GPS has all but eliminated any arguments about asking for directions. Now we are a unified front against Delores, the angry GPS narrator. I put the GPS in the Marriage Savers file, along with DVR and double sinks.
He is a great driver, but I have the world’s most ineffective air brake. I’m sure The Man would openly admit that when I brake, grab the door handle and suck air through my teeth, he wants to toss me out the window. He doesn’t talk to other cars. I have full conversations with the idiots who drive in the left lane, cut us off or brake too much. If they get mad at me, I smile and wave. Nothing makes road rage flair up like a smiling, waving enemy. They get more and more angry and look like an ass. I love it.
I hope you consider these examples as tips for improving and enhancing your next adventure. Road trips don’t have to be frustrating. There are games to be played, minutes to count and whining to combat.
Just be sure to use the potty before leaving the house. Don’t make me pull this car over.
Ok, y’all. I have to ask. I’m not the only one who wants to know the answer. I know others are wondering, as well. I know I can’t solve the problem simply by asking, but if you have the answer, please share.
What is wrong with Augusta drivers?
Disclaimer: I am nowhere near perfect when it comes to driving.
I didn’t get my license here. I learned to drive in Atlanta. Numerous sources say Atlanta has some of the worst drivers in the country. Interstate 285, the city’s perimeter highway, is one of the most dangerous, and it’s plenty scary to drive. I’m not scared to drive in Augusta. I’m baffled.
The stop sign nearest to my home must be invisible to most. Seriously. I can see it just fine, but most people run through at full speed. This intersection isn’t unique. Please, don’t lay on the horn if it takes me a minute to hit the gas when the light turns green. I’m making sure everyone else stops.
I’m not talking about things like that, though. I’m talking about being courteous, while obeying the law. I’m talking about being aware of others around you. Like, paying attention.
Do we all know how to operate a blinker? Maybe your blinker bulbs burned out. Once you turn, they turn off all by themselves, so there’s no extra effort, once you’ve signaled to the other drivers that you might be, you know, turning. Here’s another handy tip: if you’d like to merge, you can turn on your blinker, aka signal, to signal to others that you’d like to merge. This goes both ways. If you see a driver next to you, sorta slowing down, with that flashing light thingy happening, they might want to merge.
Once you’ve merged, feel free to raise your hand in the air, quickly of course, moving it back and forth from side to side. This is called a wave. Waving while driving often means, “thank you.” As in, “thank you for slowing down and taking a little extra time out of your day to let me in, even though it is not required by law.” See how that works?
A wave is handy anytime someone does something nice for you. If they stop, letting you out into heavy traffic on Washington Road, knowing you might otherwise wait awhile, you wave. They did you a favor. Once you’ve used your blinker (ahem), and you merge into traffic on Bobby Jones, that really congested part by Walmart, wave to the car behind you. They might be in a hurry, too, but they took the time to help you.
Please, forthelove, get off the phones. I watched a man nearly run off the road yesterday, because he was reading something on his phone. He was looking down, completely ignoring the road. His children were in the car. Not only that, but, like, any one of us could’ve died. You will not die, however, if you wait 10 minutes to text your boo back.
Augustans seem to stop for emergency vehicles and funerals with regularity, so this isn’t a lost cause. I’ve wondered if the written exam should be required every 10 years or so, as a refresher. Rules for being kind weren’t on any test I’ve taken thus far. Maybe that should change. Or maybe we should just be nice. And use blinkers.
- As I’m writing this, the “Roseanne” reboot has been canceled by ABC. People seem to be quite upset that her First Amendment rights were violated. Folks, it’s time for a lesson in the basics of your government.
- Here’s what it says: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” Do you see that? It protects you from the government. Your employer can fire you if you don’t act in a manner that is reflective of their values and beliefs.
- It’s a shame, because, like it or not, her show was doing pretty well, ratings-wise. I wonder how her costars are enjoying the news?
- I’m also hearing “but she apologized!” Sure, that matters, but if criminals just said “sorry,” would we be able to get rid of jails? My kids say “sorry” just about every time they get in trouble. Sometimes they’re sorry they did it; sometimes they’re sorry they got caught. Rarely does the apology eliminate the consequence.
- Props to the person who put the “No to Regency! Yes to Downtown!” sign in our yard last week. Even bigger props to whoever came and picked it up the next day.
- Speaking of the arena, thank God that wasn’t an actual vote on the ballot, because if it had been, we might have an arena that was both downtown and at Regency Mall. Let that sit for a minute.
- People, please read the ballot when you vote. Hey, how about we read a little before we get to the polling place? Becoming an informed voter isn’t that difficult. It’s a good idea to do a little more than dinner table research, too. If you don’t vote, you don’t get to complain.
- I finally got to go to SRP Park. If you don’t know what that is, you’ve been living under a rock, but I’ll tell you anyway. It’s the new GreenJackets stadium, and it’s a stunner.
- It wasn’t very crowded, but the forecast was for rain (again), which likely scared people away.
- Every staff member we encountered was pleasant and helpful. We will be back!
- It has been raining for days. Don’t complain about it. In a month, we will be on a water restriction due to lack of rain.
- If you have a basement that floods, you’re allowed to complain about the rain. I learned the value of a shop vac and dehumidifier while cleaning my mom’s house.
- The passage of time isn’t kind to mamas. The days seem never-ending, but the years are gone in a blink. I can’t believe my first born will be in high school in August. We are months away from teaching him to drive.
- I can’t decide if I’m relieved or terrified.
- School’s out for summer, y’all! Cheers!
It’s my birthday. Y’all know how much I love birthdays. Forty-one isn’t anything all that impressive. It’s not a milestone birthday by any means. It’s still my birthday.
This week, My brothers and I have had the distinct pleasure of cleaning out Mom’s house. It’s been sitting vacant since she died. It was frozen in time. Her shoes sat where she last removed them, her toothbrush on the bathroom counter. A bowl, complete with spoon, was in the sink, covered in cobwebs. You could tell where she stood the last time she changed into her nightgown. Her favorite blanket was in her spot on the couch.
She also had a lot of stuff. There were piles of unopened mail. Bags and bags of clothing filled the extra bedrooms. Old report cards, long abandoned collections of things, wrapping paper, photos, and who knows what else filled the rooms. She wouldn’t have qualified to be on one of those hoarding shows on TV, but it was close.
Her basement flooded last week. We didn’t know this was a regular thing, but it was. Imagine all that stuff I described, and more, in the basement, now wet from a leak.
I could get mad at Mom for leaving us with a mess. Mostly, though, I felt sad that she lived the way she did. We’ll never really know why she kept to herself all those years, hiding memories in boxes.
We’re trying to sell the house, so it had to be emptied. We went over a few times, going through pictures and reminiscing. We reboxed her wedding china and crystal. We got the old Victrola and antique furniture. My brothers found their Barry Bonds rookie card, and my favorite Jessica McClintock dress with the big white bow on the back was well-preserved in the attic. I have every single Garbage Pail kid. We grabbed a few other things that could be salvaged. We got really overwhelmed. We hired help.
What would’ve taken us two months took these guys two days and six trucks. Six. Trucks. Y’all. Before these guys showed up to help, we’d stop and look through piles. Sometimes we’d find things, sometimes we’d roll our eyes. Our reinforcements carried it all out quickly. They assured us it wasn’t the worst they’d seen. They brought us stacks of photos before disposal. We glanced through, one more time, but there are only so many needed copies of Olan Mills portraits. Never fear, we saved some.
As much as we are ready to get rid of this house, a house that holds very few memories for our family, it was a sad process. We watched so much of our lives get tossed into a dump truck.
“Should we be saving that?”
Sure, we could’ve saved a lot more. We had to stop. We would’ve been there all year. Instead, thanks to some hard-working helpers, we finished Tuesday.
I’m thankful for my brothers. Dealing with the house would’ve been so much harder without our band of three. I’m thankful for Mom. I’m thankful for the time we had together and the memories that remain. Carrying that last box out of her house today brought everything back around, full circle, on my birthday.
I’m also thankful for this big glass of wine, looking especially lovely in my grandmother’s crystal. Happy day to me! Cheers!
I’m traveling unexpectedly this week, working on closing out my mother’s estate, but I didn’t want the week to pass without talking to y’all about something.
The Augusta Players presented “Disney’s The Little Mermaid,” complete with puppetry, special effects, fireworks, and a cast, crew, and orchestra of nearly 75 people. The Imperial Theatre (www.imperialtheatre.com) was packed up to the second balcony. Did you miss it? Visit www.augustaplayers.org to see what’s coming up next season.
Southern Soul Fest was at the Miller, which added to the crowds on Broad Street, but we’d be crazy to complain. The Miller has new events weekly. They’re worth attending, if for no other reason than to see the renovations. Go to www.millertheateraugusta.com for a calendar.
Le Chat Noir began its run of the violently hilarious “Evil Dead the Musical.” It’s got blood, gore, jokes and music. Plus, their little venue is pretty cool. You can still catch that one if you hurry. www.lcnaugusta.com.
In Aiken, Deloris and her choir of nuns took the stage at the Aiken Community Playhouse. It’s running on weekends through the end of the month. If you liked the movie, you’ll love the musical! It’s fabulous, baby! www.aikencommunityplayhouse.com for tickets!
“Nana’s Naughty Knickers” is Ft. Gordon Dinner Theater’s May show, and you can still catch it this weekend. Promoted as a “guilty pleasure” it opened last weekend but continues through the 19th. Hurry up and call the box office (706-793-8552) — they often fill the house.
Want to know the craziest thing? Every one of these sold out. On the same night. Friday, May 11, was the night the CSRA proved there’s plenty of things to do and plenty of people to do the things. You did your part. Let’s not make this a one-time thing. I’m expecting one heck of an encore. Bravo, y’all!
- I forgot to make a hair appointment this month. I’ve been coloring my grays for years now, so I have no idea how it slipped through the cracks. My husband says I shouldn’t worry about it. “Grow out the gray,” he says.
- I have a beautiful friend who hasn’t ever colored her hair. It’s long and healthy, and it suits her so well.
- I don’t know how much gray hair I really have, and I’m not ready to find out. Not only do I like my plain brown hair, I like the time it takes to sit in the chair at the salon once a month. It’s guaranteed downtime, and I’m not giving it up.
- I pay a lot for that downtime. It’s worth every penny.
- I wish I could get back into reading. I need to get back into reading. Before I had kids, my nose was always in a book. It’s not that I don’t have the time. I don’t make the time.
- I recently bought new books for The Girl. She’s never been a big reader. When she was little, we read to her every night, and she loved that. We just picked up Sweet Valley High books 1, 2 and 3. I kinda want to reread them.
- If you grew up in the ’80s, and you’re a girl, you probably read at least one of them. I remember waiting for the Special Edition ones or, even better, the Super Special Editions, because they were so much longer than the regular books.
- It turns out Kanye West has admitted to an opiate addiction. Why is that news? Because there’s an epidemic. It’s scary. I’ll be the first to admit to taking Percocet after the birth of each of my two children. I thought I needed it. I took it for several days after The Boy was born. I never touched it again once I went home after The Girl’s C-section.
- I’m so thankful for the nurse who calmly explained that she didn’t want me to leave the hospital dependent on pain meds. One morning, she came to me and said we would skip a dose of post-op meds. I was terrified. After all, I needed them, right? I’d just had surgery. She coached me through getting out of bed, and she was right. I didn’t need them. Ibuprofen did the trick.
- We have a friend who is a doc in south Georgia. In addition to his hospital duties, he runs a minute clinic. He has a big, bold sign at the check in counter informing potential patients that it’s a narcotic-free clinic. It’s a small step, but it’s a start.
- I just heard of a local doc, convicted of and sentenced for illegal opiate prescription dispensing. People were paying upwards of $1,000 for a bottle of pills. That’s insane. He’s off to federal prison, and his patients will likely find a new source.
- I don’t feel sorry for him. He knew what he was doing. He’s no better than a crack dealer.
- There’s a bird’s nest in our chimney. I can hear the babies chirping, and so can our dog. He’s impatiently waiting at the fireplace. How long before baby birds fly?
- Apparently it’s a cardinal nest. There’s been a blue jay trying to get into it, and apparently blue jays are jerks. This particular blue jay sits on the windowsill yelling at the cardinal all day. How long before baby birds fly?
- Oh my goodness. This weather is wonderful. Enjoy it. Sit on your porch with friends and enjoy a cold beer. Or tea. Whatever. Cheers!
The Boy is wrapping up middle school. He’s in the final weeks of eighth grade, with only a few projects and the dreaded Milestones testing left.
Riding in the car the other day, I asked him, “What do you think about learning to drive? In less than a year, you can try it!” I expected an overjoyed teenager response. Instead, he sighed, closed his eyes, and said, “actually, I’m really nervous. High school makes me nervous.”
Realizing the conversation was headed in a different direction, I softened my tone.
“Which parts, buddy? Driving? The workload? Dating? Tests?” I’m surprised by this, because he is my laid-back, non-stressed kid. Additionally, he isn’t starting a new school in ninth grade.
“All of it.”
“Really?” I wasn’t being insensitive. I was investigating. “Were you nervous going into sixth grade? That would’ve been scary to me.”
He went on to say that he went blindly into middle school. Academics came easily to him, he had some friends, and he was mostly excited to go to a new place. “Sure. That all makes sense. You’re lucky you are staying at the same school, at least. All of those things seem big right now, but they’ll be fun.” I gave him my best assurance.
“What makes me most anxious is college.” Ah. There it is. As much as I wanted to tell him not to worry about college in ninth grade, that wouldn’t have been the truth. Things ain’t what they used to be. Saying like that make me sound old. It’s been almost 25 years since I sent a college application, so I suppose that’s how it goes.
My husband applied to exactly one college. He didn’t want to go anywhere else. I’m not sure what he would’ve done had he not gotten in, but he did. He went to Georgia.
I don’t remember having many conversations with my parents about college. It was expected, of course, but there wasn’t a lot of encouragement or advice. I don’t say that to make my parents sound unsupportive. College was simply the next step after high school.
I applied to three schools, all for very different reasons. Appalachian State sounded cool because my outdoorsy high school boyfriend said it was. That made it my first choice. He wanted to come visit me there. I wasn’t all that outdoorsy, and I’d never visited the school, but the pictures looked pretty. Belmont, in Nashville, had an impressive Music Business program. I’d played several instruments growing up, and the idea of working with the business side of performers and performances sounded exciting. I never thought I’d get it. It was a dream school. Georgia was my fallback. I’d visited Athens, everyone I knew was a Georgia football fan, and it was only an hour from home. Plus, with the Hope Scholarship, UGA would be free.
Surprisingly, I was accepted to all three. I decided quickly that App State was the one. The Grateful Dead bears sticker on the back of my little car would’ve fit in well. I was planning a Birkenstock purchase. I had my roommate. In May of my senior year, I changed my mind. I followed my best friends to Georgia. I was an English major there and didn’t feel much pressure to determine a career path right away.
My SAT scores were okay. I had more As than Bs on my report cards. I had fun in high school and took it just seriously enough. Now, my son is taking high school classes in middle school and feels like he needs to map out his high school career, for fear of missing something important. He’s looking into college requirements for the schools he might like to attend.
I’m glad he’s preparing, but I hate that he has to. He’s 14. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a kid. Sure, in the days of “Little House on the Prairie,” he’d own a few acres of land and a cow by now, but for now, I’m okay with him spending his summer days at the pool. He has plenty of time to be an adult. Ask any Mama; she’ll say they all do.
I’ve been talking about getting back to the gym. We are members at a great place, right around the corner from my house. I have the time to go. No excuses. Well, I have an excuse. It’s dumb, though.
The first time I went to this gym, my husband had been regularly going for quite some time. As I do when a situation is unfamiliar, I asked a lot of questions. Too many questions. Where do you park? After you park, which door do you use? Do I sign in? Is the sign-in thingy right there when you walk in? Where are the towels for wiping the equipment? Can you change the channels on the TVs? Do only super-strong people use the weights? It’s obnoxious, I know. I want to know exACTly what to expect when I arrive somewhere new. I’ve been known to do a drive by before I have to be somewhere, just to get the lay of the land.
In the same vein, I like visiting people’s houses, so if I talk to them on the phone, I can picture exactly where they are. It’s not stalkerish. I don’t want to know what you’re doing or wearing. I’d just like to have an idea of where you’re sitting. Is that weird? I’m not nosy. I’m curious.
Everyone has a bit of fear of the unknown. Talking to The Boy the other day, he confessed to being more nervous about starting high school next year than he was going in to sixth grade. That’s especially odd, given that he’s staying at the same school for 9th grade. He confided in me, and his reasons made sense. He’ll see. Despite the pressure that goes with planning for college, things start to level out in high school. I thought middle school was much more awkward. It was probably made worse by the girl who made fun of me for not wearing a bra and then snapped it when I finally did, but it’s all good now.
I asked my husband about any changes to the gym since I last stopped in. It hasn’t been all that long, but I don’t want any surprises. He gave me a couple of tips, like make sure you specify if you want a small smoothie, because they will give you a large one by default, but I’m not completely satisfied.
He wasn’t refusing to give me info, but he definitely wasn’t picking up what I was putting down. I want more!
My son seems to have inherited this somewhat annoying trait of mine. More than a need for specifics, it’s a fear of the unknown. The Boy, no stranger to performing, was asked to hand out programs at a performance at the Imperial a year or so ago. He didn’t want to. He really, really didn’t want to. He said he couldn’t imagine having to greet and actually talk to that many strangers, which made zero sense to me, considering how much time he’s spent on the stage. I told him opportunities like these, that might make us uncomfortable, have the potential to open the doors for more, even bigger opportunities. Just try. You know what? After his shift was over, he asked to do it again. I’m not saying Mama was right. Okay, I am. Mama was right.
Eight years ago, I got a phone call, asking if I’d try writing a column. No way. “There’s absolutely zero chance I can do that,” I thought. “Yes,” I said. I panicked. Who will read it? Will they hate me? What do I say? Will it sound stupid? All the questions. I put it off for days. A week and a bottle of wine later, I put a few words on paper and sent it in. Reading it now, it was terrible. I can feel my unease in the words, but I got it done. Those first 500 words became nearly as many columns.
What I say may not be for you, but I’m proud of my eight years. I very much left my safety net, and I’ve hardly looked back. I love hearing when you read. If you don’t like me, that’s okay, too. Cheers to everyone trying something new this week. Wear a good bra and ask lots of questions. If that doesn’t work, take a deep breath, do a drive by, and try again. You might find it’s not really that scary. After all, not only super strong people use the weights.