“I finished driver’s ed. Can you make me an appointment to take the permit test … TOMORROW???”
But not for the reasons you might think. Notbecause I can’t bear the thought of my baby girl being old enough to drive.
And not because I am panicking at the idea of my precious cargo getting behind the wheel of a deadly weapon.
Not even because the person sitting in the death seat of that metal monster will be yours truly.
It’s because in my state, you can’t even attempt to take the written test to get a permit until you have paid for a driver training class.
Yes, my friends. You must shell out anywhere from $250 (if you are can find a bargain) to $600 IN ADVANCE so the Department of Motor Vehicles is assured that she won’t prematurely take the wheel without a guarantee of official lessonage.
Which begs the question:
What if the Roo-girl doesn’t pass the written test?
Will I then have invested a small fortune in driving lessons that she cannot use?
He was beautiful. Golden hair. A goofy smile that melted my heart. Smart as a whip. With a hot car -- an orange Barracuda, if I have my facts straight.
But I don't remember what color his eyes were. This bothers me for some reason, even though it was multiple decades ago.
I liked him soooooo much. My high school BFF liked this other boy, and we would spend Fridays and Saturday nights of our senior year driving a circuit between the house of MY boy and the house of HERS, giggling and wishing wishing wishing for glimpse of our crushes.
The route never varied, and we never tired of the game.
I have no idea what we would have done if either boy had actually stepped outside his front door.
Probably panicked and hot-rodded the heck outta there, followed by a lot more giggling and just DYING of embarrassment.
As if we hadn't brought it upon ourselves.
It was a relationship that never was. It was a burning, one-sided crush -- passionate yet unrequited.
And so we graduated from high school, and the boy went to college on the East Coast, while I stayed on the West.
I went on to a career in newspapers, and he ... well, I have no idea because I never heard anything more about him.
But he was a brilliant writer (we co-edited the literary magazine that last year of high school), and I had no doubt that, at some point, he would become Something Great.
Many people from my high school class became Something Great -- or at least Something Pretty Good.
I know this because I -- and many of my elementary and high school cronies -- have taken to social networking to reconnect with our past.
This is especially important this year because the 40th anniversary of our launch into the world is fast approaching, and reunion planning is under way. Facebook has made it easier to find classmates, and I have spent many an evening linking from one friend through to another and another, amazed at what we look like and sound like four decades after being released from high school.
Always, lurking in the shadows, was the idea that I would somehow find that boy, that long-ago crush.
Why? Basic curiosity, really. I wanted to see how he turned out. Did high school cute and virile turn into middle-age bald and paunchy? Or was he now ruggedly handsome with a trophy wife and 2.5 children? Did he become Something Great? Or just Something Ordinary?
The internet -- and Facebook in particular -- is a godsend when it comes to reunion planning. What did they do in the dark ages when you had to rely on mailing lists and word of mouth? Now it's so simple. My class has a Facebook page ... and a freestanding website where information flows freely.
I looked at our website the other day and noticed a page labeled "In memory of ..."
I clicked ... and was shocked by what I saw.
There were the ones I knew about. The boy who had died of a brain aneurysm when we were freshman. The girl who had died of ovarian cancer when we were in our 30s.
There were some names that didn't look familiar.
And there there was ... his.
My boy. My high school crush.
Now on a list of the dead of the class of 1970.
I have no idea what happened to him. When or how or why he died.
The Eastern seaboard is blanketed with multiple inches -- or feet -- of snow, making for amazing photo opportunities. It makes my sad offerings of a rain-soaked world pale by comparison, but ... oh well!
The fog settles on the hills:
Raindrops on roses some kind of flower:
There's a snail in there:
I have no idea what kind of flower this is ... or was. Anyone?
Into each life a little rain must fall ...
Now, having absolutely NOTHING to do with the weather but EVERYTHING to do with my sweet tooth ...
Guess what was delivered to my front door on Saturday morning?
It had regular daily features. Booze Tues, Serenity Now Sunday, Sassy Saturday (my personal fave).
And it rolled ever onward, collecting the usual fans and groupies along the way.
Somewhere along the line, they planned to start an associated review blog with a cast of characters that included yours truly. The extra blog never really got anywhere, but my contribution ended up being published on the main site. Yay me!
In honor of Room 704's first birthday, the crazed and crazy ladies decided to make a change -- and turn the blog into more of a monthly magazine, with a variety of content contributed by the same goofy gals who signed up to review cool stuff.
That month magazine made its debut on Thursday.
With two posts from ...
Wait for it ...
Yup. Follow the link and find your way to the virtual table of contents, where there are 20 posts from the group now known as the staff writers of Room 704. We even have a button, now on my sidebar.
If you have children, you know that finding time to be ... ahem ... intimate can be challenging.
When they are babies, you're too exhausted to even THINK about it, much less DO it.
When they are older, you have to wait until they're all tucked in before sneaking in some "us" time.
And even then, unless you remembered to lock the door ...
Well, let's just say that I have been known to find a sleeping toddler curled up at the foot of the marital bed.
And been rudely interrupted by an older child making an announcement of impending vomit.
When the children are teens or twentysomethings, you still aren't safe -- because then, they make snide remarks about what they "heard" or didn't want to hear, so really, Mom, could you guys not do that ever again????
Ha. I may be old, but I'm not dead.
Anyway, since the old homestead is a place lined with landmines when it comes to finding the time and privacy to do what comes naturally, I have learned to love -- and idolize -- a rare treat.
Admit it. There is nothing sexier than slipping between the sheets at the Ramada ... knowing that you are really truly a.l.o.n.e!
I love love love hotel sex.
No one cares if you make noise.
No one cares if you hang from the chandelier.
No one cares if you walk around in the all-together.
And no one will knock on the door because she needs an ibuprofen and can't find the bottle.
I'm a working wife and mom, married 9 years to the Wonderhubby. My five kids (yes five) are 31 (Drummer Man), 28 (Drama King), 22 (Z-man), 22 (J-Bear) and (gulp) 18 (the Roo-girl). What was I thinking? Oh yeah, I was thinking that I love my life, my kids, my world. Right now, I'm dealing with the end of high school and the start of college years (eek!), new drivers, rebellious twentysomethings, my emptying nest (cry) and letting go. Email me at jsongbird4(at)aol.com