After We Invest: How Our Graduates Still Mess The Nest

                                                                 

illinois.edu

  Since our younger son moved back in with us after college graduation, I've noticed that some things haven't changed at all. Miraculously, he was able to get through finals, intern at both the high school and college levels, and still can't keep track of his cup. He goes through several different glasses a day, while scattering them around the kitchen and family room. Sometimes he'll even drink out of my husband's glass, if he mistakenly uses one from the same set. I try to use the same mismatched glass with an embedded lipstick stain to insure that no one will go near it. Yes, it's disgusting, but at least I know where it's been. After I was whining about my dishpan hands, one of my friends chimed in with another small skill that she wished her college graduate had mastered.

 When her son finally completed writing his thank you notes, she noticed that he had difficulty addressing the envelopes. Not only did he forget to leave room for the return address, but he wasn't even going to use stamps. It turns out that this isn't that unusual. Between texting and emailing everything from photos to resumes, many young people aren't used to actually mailing letters.

 This reminded me of when our older son was eleven-years-old, and went away to overnight camp. I made sure that he was equipped with plenty of stationary, so that he could write every detail of his first summer away from home. I remember how excited we were when his first letter came in the mail. I struggled to open it, as it was addressed upside down. Finally, I found a pre-stamped postcard inside the envelope detailing that the lake was too cold, and for swimming and water sports. The rest of the boys didn't seem to mind, as they were busy snapping towels at each other in the cabin. It took him two stamps to tell us what a terrible time he was having in less than three sentences.

 Another mom chimed in about how college life turned her relatively neat daughter, into a total slob. Clothes were thrown around everywhere, and junk was piled up so high that she continually lost track of her car keys. That sounded very familiar to me. Things were getting messier here by the minute, and the aromatic gym bags filled with everything from missing socks to half-eaten protein bars were starting to mysteriously pile up.

 Yes, it was time for a nice, calm talk. I don't know where he got this from, and my husband certainly wasn't willing to take any blame for it. As soon as I got dressed, we'd have ourselves one dandy of a chat. Just as soon as I found my belt. I know I wore it yesterday. Where could it have gone?  I searched for about twenty minutes until I realized I was already wearing it. I too am a college graduate. Heaven help us all.

The Wrong Number

  

 
Once upon a time before there was Caller ID, a young man named Stuart would call our house and ask to speak to Bonnie. I would tell him that there was no one here by that name, say goodbye and hang up. A week later he called again and we had the same conversation. My mom overheard us talking and said, "Would it kill you to be Bonnie?"

I was 23-years-old, still living at home, and on the verge of becoming an old maid. "No, I'm not gonna pretend to be someone else. We don't even know anything about this guy except that his name is Stuart, and he doesn't know how to dial a phone. To which my mom replied, "Well, he seems nice."

This was at a period in my life when I was working at a job that I loved, but I was in between boyfriends; while my mother and grandmother both had steady beaus of their own. Hence, my grandma hatched her own plan.

My grandma decided that she was going to fix me up with her friend's grandson, after discussing it with his grandmother on the bus. She had never met the grandson, and barely knew the grandmother, but what did I have to lose? I thanked her and told her that I wasn't interested. Although that didn't stop her from handing out my phone number.

He called a few days later, and we laughed about how funny the situation was. The fact that our grandmothers were desperately trying to fix us up, was hard not to find amusing, Since our conversation went so well, we agreed to go out on a date.

I remember that we went to see the movie This Is Spinal Tap, and out for a nice dinner afterward. It was a fun evening, but we parted friends. We fulfilled our promises to our grandmothers, who may have sat on opposite ends of the bus from that point on, and nothing more. 

My mom waited up for me to find out how our date went. I told her that we had a good time, but that I wasn't interested in going out with him again. Then she said that she had a feeling we weren't going to hit it off, but not to worry. Before I could question why Mom announced, "Stuart called again, and I told him my Bonnie would call him back tomorrow."

*This is a repost from April 2012.

IWSG: Secrets of Honor Cover Reveal

       

Once upon a time, there was a jewel thief. Her name was Katia. She worked for The Government. Yes, that government. But one day, Kat took something she shouldn’t have. She really shouldn't have done that.

This is an intriguing tagline for Carol Kilgore's latest book release. Since the Insecure Writer's Support Group coincides with the same week as her cover reveal, it seems only fitting to combine both events. If you haven't already done so, you can visit  Alex J. Cavanaugh, and the rest of the Insecure Writer's Support Group here.

The Top Ten Reasons Why I'm Insecure About Carol Kilgore's Secrets of Honor Cover Reveal 

  

 10. I've lost track of how many books Carol has written.
  9.  I haven't read as many book as Carol has written.
  8.  Carol's great at writing about sexy characters.
  7.  I write about my mom who's sexier than I am.
  6.  Carol writes mystery laced with humor.
  5.  Most of my humor remains a mystery to those who read it.                          
  4.  Secrets of Honor has a stunning cover.

  3.  I look stunning in a burqa.

  2.  Carol's bio is almost as entertaining as her books.

And the #1 reason why I'm insecure about Carol Kilgore's cover reveal:
 1. I wanted to kill two birds with one stone.
 1. No one does "Crime Fiction with a Kiss" better.


BLURB For Secrets of Honor

By the end of a long evening working as a special set of eyes for the presidential security detail, all Kat Marengo wants is to kick off her shoes and stash two not-really-stolen rings in a secure spot. Plus, maybe sleep with Dave Krizak. No, make that definitely sleep with Dave Krizak. The next morning, she wishes her new top priorities were so simple.

As an operative for a covert agency buried in the depths of the Department of Homeland Security, Kat is asked to participate in a matter of life or death—locate a kidnapped girl believed to be held in Corpus Christi, Texas. Since the person doing the asking is the wife of the president and the girl is the daughter of the first lady’s dearest friend, it’s hard to say no.

Kat and Dave quickly learn the real stakes are higher than they or the first lady believed and will require more than any of them bargained for.

The kicker? They have twenty-four hours to find the girl—or the matter of life or death will become more than a possibility.

BIO

Carol writes grocery lists, texts to her family, new lyrics to old songs for her dogs, love notes to her husband, and novels for herself. And for you. In between, she blogs weekly at Under the Tiki Hut and is active on Facebook and Twitter.

She sees mystery and subterfuge everywhere. And she’s a sucker for a good love story—especially ones with humor and mystery. Crime Fiction with a Kiss gives her the latitude to mix and match throughout the broad mystery and romance genres. Having flexibility makes her heart happy.

LINKS

You can connect with Carol and her books here:

blog . website . facebook . twitter . goodreads . amazon

The Defiant One

                                                                             

                                                               

Before we boarded our flight home from Israel, we made a quick stop at the duty-free shop at Ben Gurion Airport. We picked up some Ahava lotion for my mom. She likes the special formula of Dead Sea minerals, and the convenient travel size tubes. When I told my husband that we needed to get a few extra he said, "She probably uses them like cartons of cigarettes in the joint." Then we rushed to catch our flight.

After our son graduated, I prepared myself for the worst. Though I knew he would be eating better at home, anything could happen once he stepped out of our house. All it took was a matter of minutes for him to get lost, robbed, or kidnapped by a gang of raccoons.

It didn't matter that he lived on his own for four years at college, now he was on my turf, and I felt entirely helpless. I've heard many stories about sneaky twenty-something kids who've gotten into all kinds of trouble. Little did I know, that he wasn't the one I needed to worry about.

I usually talk to my mom on the phone at least twice a day. This rule still applies on days that we spend together. The other night, I reminded my mom that I had an early dental appointment in the morning, and that I would talk to her afterward. She wished me luck, and said that she also had to get up early. When I asked where she was going at the crack of dawn, she replied, "Downstairs." This struck me odd, as she usually doesn't go to early morning activities at her retirement home, but she said goodnight before I could get anymore information.

The following day, I tried calling my mom, but there was no answer. She finally called me back later in the afternoon. I asked her if she was feeling okay, and she said that she was fine. Then I asked her if she went to the doctor. She said, "No, why? What have you heard? Who told you?"

I told her that her story didn't make any sense, and if she was only downstairs then she would've returned my call earlier. Then I asked what was wrong with her, and why she had to keep it a secret. She gave me her standard line, "I didn't want to worry you."

I dove deeper by asking how she got to her appointment. "My nurse took me." She has a visiting nurse that is set up through her insurance. I didn't realize that they were that close. I asked why she asked her to drive her, when I could've taken her. My mom said that her nurse doesn't drive, so her husband went to the hospital.

My Novocaine was beginning to wear off, but I tried to remain calm.

"So her husband drove you?"

"No, he met us at the hospital. Her boss drove me."

"Let me get this straight. So the nurse, her boss at the agency, and the nurse's husband were all at the doctor's office with you, because you were suffering from chronic constipation? It was okay to bother all of them, but you didn't want to bother your own daughter?"

"That's right."

"Did anyone in the group bring you a box lunch?"

"No, but no one gave me any lip either."

"I'm sure your doctor referred you to a gastroenterologist. Did you make an appointment?"

"No, I need to see a spine specialist first."

"Makes perfect sense. I'm sure he'll do wonders for your constipation. And I suppose you gave your nurse a nice present for taking you."

"As a matter of fact, I did."

"The Ahava lotion?"

"It's the least I could do."

The Road To Graduation

                                                   

Nowadays, so many students are on the five year plus plan for college graduation. Fortunately, both of our sons took the standard four year route, and we were thrilled to celebrate with our younger son last weekend. Our road trip to the ceremony was almost as challenging as his college courses.

Last December, I invited my mom to join us after we made the hotel reservations. Though we booked three rooms over five months in advance, we still had to stay about thirty minutes away from campus. Initially my mom was sure that she would "ruin my time," and declined the offer. We continued to hold onto our rooms, in the hope that she would change her mind.

Later, when both of our boys told her how much they wanted her to come she replied, "I'll think about it." After her hair stylist agreed to take her a day early, the plans were set. Now the next step was to find the proper vehicle to transport six passengers, and my mom's luggage for a ten day stay on an overnight trip.

 Once again, my hubby was in full research mode. Though my car seats six comfortably, there wouldn't have been enough room for our bags, plus my mom's walker and wheelchair. We decided on a Ford Expedition SUV which seats eight, and barely had room to spare.

The seating arrangement was as follows: I was in the front seat with hubby, my mom and her caregiver were in the middle, and my brother and older son were in the way-back. Because the truck was so long, the passengers in the middle seat couldn't hear what the front seat was saying, the backseat couldn't hear what the front seat was saying, and no one could hear what my mom was saying in the middle seat, as she's such a low talker. We spent the majority of the four hour drive saying, "Huh, what, and can you repeat that?" Though my son and his uncle were off in their own little world in the way-back talking about everything under the sun. I tried to use my superior hearing skills, and booming baritone voice to translate for everyone, but even my powers succumbed to my husband's tin ear, and lead foot.

                                                               

That night we took our grad out for a delicious Italian dinner. My dear friend from college was also there celebrating with her daughter. It seemed like only yesterday when our son took a bite out of her daughter's cheek at his second birthday at Chuck E. Cheese, and now they were graduating college together.

The next morning, my prince of a husband got up early to make a bakery run. Then he personally delivered muffins, bagels, and orange juice. When he reached my mom's room, he rang the bell, and set off flashing lights. This startled my mom and her caregiver. She thought that this was some kind of hotel emergency warning. I told her that it must have been a special system to notify a hearing impaired person that someone was at the door. It made sense that this was featured in a handicapped room. It's amazing how you just become drunk with knowledge in a college town.

Instead of being announced in alphabetical order, the graduates received their empty diploma cases, according to where they were seated. This made it difficult to gauge when to take a bathroom break, but we all managed to hear our boy's name called. Later when we dropped him off at his lovely house, his friends were in mid-celebration on the front porch. They all called out his name, and greeted him with a big round of applause.

I could've written about how hard our son worked, and how he never gave up. Though when he looks back on this day, he'll remember how happy he was that Nana and Unc came to see him, and that his friends cheered him on, no matter how drunk with knowledge he was, after we left.

                                                     

                                                           

April In Paris

                                                                     

                                                             

Versailles

A few weeks ago, we flew to Paris on the way to see my mother-in-law in Israel. My husband was very thorough in his research, while I called friends and family for advice.

 At first, he was concerned about the language barrier, so he looked up the most important conversational words and phrases. They included: bon jour, au revoir, Ou sont les toilettes (Where are the restrooms?) pardon, s'il vous plait (please), and merci. More importantly, l'eau distillee which means distilled water. This is an integral component of his traveling CPAP machine (for sleep apnea), which he dragged with us, but never bothered to use.

We were determined to see everything we could in just four days, so we packed our most comfortable walking shoes, and took off. We began our tour along the magnificent shops of the Champs- Elysses, It was surprising to see how many American stores were thrown into the mix including Banana Republic, and Starbucks. Since we were on a mission to cover a lot of territory, we just window shopped, and continued on to the Arc De Triomph, and the Eiffel Tower.

The Eiffel Tower

 Mr. Prepared even downloaded a free iPhone app which enabled us to have audio tours of the Louvre, Musee d'Orsay  and the Palace of Versailles. Our friend advised us to purchase a discounted museum pass to visit all of the above which helped us avoid the long lines. We also walked over to Notre Dame Cathedral, and strolled through both the Jewish and the Latin Quarters.

Notre Dame Cathedral

 The weather was comfortable with temperatures in the sixties for the first two days, though there was always the threat of rain. It began to pour in the middle of dinner in a partially covered outdoor cafe. Fortunately, it didn't last long, and was over before we walked back to our hotel.

 That night I noticed something very disturbing. When we were viewing our photos, hubby looked fine, but my hair had taken on a brand new persona. Though the Chicago humidity gave me carefree curls, for some reason the humidity in Paris left me flat and lifeless. In some of the photos, my hair looks like it was drawn in with yellow crayon, and my teeth are more horse than human. Suddenly, it hit me. I'm in one of the most romantic cities in the world, and I look like Gary Busey's twin. My husband did a great job of disguising his displeasure, as he snored peacefully during my breakdown.

The Siene River 

 When I called my mom back in the states, she asked if we had seen any guillotines. We had been to Place de la Concorde where Louis the XV and Marie Antoinette were beheaded, but there were no guillotines to be found. I thought this was an important question for our hotel concierge. At first, he didn't seem to know what a guillotine was. Then he did some research, and told us that the last execution by guillotine in Paris was in 1977. Needless to say, we were quite shocked.

                                                                    

 On our last day, we took a train to the artist colony Montmartre. This is where Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec, and Hemingway found their inspiration. Woody Allen's Midnight In Paris movie was filmed there. Located atop a hill, the scenery was beautiful, as we walked along the steep, cobblestone streets. Artists were out painting portraits, and selling their wares.The unseasonably cold temperatures, and pouring rain didn't seem to slow them down. If only the weather had cooperated for more photos.

 As I walked the streets of Montmartre resembling a wet rat, a barmaid asked my husband if he was famous. Of course she couldn't remember who he reminded her of, but she ruled out my guess of Dustin Hoffman.

Moulin Rouge

 Since we couldn't get tickets to Moulin Rouge, we went to a similar show at Le Lido. I was mesmerized by the topless showgirls who looked almost identical from the neck down. The only difference being, that some had more ribs sticking out than others. My favorite act was a man who carried a lifelike floating head, that was seemingly interchangeable with his own. We were sitting close to the stage, and neither one of us spotted any wires.

 Despite my hair, and a few days of lousy weather we still had a wonderful time. We never found out who my husband's mysterious celebrity look-alike was, and I was happy to leave mine in Paris.

At our hotel before braving the weather

                                                               

IWSG: When Characters Fall Out Of The Sky

                                                                   

It's time for another addition of  Alex J. Cavanaugh's Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit the diversely talented members who will welcome you with open arms.

The night before our flight home from Israel, we upgraded our seats to the exit aisle. Since we had to leave for the airport early in the morning with only a few hours sleep, we both took turns dozing off on the flight. Shortly after, the first character from another dimension appeared.

The exit aisle was located next to the restroom. Though I was too far away to see if the "Vacant" or "Occupied" sign was on, the man's body language led me to believe that he was first in line. He started swaying back and forth doing the "potty dance." This dance occurs at an early age when children are having so much fun playing outside that they hold it in until the last minute. This results into spastic convulsions in a panic to race home to the bathroom. Sadly, this condition often begins to reappear in middle-age, and can be set-off with as little as a cup of coffee.

As time passed, he decided to turn our little exit corner into his own personal gym. He did a series of exercises from running in place to a complete stretching routine. I was looking forward to getting back to my book, when the next character appeared.

This man was in his late sixties, and enjoyed shuffling between the galley, and the restroom. He acted like an overserved patron at a singles bar. While nursing a cup of water, he unabashedly flirted with a pretty, young woman as she waited to use the restroom. When he ran out of people to bother, he eventually used the facilities himself. Afterward, he slid into our exit corner to tuck in his shirt, zip up his fly, and buckle his belt. It was almost as if he thought he was entering a fifth wall where no one would be able to see him. If only he had been invisible, then we wouldn't have had to see his Howard Hughes toenail peeking through the hole in his sock. For all of the rules on airlines, not being allowed to take your shoes off should be one of them.

I began to doze off again, and awoke to a crowd full of people. Suddenly, our little corner was converted into a cozy comedy club. A group of men were laughing it up before their wives came to spoil their fun. Each of the three wives looked like one of Cinderella's wicked stepsisters, while each of the husbands looked like they wanted to find another hideout.

Then I started wondering what they thought about me. Did they catch me sleeping with my mouth open? Was I covered in crumbs from the tasteless lunch? Could they see that I ran out of clean socks, and was wearing navy tweed with black? Of course my shoes never left my feet, as I follow my own rules.

If the first character was The Gym Rat, the second Herbert The Pervert, the third Cinderella's Steps and Their Fellas, who would I be? Just a pale observer of unsavory characters, who looked like she could've been traveling from Wisconsin instead of a very warm climate from halfway around the world. Whoever said that you had to look out the window to see interesting sights?