Today as I checked Facebook for the thirty-eighth time this morning, I noticed my good friend's mom (Sue) wishing a happy birthday to her husband, Jimmy, and it brought back a few memories of my reckless childhood.
Jimmy is the step-father of my close friend, Lyn, and I've known him since I was a kid. Lyn's entire family put up with her and me hanging out in their homes and acting like idiots for many years, and I love them all to this day. But I'll never forget ol' Jimmy's thinly-veiled disappointment with how we were living out our teen years.
One Saturday night, probably when we were about fifteen or sixteen, we were hanging out at Sue and Jimmy's house. Jimmy, most likely hoping we would take our two-girl teenage geek party elsewhere, asked us what our plans were for the evening. We shrugged. We just weren't up for our usual activities of thumbing through Tiger Beat, writing plays about the elderly, or purposefully trying on hideous outfits at our local Marshall's. We just wanted to veg out in the center of their home and watch Nick at Nite (if that was okay with them).
Jimmy had had it. It's not that he minded us being there; he was just crestfallen* with how we were choosing to play out the clock on our youth. He took a deep breath and put his hand to his temple. He wasn't sure how to best express himself, so he just came out with it: "Why don't you guys go out and DO something? I mean, when I was your age we used to go drinkin' in the woods!" Sometimes it's hard to tell if you're a loser. But if your friend's parent is virtually begging you to go out and get drunk like any normal teenage American, you can take that to the bank.
Looking back, I now know what painfully squeaky clean kids we were. We would spend many weekend nights hanging out in the fully furnished basement of Lyn's grandparents' lovely home, watching Daria or analyzing if Chris Cornell was indeed hotter than Eddie Vedder. The kicker of this was twofold: not only did Lyn's grandparents trust us unconditionally and never come downstairs, but there was literally a refrigerator of booze in the basement and it never ONCE occurred to us to sneak any. We would simply reach past the beer and wine coolers and procure an IBC rootbeer or Mountain Dew. Then we would stay up past midnight drinking soda and think ourselves loose cannons with no disregard for the laws of caffeinated beverages.
Bigger parties for our posse consisted of going over to our friend, Ben's, house on a Friday night from 7-11pm and breaking out the cheese curls, soda, and RISK BOARD. If we were feeling extra rebellious, we would take our cool kid party outside to the nearby cul-de-sac and hang. Nary an alcoholic beverage was consumed, and I think it goes without saying that illegal substances were also scarce. Some heated philosophical discussions would break out, though, and I think I also remember a few girls sitting on laps (WILD times). Later in high school, our social activities expanded to youth conferences, walks for charity, and weekend Student Council sleepovers in the school library (because what's more fun than spending an entire Saturday night at your school?)
I thought we were most likely a parent's dream come true, but upon further reflection I can't help but wonder if we let our folks down and Jimmy was the only one man enough to come forward and suggest more appropriate activities for us to pursue. Anyhow, Happy Birthday James Brown (yes, that's his real name). In honor of your day, I plan to put my two children to bed and get rip-roaring drunk in our backyard.
")
*thesaurus.com
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
To Ski or Not to Ski
Despite being raised in New England with parents who also grew up in New England, I somehow managed to avoid skiing until I was seventeen. We just weren't a "ski family," maybe because my 6'4" father preferred not to strap himself to things and hurtle down icy slopes, and my mom just had the good sense to realize that we owned a house with heat.
But I think by 1998 my mom began to question her sound judgement.
To this day, I still don't know what made my mother wake up one winter day after 42+ years of Massachusetts residency and decide, "Hey! Let's all drive up to New Hampshire and go skiing!" Maybe she saw how my brothers enjoyed going with friends, or maybe she just wanted to be an open-minded, adventurous mother who planned nice things for her children. Excuses, excuses.
I should point out that I was a senior in high school and dating a college boy at the time. I think that sentence is technically true. "Lester" had everything I looked for in guy: a pulse, a face, and a mild interest in me. He had also dated one or two of my friends, which just made it all the more classy.
"Lester" and I had been friends for a year or so and began dating on his first visit back from college that fall. Despite not having a dictionary within arm's reach, I'm going to define "dating" as "occasionally talking on the phone, exchanging letters (1998, ladies and gentlemen), and maybe going to the movies once in awhile." That said, Lester's and my correspondance began to dwindle quite a bit in the month or two before he returned home for winter break. Having only had one boyfriend before him (whose sexual orientation was suspect, even to me), I didn't really know that it wasn't "normal" to not hear from your significant other for long stretches of time. I also didn't recognize that when someone you're dating comes home from college but "doesn't have time" to see you for a few days... well, not a great sign. An even worse sign is when he does see you, he invites another female friend to join. But still, I remained optimistic! Clearly the first semester of art school had taxed Lester to the point that, when home for a month with no job or schoolwork, he couldn't make time to see his girlfriend.
One day, Lester and I were making small talk on the phone when I mentioned my mother's grand plan of taking us all skiing the next day.
"Skiing?! I LOVE skiing!" he exclaimed. "I'll come with you guys!"
I'm not going to lie, I was a bit puzzled. This was a guy who had barely committed to a movie date with me since he had been home, and now he was inviting himself to drive 3+ hours and spend the entire day with my family? Whatever, I'll take it.
The next day we left bright and early: It was me, my mom, my two brothers, Heidi (my visiting childhood friend from Martha's Vineyard), Nora (her mother), and Heidi's little sister. Oh, and Lester, who showed up smiling like a kid on Christmas morning, dressed in a head-to-toe green ski-suit which was later complemented with a coordinating hat and ski mask. He looked like he was about to rob an arboretum.
At sunrise, Lester graciously drove our '86 Volvo with me, Heidi, and my brother Trev while the others drove in what was probably a much cooler car. We went up to Bretton Woods in the Live Free or Die State and at some point during the ride it crossed my mind that I had no idea how to ski. Sweet sixteen-year-old Heidi, who lived on a freakin' ISLAND, knew how; as did my eleven-year-old brother. And off course Lester was a few slopes away from being an expert, as his cool green suit would corroborate.
Can I mention here that my mother and Nora had absolutely no intention of actually GOING skiing with us? They were just there to watch, mostly from the comfort of the lodge. I really wish I had stayed with them...
After we got to Bretton Woods and the ridiculousness of getting suited up was over, Lester and Heidi kindly took me to the Bunny Slope to help introduce me to this terrible, pointless sport. I fell a few times (watching children a quarter of my size glide by with ease), but eventually I felt comfortable "upgrading" to a green... pentagon (or whatever the heck the next level up is called).
Lester, Heidi, and I hopped on the ski lift and at no point during our ascent did ANYONE think to tell me that there weren't Swiss male ski instructors waiting to escort me off once we got to the top. The ski lift banged to a brief halt, Heidi and Lester glided off, and I promptly fell into a mound of New Hampshire snow. Off to a great start, you can see.
After Heidi and Lester assisted me on a couple runs, I gave them the go-ahead to enjoy some runs on their own without a human crutch whose knees were pointed at each other to ensure a speed of no more than half a mile per hour. I did some runs on my own, and, believe it or not, started to get the hang of it and DARE I SAY enjoy myself for a moment or two. Naturally, a stop had to be put to said enjoyment.
Lester found me and offered to stop at intervals down the mountain and wait for me to catch up (read: make sure I hadn't falled off a cliff), which I thought was very sweet of him. After each small slope, there he was: A 6'2" 140lb teenager dressed like a piece of asparagus.
About halfway down one of our romantic runs, Lester motioned for me to shussh over to him. I obliged, wondering what sweet nothing he was about to relay. He smiled.
"Hey, Sam! So... how do you think this relationship is going?"
I smiled back. "Pretty good!"
More smiling, then a shrug. "I kind of liked it better when we were just friends..."
Me, without really hearing: "OKAY!"
"Cool."
He then skied off into the proverbial sunset. I was still smiling as I turned to follow, and then it hit me: Wait a minute... did I just get DUMPED? On a SKI SLOPE?!
I barely made it to the bottom of the hill, and there was Lester, Heidi, and my family. My mom and Nora had picked the perfect time to emerge from the lounge, cameras in hand and pointed at me and Lester.
"You two are so cute! SMILE!"
A photo was taken, and I remained in a trance for the rest of the afternoon. Because Lester was always nearby, I never had the chance to tell Heidi or my mom what had happened and we left with them assuming that my sour mood was caused by a hatred of skiing (which was becoming an accurate assessment).
After the longest drive of my life, we returned to my house. My mom ran up to the car before we had the chance to get out and enthusiastically announced plans of hot chocolate inside.
"GREAT!" shouted Lester, beating me to my own front door. I wanted to strangle him with any article of tacky ski clothing I could find.
A couple hours later, after he FINALLY left, I was able to tell my family that I was broken up with halfway down a ski slope. My mom was sympathetic and comforting, as was Heidi. I'm pretty sure everybody else nearly had aneurysms trying to hold back their laughter. My brothers could not have cared less, as they figured Lester was gay anyhow. This was their go-to remark on anyone I dated from 1997-2007. I finally knew I had found the man I was meant to marry when my brothers acknowledged he was straight.
To this day, my husband and I have never been skiing together.
")
But I think by 1998 my mom began to question her sound judgement.
To this day, I still don't know what made my mother wake up one winter day after 42+ years of Massachusetts residency and decide, "Hey! Let's all drive up to New Hampshire and go skiing!" Maybe she saw how my brothers enjoyed going with friends, or maybe she just wanted to be an open-minded, adventurous mother who planned nice things for her children. Excuses, excuses.
I should point out that I was a senior in high school and dating a college boy at the time. I think that sentence is technically true. "Lester" had everything I looked for in guy: a pulse, a face, and a mild interest in me. He had also dated one or two of my friends, which just made it all the more classy.
"Lester" and I had been friends for a year or so and began dating on his first visit back from college that fall. Despite not having a dictionary within arm's reach, I'm going to define "dating" as "occasionally talking on the phone, exchanging letters (1998, ladies and gentlemen), and maybe going to the movies once in awhile." That said, Lester's and my correspondance began to dwindle quite a bit in the month or two before he returned home for winter break. Having only had one boyfriend before him (whose sexual orientation was suspect, even to me), I didn't really know that it wasn't "normal" to not hear from your significant other for long stretches of time. I also didn't recognize that when someone you're dating comes home from college but "doesn't have time" to see you for a few days... well, not a great sign. An even worse sign is when he does see you, he invites another female friend to join. But still, I remained optimistic! Clearly the first semester of art school had taxed Lester to the point that, when home for a month with no job or schoolwork, he couldn't make time to see his girlfriend.
One day, Lester and I were making small talk on the phone when I mentioned my mother's grand plan of taking us all skiing the next day.
"Skiing?! I LOVE skiing!" he exclaimed. "I'll come with you guys!"
I'm not going to lie, I was a bit puzzled. This was a guy who had barely committed to a movie date with me since he had been home, and now he was inviting himself to drive 3+ hours and spend the entire day with my family? Whatever, I'll take it.
The next day we left bright and early: It was me, my mom, my two brothers, Heidi (my visiting childhood friend from Martha's Vineyard), Nora (her mother), and Heidi's little sister. Oh, and Lester, who showed up smiling like a kid on Christmas morning, dressed in a head-to-toe green ski-suit which was later complemented with a coordinating hat and ski mask. He looked like he was about to rob an arboretum.
At sunrise, Lester graciously drove our '86 Volvo with me, Heidi, and my brother Trev while the others drove in what was probably a much cooler car. We went up to Bretton Woods in the Live Free or Die State and at some point during the ride it crossed my mind that I had no idea how to ski. Sweet sixteen-year-old Heidi, who lived on a freakin' ISLAND, knew how; as did my eleven-year-old brother. And off course Lester was a few slopes away from being an expert, as his cool green suit would corroborate.
Can I mention here that my mother and Nora had absolutely no intention of actually GOING skiing with us? They were just there to watch, mostly from the comfort of the lodge. I really wish I had stayed with them...
After we got to Bretton Woods and the ridiculousness of getting suited up was over, Lester and Heidi kindly took me to the Bunny Slope to help introduce me to this terrible, pointless sport. I fell a few times (watching children a quarter of my size glide by with ease), but eventually I felt comfortable "upgrading" to a green... pentagon (or whatever the heck the next level up is called).
Lester, Heidi, and I hopped on the ski lift and at no point during our ascent did ANYONE think to tell me that there weren't Swiss male ski instructors waiting to escort me off once we got to the top. The ski lift banged to a brief halt, Heidi and Lester glided off, and I promptly fell into a mound of New Hampshire snow. Off to a great start, you can see.
After Heidi and Lester assisted me on a couple runs, I gave them the go-ahead to enjoy some runs on their own without a human crutch whose knees were pointed at each other to ensure a speed of no more than half a mile per hour. I did some runs on my own, and, believe it or not, started to get the hang of it and DARE I SAY enjoy myself for a moment or two. Naturally, a stop had to be put to said enjoyment.
Lester found me and offered to stop at intervals down the mountain and wait for me to catch up (read: make sure I hadn't falled off a cliff), which I thought was very sweet of him. After each small slope, there he was: A 6'2" 140lb teenager dressed like a piece of asparagus.
About halfway down one of our romantic runs, Lester motioned for me to shussh over to him. I obliged, wondering what sweet nothing he was about to relay. He smiled.
"Hey, Sam! So... how do you think this relationship is going?"
I smiled back. "Pretty good!"
More smiling, then a shrug. "I kind of liked it better when we were just friends..."
Me, without really hearing: "OKAY!"
"Cool."
He then skied off into the proverbial sunset. I was still smiling as I turned to follow, and then it hit me: Wait a minute... did I just get DUMPED? On a SKI SLOPE?!
I barely made it to the bottom of the hill, and there was Lester, Heidi, and my family. My mom and Nora had picked the perfect time to emerge from the lounge, cameras in hand and pointed at me and Lester.
"You two are so cute! SMILE!"
A photo was taken, and I remained in a trance for the rest of the afternoon. Because Lester was always nearby, I never had the chance to tell Heidi or my mom what had happened and we left with them assuming that my sour mood was caused by a hatred of skiing (which was becoming an accurate assessment).
After the longest drive of my life, we returned to my house. My mom ran up to the car before we had the chance to get out and enthusiastically announced plans of hot chocolate inside.
"GREAT!" shouted Lester, beating me to my own front door. I wanted to strangle him with any article of tacky ski clothing I could find.
A couple hours later, after he FINALLY left, I was able to tell my family that I was broken up with halfway down a ski slope. My mom was sympathetic and comforting, as was Heidi. I'm pretty sure everybody else nearly had aneurysms trying to hold back their laughter. My brothers could not have cared less, as they figured Lester was gay anyhow. This was their go-to remark on anyone I dated from 1997-2007. I finally knew I had found the man I was meant to marry when my brothers acknowledged he was straight.
To this day, my husband and I have never been skiing together.
")
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