The Boys In The Band

I've done it again, folks. Qualified for the Mother of the Year Award. (I have yet to win this award, btw, but I do qualify quite often.) This go round, it was based on a selfless gift of time, an inordinate amount of hassle, some expense, and superhuman (or at least super-mom) understanding.

Yes, I am all that.

Several months ago, in a state of fatigue or stress, or merely an unguarded moment, I agreed that my teenage daughter could go to a concert. Not just any concert, but "Imagine Dragons." At an arena about 60 miles from our town. On a school night.

As per usual, my daughter borrowed my American Express card to order tickets online. In theory, she pays for these events herself with her own money (actually, between babysitting, and two different weekend jobs, she tends to have more cash on hand these days than either my husband or I do). In reality, I think I lose track of all that she owes me and a lot become gifts by default. Soon, she received plain, old, ordinary tickets; special "Memory Tickets;" and a tour tee shirt. (I began to wonder what kind of V.I.P. package I — er, I mean she — had sprung for.) And, before we knew it, the long-anticipated day was upon us.

I mentioned that the concert venue was some 60 miles from our house. I did not, however, explain that the route there ran through the city of Boston at rush hour. The GPS on my iPhone said that the trip would be 90 minutes.

Not exactly. Try two and a half hours. 

Excited anticipation turned into mild concern into downright anxiety as the clock moved and we didn't. It wasn't merely the thought of missing the opening act. The stakes were much higher.

My daughter had reached out to a radio producer she'd met at a smaller House of Blues concert last fall. The woman had told her to stay in touch, and she had done so, politely but persistently. Lo and behold, the morning before the concert, my daughter had finally heard back from her. "Okay," read the email, "You and your plus-one be at the box office at 7:10, and whatshisname from the record label will take you back to meet Imagine Dragons."

OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Of course, all of this fortuitous gift from the gods stuff would be null and void if they missed that 7:10 appointment with whatshisname. And, while I can control neither nature nor weather nor traffic, it would be all my fault. It didn't help that mobile technology allowed us to constantly — and I do mean constantly — check our progress, miles left and estimated arrival time.

We finally pulled up in the "Drop-Off/Pick-Up" lane outside the arena at 7:00 p.m. The girls jumped out and I managed to yell "Meet me right here after the show!" A cop motioned for me to move along. Then, I was left to my own devices.

I figured I had four or four and a half hours to kill, and I had done my homework. There was a fairly close, fairly renowned regional theatre that was presenting Cirque Eloize, a French performance/circus arts troupe. I was able to score a half-price ticket for a single seat in the mezzanine. I figured that would kill two hours. The closest Starbucks was open until 10:00 pm. At that point, I could head back to the arena and live park somewhere. I'm not a napper by nature, but I thought I could listen to music or read a magazine.

The first part of my plan worked. I was ten minutes late for my 7:00 performance, but the show didn't really have a beginning-middle-end narrative, so aside from annoying the guy in the seat next to mine, my lateness was okay. Starbucks was clean and bright and friendly. When they kicked me out (cordially, of course), I drove back to the arena and parked outside the same "Drop-off/Pick-Up" sign, congratulating myself on my master plan mastery.

I was there maybe five minutes when a different cop rapped on the window and demanded that I move. "Now!" I did what any self-respecting middle-aged mother would do. 

'Played the middle-aged mother card.

"I'm so sorry, officer," I purred. "My daughters are in there and I don't know this town. Is there somewhere else I can wait?"

He was suddenly all sweetness and light (it occurs to me, with horror, that I may have reminded him of his own mother). He suggested that I circle the arena and then pull up to a meter on one of the side streets behind it. "There's no overnight parking," he advised, "So just be sure you stay with the vehicle, ma'am." Yeah, right, like I'm going to leave my vehicle on some random back street of some random little city that I don't know from a hole in the wall.

His recommendation was apt except for two complications that were beyond his control. The first was a bona fide drug deal that I had the pleasure of witnessing. The other was the 55-minute (I am not exaggerating) dead-stop, grid-lock, traffic jam I was stranded in when the show ended. Thank goodness for cell phones. I was able to call my daughter, change rendezvous plans, and while we still didn't move for a very long time, the two girls were safely in the car with me. We weren't going anywhere, but at least we weren't going there together.

Since that evening, my daughter has been appreciative and responsible. She has very much lived up to her end of the bargain. It was a huge schlep (huge!), but I felt good about following through after making a — let's face it — downright idiotic agreement. I got to see a show. I got to see an illegal transaction. And, I learned something pretty remarkable about my daughter.

For someone who is often too shy to talk to anyone in the cafeteria, that girl can hold her own with radio producers and bona fide rockstars.

And, she has the photo, drumstick, signed CD and exhausted mother to prove it.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.   

This Or That?

I'm a notoriously bad sleeper. If there is any iota of stress in my life (and, believe me, there always is and it's always significantly more than an iota, whatever an iota is), I wake up and worry. 

2:00 am, 3:00 am, 4:00 am.

"Go back to sleep ..." my husband has been known to chant. "Worrying won't help."

As if recognizing that oh-so-obvious fact makes an iota of difference. As if.

At any rate, this morning I rose before dawn and went up to my office to get some work done. Pretty much business as usual, except that I had a good reason that even my well-meaning (if annoyingly sound-sleeping) spouse couldn't argue with. I had to get things done because at 8:45, I'd be putting on yet another of the many hats moms everywhere wear.

Wife. Mother. Advertising Executive. Writer ...

Chauffeur!

Somehow or other, I had once again been volunteered (convinced? coerced? drafted?) into driving my teenage daughter and her friends to Canobie Lake, an amusement park in southern New Hampshire. (Uh-oh. Does this mean I was transporting minors across state lines? Maybe I need permission slips or something. I should probably check next time.)

The kids were looking at the day as summer's final fling. I was looking at it as yet another task on my already filled-to-the-brim calendar. I also, nearly sixteen years into this mom thing, always imagine that these acts of selflessness will win me favor with my child. And they do. For like an hour. Or until the next time she "needs, wants, can't live without" something that I have to say "No" to.

But, I digress.

Right on time, we trawled around town, picking up her sleepy friends: another girl and two boys (but "Ohmigod, Mom. They're not boyfriends!"). Then, we were on our way. They were all very polite and actually expressed some appreciation. And I thought, "I love these kids."

Soon they seemed to forget I was even in the car. This gave me an excellent opportunity to eavesdrop and collect anecdotes for you, dear reader.

Early on, we saw a bicyclist struggling ahead of us. The poor man was a bit overweight (and a bit big for the bike). As we got closer, we realized that he was a police officer. This was just too much for my passengers.

"Oh, dude! Poor guy."

"Being a bike cop would suck."

"How would he ever catch anyone?"

"What if he does? Like, 'Hey, you're under arrest. Get in the basket, please.'"

Needless to say, the bike cop humor cracked everyone up and continued for at least a few more miles after we passed the unfortunate fellow.

On the highway, my daughter's friend read from a page of teen posts on Tumblr. Some were silly. Some were clever. Most of them were a blend of silly and clever:

"Forever 21 clothes are cute! Too bad you can only wear them twice before they get ruined in the washer."

"It's ridiculous that celebrities can spend a year of my college tuition on like, a necklace like it's nothing and I can't afford a taco."

"Legend has it the "M" in MTV once stood for music."

"Yeah, dating is cool, but have you ever had stuffed crust pizza."

Some bright young bulb had even Tumblred (or is that "tumbled?"):

"Here's to the kids who know the difference between they're, there and their."

I certainly appreciated that one. My own group not only got it and laughed, but immediately began to debate that it's and its are misleading because the possessive of it should actually have an apostrophe. And I thought, "I love these kids."

Next up was the "either/or" game. Someone offered a choice and the others responded. There wasn't much of a pattern, but here's what I remember:

"Concrete or Brick?"
"Brick."

"Walrus or Penguin?"
"Penguin."

"Monkey or Penguin?"
"Penguin."

"Bieber or One Direction?"
"Bieber."

"Peanut Butter or Nutella?"
"Nutella."

Then, the either/or got a little more complicated and — shall we say — adult:

"Would you rather wake up naked next to Burger King who says, 'You had it your way,' or wake up naked next to Ronald McDonald who says, 'You were lovin' it.'"

As they snickered and prepared to answer, I interrupted ...

"People, you seem to have forgotten that there's an old person in the car."

"Where?" asked my daughter's friends.

And I thought, "I love these kids."

Driving Miss Daughter

I was born and raised in the greatest show on Earth ... New York, New York. The city so nice they named it twice. In New York, there are myriad ways to get from point A to point B. You can walk, hail a taxi, take a crosstown bus or jump on the subway. Traveling by car is not high on anyone's list. The traffic, the gridlock, the exorbitant parking fees (the exorbitant parking tickets).

New York is many things to many people, but it just ain't a driving town.

Consequently, most people in the Big Apple don't own cars. And, most NYC high schoolers miss out on the rites of passage of their peers in suburban and rural areas. Sweet sixteens come and go without learner's permits or driver's ed.

This boggles my husband's mind. To this day, one of his favorite things to tease me about (and to tell anyone within hearing) is that I didn't get a driver's license until I was 28. But, even at that ripe old age, I beat several of my hometown friends.

In my book, driving was, is and will always be a necessary evil.

So, imagine my surprise when I realized that "Driver" is one of the many jobs I've picked up over the years. Please note: I say, "Driver" and not "Chauffeur." I am not paid, I am not treated with respect. I do not get a cool little bachelor pad over the garage or a spiffy uniform. There's no soundproof glass between me and my passengers. Oh, how I sometimes wish there were!

The passengers are typically my tween daughter and one or more of her cohorts. Destinations vary. I might be driving to and from school because of weather, to a movie, to a party, to the Y, to the mall. Most of the time, I'm driving to and from the stable where my daughter rides. When I was her age, I was very comfortable coming and going via New York's public transportation system. I was independent. Living where we live, my daughter unfortunately is not. She needs me if she is going to go anywhere.

You would think this would make her want to stay on my good side, wouldn't you? Ha ha.

When she was younger, my daughter and I used to enjoy car rides together. Or, at least I did and she hadn't realized how uncool I was yet, so she did too. She'd fill me in on the latest grammar school gossip. We'd stop for popcorn at an old honky-tonk arcade in the next town over. We'd play Broadway show albums and sing along at high volume and less than accurate pitch.

These days, my daughter is otherwise engaged. She is either otherwise engaged with her iPhone or otherwise engaged with her friends. And, while I used to take advantage of car time to talk with her, I've realized that the quickest way for a tween's mom to shut down a tween conversation is to attempt to participate. So, now I just keep my mouth shut and drive. Sometimes they forget I'm there and I actually overhear interesting tidbits about who said what, who did what, or who likes who. I have to be careful though ... one well-meaning question and they clam up, fast.

They do occasionally acknowledge my presence though, and I guess I should be thankful for that. Let's see ... they often ask me to turn up the volume on the radio if there's a song they like. Or to stop at McDonald's for an Oreo McFlurry. See? I'm not completely invisible.

Sometimes, when I'm waiting at a red light or sitting at a train crossing, I find myself asking, like David Byrne of the Talking Heads, "How did I get here?" Have the girls in the backseat seen my impressive resumé? Do they know that I graduated from an excellent university, magna cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa? Do they realize that I actually had a fairly interesting life before they were born?

Do they understand that I was just like them once — thirteen years old and the center of the universe?

At at no point did I ever think, "When I grow up, I hope I can spend all of my limited discretionary time driving my daughter and her friends and a carload of smelly horse tack back and forth to a distant stable with Taylor Swift's insipid (and literarily inaccurate) 'Romeo and Juliet' on the radio."

But, can I tell you the funny thing about it. For the past several weeks, my work schedule has been significantly busier than my husband's. So, he kindly volunteered to take over the stable route on Tuesday afternoons. The strategy worked. I've met some tight deadlines; I've had more time to work with my team; my clients are all happy.

Next week, my husband has a meeting in town and won't be back in time. So, I'll have to wrap up everything at my agency early and get a whole day's worth of work delivered by 2:30 or so. I'll have to load all the stinky tack in the trunk, collect my daughter and her fellow equestriennes, drive 40 minutes north to the riding center, wait in the car for 90 minutes, then drive 40 minutes back.

Y'know what? I'm kinda looking forward to it.