This may be the last Conversations With Teenagers post, as #1 Son will no longer be one come July. Dare I hope we will then move to something like Conversations With Adults?

sound of ringing phone…

Mom: Hello?

#1 Son: Hi, Mom. Say… I’ve got almost enough for that ticket to Europe and I really, really need to buy it and can you just front me a little bit so I can get that taken care of? Please? Please?

Mom [sigh]: OK.

#1 Son: Great! I need a round-trip from here to Frankfurt. I need to be there by this date, and come back after that date. I’ve looked online, and SiteX was the cheapest.

Mom: Let me look. OK. No. It looks like SiteY is cheaper today. Are you sure you are flying in and out of Frankfurt?

#1 Son: Yes. Frankfurt.

Mom: Your first show is in Stuttgart and the last is in Denmark. Are you sure Frankfurt?

#1 Son: YES. Frankfurt.

Mom: OK. [finger poised above mouse, cursor hovering over book button] How are you getting to Stuttgart?

#1 Son [after long pause]: I’ll call you right back.

Mom: OK. [cancels ticket purchase]

sound of ringing phone…

Mom: Hello?

#1 Son: Hey, it’s Munich. That’s where I need to go. The guy that’s releasing the record in Europe lives in Munich and he’s picking us up at the airport.

Mom: Ah. Munich is different than Frankfurt. Will he get you back to Munich after the last show?

#1 Son: We’ll figure it out. I’m sure he will.

Mom: OK. Well, I’m looking online and it looks like there are several choices. You can fly though Chicago or Philadelphia or Charlotte. Any idea what flights the other guys are on?

#1 Son [after long pause]: I’ll call you right back.

Mom: OK. [cancels ticket purchase]

sound of ringing phone…

Mom: Hello?

#1 Son: Hey. Go out to our band email account and log in. Drummer Boy’s itinerary is in an email. Can you get me on the same flights going over? The others are staying longer after the tour, so I’ll probably have to fly back by myself.

I could, and I did. #1 Son is sitting next to Drummer Boy on the first leg, and behind him on the second. See what you can do with a little information? And what, I ask you gentle reader, would punk rockers ever do without their moms?

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you.

almost blossoms

It’s been that kind of day.

It started when I realized that the blog feed was not working, so my April fools post - which was actually created on April 1st - was delivered on April 2nd, if at all. Well… that sort of killed the joke, eh?

Having chewed on that problem for a bit, I headed out to the kitchen. There I popped a cup of coffee in my old, trusty microwave to reheat, while I gazed out the back door on my yard - sunny and, dare I say, springlike? The picture shows what my yard really looks like today. See the blue, blue sky and the cherry blossoms about to pop? Ah… finally. The snow picture was from January, 2007, and I do not want to see that return.

As I stood contemplating the return of spring, I heard what can only be described as a groan behind me. A groan, and then a thud, and then silence. I turned in horror. The microwave had died. It completed its mission to heat my cup of coffee. And it was dead. As dead as Marley’s ghost. Deader, actually, as Marley’s ghost could speak and rattle his chains. But Micro (as it was known to friends and family), could do neither. It was as dead as a doornail.

And why, gentle reader, do we use that phrase? Are doornails any more dead than, say, door knobs or window sashes or venetian blind slats? It seems they must, somehow, be. But I digress.

Since the demise of the old refrigerator, Micro has been the oldest of my major appliances. It has been my good and trusty servant for 20 years (it was actually older than #1 Son). In its youth, it was quite something - a combination microwave/convection oven that was rather expensive when purchased. I felt very proud when it came home to my kitchen. It had been repaired once, under warranty, but since then it had never missed a beat. Many a healthy and tasty meal were cooked in it, and certainly I got my money’s worth out of it. But in latter days, in deference to its extreme old age, it was more likely to warm a cup of coffee or pop the occasional bag of popcorn.

The last year or two it has made some sort of strange noises now and again. But it kept right heating up whatever I tossed its way with few complaints. Although I knew that in microwave years it was an ancient beast, it seemed to be one of those eternal things that are always there. I assumed that someday #1 Son would come to take care of my worldly possessions when I no longer needed them, and would find a good home for Micro. I just never expected to have to replace it. Poor Micro. The groan it gave as its last gasp was truly pitiable.

Thus I contemplated its life and mourned its death as I sipped my piping hot cup of coffee. Thank you, Micro, for warming my morning.

fruit bouquet

Tomorrow is one of my colleague’s birthday, and this fruit bouquet was sent to mark the occasion. Isn’t this just yummy? What a good idea instead of flowers!

The card said that it should be eaten within 4 hours, and so my colleague asked us all to help out. Who am I to turn down such a heartfelt plea?

Those roundish white things that you see - bananas dipped in white and dark chocolate. Yeah. To die for. And chocolate-covered strawberries. And I can report that the melons, oranges and grapes were quite tasty as well. I had to help out, right?

The fruit fueled my after-work excursion to the local big-box store in search of a new microwave. Not a replacement, mind you, because nothing could replace Micro. But a new one that could do the job.

I found that the state of the art has progressed somewhat over the last 20 years. Microwaves are smaller, lighter and have tons of features for a rather small price. I was pleasantly surprised. I opted not to get one that has a convection over in it. I really haven’t used that feature much and I didn’t want to pay extra for it. But I found a nice, medium-sized microwave and brought it home.

The new microwave and I will need to get used to each other. In Micro’s honor, I decided to start with a bag of popcorn. The first bag was… burned to a crisp darned near burned the kitchen down set off the fire alarm a bit over-popped. The second bag was much better. I believe that, over time, we will grow used to each other’s ways. If I am lucky, this microwave will last even 1/2 as long as Micro did.

I do feel badly about missing Wednesday night knitting. Next week, for sure.

Andes Mint

This is not spring.

When I was young, I could tell that spring was coming when the weather turned decidedly warmer (almost up to freezing). The sky was deep blue, instead of winter white. The snow began to melt. And I swear I could smell the green things in the ground starting to stir. The tease lasted for a week or two, and then suddenly it was spring. Crocus bloomed, and then daffodils. The air was crisp, the breeze warm, and birdsong was everywhere. Rain, if it came, was a gentle shower that soon ended and left the most delicious smell in the world (only sheets dried outside on the line come close).

OK. It was a desert.

But this is the spring that my whole being still expects, and never mind that I have lived in a rain forest for the past 35 years. And although I tell myself every year that I’m not going to get the spring of my youth, I am still vaguely disappointed when it comes gray and soggy, and the daffodils struggle up through the muddy clay. I feel somehow… cheated. Yet geese have returned (I almost hit one that was standing in the middle of the street the other day), birds are singing, flowers are blooming, and so it must be spring.

In the last several days we have had rain, snow, rain, hail, 5 short minutes of sun, rain, snow, hail, etc. According to the northwest forecast that I trust the most, more of the same is promised for the next few days. There have been years when we had snow in April, but those years are very, very rare. We usually don’t even have snow in January, thus my displeasure. Because the calendar tells me it is spring, I will try hard to agree with it.

In keeping with spring, have you seen a yummier, springier yarn? This is Andes Mint from Sharon of Stitchjones. Sharon kindly brought some to the Wednesday night sip-n-stitch. Even though I was a bit late, she had guarded a skein from the ravening hordes, and thus I was able to bring it home with me. During our 5 minutes of sun yesterday, I quickly took a picture. Is this not just the most wonderful color? I’m not sure yet what it will be, but it will be something soon.

As soon as I finish the clown barf stripy socks. I am distracting you from my lack of progress by showing you yarn pr0n. But I do continue to work on them. And I’m hoping that I will get some good solid knitting time in this weekend.

In other news, Phoebe had her first post-treatment checkup and her kidneys are going to need watching. Not good, but not unexpected at her age. She has been doing well, though, and acting OK. We shall see. There is no new #1 Son news. And it’s a good thing.

Finally, please consider turning out your lights for 1 hour at 8:00 PM tonight. We can all knit in the dark for just a little while!

* those lines on weather maps that show areas having the same barometric pressure so you can see where the storm is - right now, it’s over me

Last year #1 Son was the proud recipient of a speeding ticket. You should take care of that right away, I suggested. Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll take care of it.

Later, #1 Son received a letter from the Oregon DMV explaining that the state frowns on people who fail to take care of their tickets and tends to suspend or revoke their driving privileges until it’s all cleared up. You really should take care of that, I reminded. Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll take care of it.

Then #1 Son traveled to Brazil for over a month and life went on and I forgot all about it because… it had been taken care of.

Tax time came, and taxes were calculated, and returns were electronically filed. #1 Son received a nice letter from the State Of Oregon (Revenue Division) thanking him for the tax return amount that had been applied to his outstanding account from Multnomah County. Would he please remit the remainder post haste? What’s this about? I asked. I don’t know, Mom. But don’t worry, I’ll get it taken care of.

Fast forward to last Wednesday. It’s 10:30 PM, and I am drowsing knitting in front of the TV, watching a DVR’d episode of Men In Trees. The phone rings.

#1 Son: Mom! My car just got towed! What am I going to do!

I’ve been through this once before. Last year when I was in Miami on business, a call came from #1 Son in Canada asking me to move his car in Portland. It was difficult, since I was diagonally almost as far away across the US from the car as I could possibly get, thus my familiarity with the whole car towing thing. It also pointed out what a small place the world is becoming. But I digress.

Mom (only 1/2 awake and trying to understand what might have happened): Why was your car towed? You have the area parking permit now.

#1 Son: Well… OK… here’s what happened. You know how when you get off the freeway by my house you can only go north and I live south and everyone just does that illegal U-turn? Well… my roommate called to tell me that there were a lot of cops out pulling people over for illegal U-turns. So instead of making a U-turn I crossed two lanes over a solid white line and turned left. [ed.: because apparently an illegal left turn is so much better than an illegal U-turn.] And the cop pulled me over and towed my car.

Mom (still trying to understand): Why did he tow your car?

#1 Son (after long pause): Apparently I’ve been driving on a suspended license. But I really didn’t know that! And he threw me in the back of his car and frisked me and everything! He wouldn’t even let me push my car home even though I could see my house from where I was. What am I going to do?

Mom (trying to remain calm): You will be glad you are not the kind of person to have illegal substances in your car (right?!?!?). You will be happy that you did take care of the lost registration so that this is not being complicated by a charge of driving a stolen vehicle (yes I know it’s not but you are a punk kid and therefore everything you say is suspect). In the morning you will call the state and find out what that outstanding debt is for and this time you will actually get it taken care of. You will then call the City Of Portland and find out how to get your car back. You will then call the court and find out how to take care of your ticket. You will then report back to me. Love you!

Thursday morning… in between meetings, my phone rings…

#1 Son: Hi! I called the state and paid them. They will let Multnomah County know by tomorrow that I’ve paid and Multnomah County will tell DMV so that is taken care of. I called about my car… uh… apparently I have to get a release from the police first before I can get the car back. But I can’t get the release because I’m not the registered owner and I don’t have a valid driver’s license. uh… what do I do now?

Mom: Apparently I will have to go get the release. Can one of your friends drive your car when I go to pick it up? By the way, your car is coming to my house. I will take your friend back to wherever they need to go afterwards.

#1 Son: I talked to Guitar Hero and he can go. Here’s the number of the place where the car is. And here’s Guitar Hero’s number. And here’s the number and address of the place where you get the release. Thanks. I really love you!

So I called Guitar Hero and asked him to be at my work front door at 4:00, and he agreed. I called the Portland Police and learned that people trying to get back cars towed because of a crime have to go to the Asset Forfeiture Unit first. But I could go directly to the Records Division to obtain the release because this was for a violation not a crime.

On my lunch hour (an extended hour, as it turns out), I walked down to the Portland Police Bureau Central Precinct. Once there, I was required to prove who I was and why I was there before I was allowed to ride the elevator up to the Records Division. The waiting room of the RD was tiny and lined on three sides with backless wooden benches. The east side included windows of bullet-proof (I assume) glass with little slits for papers and such to be passed back and forth. I stood briefly trying to get the lay of the land. Take a number, I was told. I did so and sat down against the north wall.

There were three parties ahead of me in line, and they were all friendly and chatty. The woman currently being served was there to get a release for her daughter’s car. It had been towed because her daughter was driving without a license. It seems that her daughter wasn’t old enough to actually get a permit, but she’d only driven a mile or two. (I hesitated to ask why her daughter had a car.)

The couple on the west bench were there to get a car that had been towed. (Do you see a pattern here?) They had been upstairs first to the Asset Forfeiture Unit. They didn’t really want to discuss why. I didn’t really want to know.

The woman on the south bench across from me broke the pattern as she was just there to get a background check so she could rent an apartment. I really hope my drug convictions don’t show up, she said quite seriously. I had no idea how to respond to that except good luck.

It occurred to me that I had left my knitting at work.

I was vastly relieved to have the release in hand and head back to work. At 3:45 PM my phone rang…

Guitar Hero: uh… hi… you know when I talked to you earlier… there was something I sort of forgot… I think my license is unsuspended. I just need to go over to DMV to get it reinstated. But I sort of haven’t done that yet so it’s not really valid… I talked to Drummer Boy and he said he’ll go with you to get #1 Son’s car so I’m going to bring him down and we should be there pretty soon.

Was I being punked? Twilight Zone? Candid Camera? (OK. That shows my age.) I was beginning to think that I was the last person in Oregon with a valid driver’s license.

Drummer Boy went with me the last time I had to get #1 Son’s car out of hock. This, I told him is deja vu all over again. He assured me that he did, indeed, have a valid license. The tow company fortunately had a key, because I do not (which I remembered on the way over there). And #1 Son’s car is back outside my house, taking the place of the car that had taken the place of the truck.

Last night my phone rang…

#1 Son: I think I forgot to tell you that L [ed. his girlfriend] is coming down from Canada and Autistic Youth is playing a couple of shows down in the Bay Area. We should be back I think on Sunday. Or maybe Monday.

Mom: How are you getting down there?

#1 Son: We’re taking Guitar Hero’s van

Mom: Drummer Boy better be doing all the driving

#1 Son (after long, long pause): Yeah. We’ll figure it out. Did you know that I could get my license back as soon as next Wednesday now that everything is taken care of but the new ticket? Isn’t that good news? Love you!

I’ve never been fond of report cards. When I was a kid, I hated bringing my report card home for my parents to sign. And it wasn’t that my grades were bad or anything, usually. I just always dreaded it.

I think it stems from my very first report card. The principle of the grade school (private, Catholic, nuns, etc.), was also the first grade teacher. Before handing out our very first report cards, Sister explained to all of the children in my class what report cards were and that we were to take them home to our parents for their signature. And, she added, if her signature weren’t on our report card, that meant that she needed to meet with our parents because we were poor students and not doing well in school and something needed to be done.

Then she passed out our report cards.

And mine was not signed.

I was so afraid to show it to my parents. I held my six-year-old self together pretty well until school ended and I got to Mama’s car. Can I see your report card? Mama asked. And then I lost it. Totally. I started sobbing inconsolably because I’d flunked. I was a poor student and not doing well in school and something needed to be done.

What’s that matter? Mama asked.

I’m a [sob] b-b-b-b-ad st-st-student. You and daddy have to m-m-m-eet with S-s-s-s-ister [sniff] ‘c-c-c-ause I’m not doing w-w-w-w-ell. [sob sniff sob]

This is a very good report card! Mama said. You got all A’s and B’s. You did fine!

B-b-b-but it’s [sob sob sob] NOT SIGNED! and Sister said that meant [sniff sob] it was BAD!

Telling my younger brother and the neighbor kids to stay in the car or else — we carpooled in the days before seatbelts, so there were a gaggle of children in our station wagon — Mama marched me into Sister’s office and demanded to know why my card wasn’t signed.

I must have just missed it when I was signing the stack. Sister said. Of course Judy is doing fine! I will sign her card right now.

Even though Mama explained to me several times that she knew I had not actually flunked because my grades were OK, I’m not sure I felt much better or ever really believed, deep down, that it had all been a mistake. And there was that lower mark for Deportment. I did so like to chat with my little first grade friends — usually when Sister thought we should be learning something.

Traumatized, I tell you gentle reader, and scarred for life.

So you will understand why I was not looking forward to taking a test this week. A test that I stupidly made a goal on which I will be evaluated at work. A test that, I learned after making it a goal, was both extremely hard and not very relevant to what I’m doing.

Oh. Great.

Now, not to toot my own horn or anything, but I’m a pretty good test taker, especially if the test is multiple choice. With those tests, there are usually a couple of choices that are obviously not correct, so it’s not all that hard to pick out the right answer. But I haven’t taken tests for a long time. So I studied really, really hard (that’s part of where I’ve been instead of here). Yesterday I arrived promptly at the test-taking site, where all of my worldly possessions were locked up because this was not an open book test and I was escorted to a room with cameras where I would be monitored for the entire time. And it was hard. It was probably one of the hardest tests I’ve ever taken. The multiple choice questions said pick two or pick three. And they all looked wrong. Or they all look right. Sometimes they even all looked the same. I marked a bunch of questions for review, and then went back and changed them. Which I think may, in retrospect, not have been the smartest thing to do.

Technology is such a wonderful thing. I got my grade right away.

I missed passing by three questions out of 86. [sob sniff] And then I had to confess to my boss that I did not do well in school.

Before taking the test, I had discussed my misgivings with my boss and even located a different test that’s given in a more relevant way and covers more relevant material. And it was mutually agreed that, should I not do that well, plan B would be put in motion. So this weekend I need to take another test. But it’s a test that, while it is difficult, I already know I can pass.

So this whole sordid affair will soon be over.

And I can get back to knitting and blogging.