Book of Failures

by Amy Lyle

  We recently started texting one another. So far, he’s texted me weather reports, his interest in attending a roller derby match and his feedback about his visit to Israel. “Israel’s hot and all they want to talk about is Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”

  My dad gave me great advice, I just wasn’t listening.

  1. Money is not important until you need it, then it becomes very important.

  2. Always buy the best that you can afford.

  3. Drink water constantly. From stomachaches to heartbreak, water is the solution.

  4. Exercise every day.

  5. Don’t shoot your mouth off. This may be a southern Ohio adaptation of James 1:19: My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.

  6. Don’t become an idiot. Read something or do a crossword for Christ’s sake.

  7. If you have time to lean, you have time to clean. (Borrowed from Roy Kroc, founder of McDonald’s)

  8. Don’t try because you can’t change f****** people.

  9. Think Would my grandmother do this? before you do something. It’s a twist on What Would Jesus Do? but my dad said it first.

  10. A word to the wise is sufficient, but you’re not wise; you are a dumbass, that’s why I’m telling you again. The first part of this saying is Yiddish. I’m not sure where he picked it up,{29} but the dumbass part is definitely his own.

  My dad’s the salt of the earth and the epitome of his era, loving John Wayne, Elvis and firearms.

  IF YOU TEACH A MAN TO FISH

  Peter grew up in downtown Atlanta. His father had been a vice president for a large food corporation and then had a second career as a college professor. His mother had her own nurse anesthetist firm. Peter grew up with help—a nanny and a housekeeper—and his family had a membership to a country club. I was the first person in my family to finish college, and I worked as a nanny and a waitress, so I was the help.

  Being a southern gentleman, Peter shocked me the first year we were married when he announced he was “going hunting.” Deer hunting in my small town was often done out of necessity. Even if you ran over a deer in my hometown, someone would pick it up—to cook and eat.

  Deer hunters in my hometown carry their rifles on gun racks, attached to their pickup trucks and head “to the hollows.” They wear camouflage head-to-toe and carry coolers filled with Pabst Blue Ribbon purchased from Walmart. Hunters sprinkle scents made from head and hoof glands of the deer plus lady deer urine around the area. They sit in deer stands to drink and wait. If they kill a deer they throw it on their pickup trucks and take it home to “process.”

  I have Christmas cards from my cousins featuring their children on the back of a pickup truck holding up the head of a dead buck with the caption “First kill! Merry Christmas!”

  Peter informed me he was quail hunting at Burge Plantation, which is listed on the National Historic Registry and offers 1,000 acres of sporting and hunting grounds. People arrive wearing thousands of dollars’ worth of Filson hunting apparel, equipped with fine Italian Beretta rifles. Members and guests warm up by shooting skeet, then are greeted by their hunting guides and highly trained Chesapeake Bay Retrievers. They proceed to fields where earlier that morning the guides had hand planted domestically raised quail and pheasants into Burge’s bushes. The guides shake the bushes, the birds fly out and the hunt begins.

  After the hunt, the group enjoys lunch and Cuban cigars at a million-dollar clubhouse. Upon departure, the hunters are handed custom coolers that have completely cleaned birds encased in thick plastic freezer bags.

  Thank goodness Peter has a very generous uncle that invites him on an annual trip.

  Peter says he enjoys hunting and fishing regardless where the activity is taking place and that “the best things in life are free.” Billionaire Apple founder, Steve Jobs, said something similar: “My favorite things in life don’t cost any money.” I bet he said that after he bought a $120 million super yacht that he would fly to on his own private jet. I enjoy a sunset as much as the next person, but I think people that say that money is not important already have a lot of it.

  QUEEN GENEVIEVE

  My hometown, Marietta, Ohio, is nestled alongside the Ohio River. The Seneca Indians occupied the territory as early as 1492 and named the river “Ohio,” which means “It is beautiful.” Fact: the Ohio River bordering Marietta is owned by West Virginia. A Deed of Concession set the river as the western boundary back when West Virginia was just Virginia. The river, even though they don’t own it, is Marietta’s most important asset as several manufacturing plants use the river water to cool their industrial equipment and it is an attraction for tourists.

  For one weekend in September, Marietta’s population of 10,000 explodes to over 100,000 with visitors for the Sternwheel Festival. The weekend features sternwheel boats, live bands, an impressive firework show shot off a river barge and an announcement of the “Queen Genevieve” pageant.

  The Queen Genevieve contestants model and answer a few questions, after which the scores are “calculated by a local accounting firm.” I’m not sure why an accounting firm is necessary for the “calculation” of the Queen Genevieve scores, as most years there are normally only five contestants, four of whom receive awards: Queen Genevieve, Runner-up to Queen, Miss Congeniality, and Committee’s Choice.

  The winners of the Queen Genevieve contest get up to $1,500 in scholarship money toward the local county community college. My parents refused to let me try out for the Queen Genevieve pageant, saying it was “all political.” But I bet it was because I had thin hair and a slight overbite.

  In 2014 Smithsonian magazine listed Marietta as one of the best small towns to visit. They mentioned the highlights as the Sternwheel Festival followed by the Sweet Corn Festival.

  I have never attended, but the Sweet Corn Festival features the sale of over 6,000 ears of corn and a feed-corn-bag-tossing tournament, in case you are interested.

  WE HAVE A SITUATION

  A group of girls and I went to see the coolest ’80s band in concert. I can’t name them because I would have to pay royalties and I don’t want anyone to think my idea of an ’80s band is lame, so I have left it up to you, the reader, to insert your own favorite band. The concert was held at Chastain Park Amphitheatre, an outdoor venue with tables. You can bring your own food and enjoy a picnic, unless the artist is James Taylor. James was shocked that people were slicing their cheese and serving wine while he was performing. He stopped the concert and demanded that everyone take their coolers back to their cars. He kept screaming, “I am not background music for your dinner!”

  The ’80s band was cool and seemed to enjoy an audience filled with picnickers. Our group had brought a strange combination of foods including a variety of cheeses, fruit, boxes of tacos, Krystal burgers and Thai chicken skewers.

  Approximately fifteen seconds before the intermission, my stomach started to percolate at an alarming level. I was sweating and doing contraction-type breathing. Sharon, recognizing my irritable bowel symptoms as we have the same sensitive stomachs, headed to the bathroom with me, repeating, “Just breathe … It’s okay … We’re almost there,” as we fought our way through thousands of people making a rush for the beer lines. Fortunately, the combination of being bent over in pain and taking short breaths while Sharon counted “Good, one, two, three,” caused people to assume I was going into labor and the way was cleared for me.

  When I finally made it into a stall, Sharon, hovering outside the door, asked, “How’s it going in there, honey?”

  Humiliated, I had to admit, “I’m fine, but I had to throw away my panties.” Sharon tried not to giggle.

  The next morning at nine, I had a tennis match on our home courts. As I walked up to the pavilion with my tennis bag, Meg, my neighbor (surrounded by eight or nine of our opponents) said, “Hey, I heard about the concert.”

  I almost ran but decided to face my humiliation head-on. “That’s rig
ht. I have an illness. I had a lot of cheese and wine and several Thai skewers and I pooped my pants.”

  The opponents fled. Meg and I stood staring at each other for several seconds before she said, “I only had heard it was an awesome concert.”

  “Oh. It was totally cool.” I picked up my tennis bag and headed to the courts.

  CALL FROM SHARON THE PLUTO CALL

  Sharon: Inaudible … Bailey! … Inaudible … phone drops. Bailey! (Sharon’s dog) Shit! Hello!

  Me: Sharon—I’m here. Sharon: What?

  Me: I’m here!

  Sharon: Oh, good. Blake got a C on his f****** science project because Pluto is now a planet!

  Me: Pluto is a planet.

  Sharon: No, it has NOT always been a planet. It was a celestial body. It orbits the sun but doesn’t do some other s*** worthy of a planet. I know this because a few years ago, when we did Ty’s project, I too, thought Pluto was a planet and he got a C because the teachers said Pluto WAS NOT a planet. Bailey, come here! Bailey! No! But now it is a planet! BAILEY! I have to go.

  Click.

  APOCALYPTIC THOUGHTS

  I live in a midsize neighborhood north of Atlanta. We have our own webpage designed to “promote community,” marketed as a way for people to find last-minute babysitters and lost pets and to report which restaurants failed health inspections. But most the posts are neighbors ratting out their own neighbors for dogs pooping in their yards, kids driving too fast on golf carts and “solicitors on the loose.”

  For a time, a group of families moved in that were rumored to be members of the Endtime Ministries cult. People started posting article links about how the Endtime ladies couldn’t wear makeup because of the “lipstick spirit” and the men could not have facial hair because of the “homosexual spirit.” Holidays, even Christmas and Easter, were banned as “pagan rituals” and nobody ever saw an Endtimer with a pet because they thought of animals as “harbored demons.”

  Coincidentally when the three rumored cult families moved in, neighborhood pets—several dogs, but especially neighborhood cats—started disappearing. It did seem strange that “LOST CAT” postings were appearing almost daily in our small community. People started pointing fingers at the cult members. More and more posts appeared about rumored strange doings of the Florida Endtimers, including killing animals, tax fraud, the handling of snakes and forced underage marriages. The final posts regarding the cult/cat issue on our neighborhood site:

  “I am concerned that the Endtime Ministries cult members are engaging in some sort of cat extermination mission, as now more than four cats have been reported missing and zero have been recovered.”

  Many people replied. This was my favorite:

  “This very thing happened in our last neighborhood so we had to teach the cats to fight.”

  It seems no hurt feelings resulted from these neighborhood exchanges because the Endtimers didn’t sign up for the community website. They believe that media—newspapers, radio, television, the Internet—are instruments of demons.

  Still no word on the cats.

  RANT: EVERYBODY’S A PROFESSIONAL

  None of my children won any of these ribbons

  My husband and I were encouraging our eighth grader, PJ, to try out for the golf team. PJ vehemently said he wasn’t good enough. He was right. Half of the middle-school boys competing for the team had handicaps of zero. In the world of golf, that is crazy good; less than one percent of golfers in the world achieve such a status.

  What’s happening in kids’ sports?

  You used to be able to put your kid on the YMCA recreational team and if they had talent, which may have been identified in middle school, they would move up. Recreational teams are becoming more and more scarce. The message seems to be “if your kid isn’t on a travel team, they’re not good.”

  It’s the industry of … the travel team. “Elite” team sports are a 7-billion-dollar business and everybody’s doing it. In Minnesota, there were 23 basketball travel teams in 1991, now there are 1,400.{30}

  A Forbes magazine study reported that parents are spending boatloads of money (many exceed $1,000 a month) hoping it will pay off in a lucrative athletic career.{31} Kids as young as seven now play year-round in what were once seasonal sports.

  Athletes don’t get a break over the holidays either—they attend agility, velocity, or conditioning camps. For football, they offer Passing and Receiving Academies and/or the Kicking and Long- Snapping Camp taught by ex-NFL players. If your kids play soccer, they could attend Campamentos de Fútbol in Italy, Portugal, Spain or France.

  The investment is not paying off. Only 5 percent of the eight million high school athletes even make it to the college level, let alone pro. The odds for going pro: 1 in 11,771 for basketball, 1 in 5,768 for soccer and 1 in 4,233 for football.

  Did I make a terrible mistake by letting my kids try different sports? Have I failed because I didn’t identify my kid’s athletic strengths by the time they were toddlers? Yes, because not one of the four has been able to make ANY team sport whatsoever. All our children have rotated in and out of out of soccer, karate, dance, equestrian lessons, football and tennis.

  Our kids will play a pickup game of soccer or kickball in the park and they’re developing skills in backyard game of corn hole.

  As of yet no scholarship offers have come in.

  WALMART IS AMERICA

  When you go to Walmart, you know what you’re getting. The parking lots are peppered with beat-up, late-model cars that have cardboard for windows and that drag exhaust pipes that scream Welcome to hell.

  On one trip, I tried to locate the special Birthday Wishes Barbie to no avail. When I asked the stockperson where I could locate the Birthday Barbie, she replied, “No much English.”

  I asked, “Is there someone that does speak English that could help me?”

  She held up four fingers and I believe she said, “Not until four o’clock.”

  As a mom of four, I do a monthly Walmart trip because milk, orange juice, cereal and cleaning supplies are a dollar cheaper than in grocery stores. Furthermore, you can pick up one of the best wines in the under-$15 range for only $12—or even cheaper if you buy the case. It’s not milk; it doesn’t spoil.

  Walmart employs over one percent of the United States population.{32} I look at the employees who get up every day and put on their blue vests to work for minimum wage and realize how in the United States, most people are trying … and that’s honorable.

  WE’RE OUTNUMBERED

  We have four teenagers in our house ranging from age thirteen to eighteen. Children ask an inexhaustible number of questions:

  Can I sleep over at Jill’s Friday?

  Can Gabby, Katie, Alexis and Emma sleep over on Saturday?

  Why can’t I get a new phone/sneakers/dress/video game/rug for my room?

  Did you drink alcohol in high school?

  Will you look at this lump on my cheek/leg/arm?

  Why can’t I go to the Bahamas for spring break with my friend?

  What is the difference between whole milk, skim milk, 2 percent milk and almond milk?

  Why do we have to go X to eat? I want to go to Y.

  Why isn’t (sibling) grounded too?

  Why can’t I get a tattoo of Coldplay lyrics on my forearm?

  When can I have my phone back? When can I have my phone back? When can I have my phone back?

  That’s why Peter says, “Ask your mother,” and I say, “Ask your father.” We’re tired.

  The three girls have an incessant need for argon oil for their hair or Naked eyeshadow pallets, Micro-delivery Face Exfoliating Creams and those Cut-for-Chuck Taylor’s tiny socks that don’t show when you wear Converse sneakers and never appear again once you put them into the washer. The boy wants things that require batteries like the Shadowhawk x800 Military Tactical Flashlight and flying drones that can take videos.

  The three things that the children never ask for are underwear, toothpaste and toile
t paper. We could be on vacation, several weeks in, and I’ll ask all four to “show me your toothbrushes.” At least two of them can’t. There are always lots of pants, shirts and shorts, in the laundry but very few pairs of underwear. They have bathrooms, but no toilet paper. I no longer inquire about the underwear or toilet paper because all four answer the exact same way: “I don’t know.”

  We have one recently licensed driver and two permitted drivers. Our car insurance is approaching mortgage levels. The kids drive an inherited Tahoe and its once-rectangular shape is now rounded due to the kids crashing into things.

  We make Savannah, the licensed driver, chauffeur her three siblings around and have been getting complaints about their experiences as passengers. “She drives super-fast even if it’s raining or if there are a bunch of orange cones.” When her brother, PJ, told her to slow down, she told him to “shut it” because she was “the only person in the car that has a driver’s license.”