The only problem was, the Palace Gardens wasn’t cheap. To avoid spending our hard-earned grass-cutting and ice-cream-scooping money on overpriced admission, we schemed how we might get into the drive-in on the cheap.
On previous occasions, we simply stuffed two of our friends, big hair and all, into the plywood dog crate my father had built into the back of the Blazer. It was nearly impossible to keep a straight face while driving by the ticket booth. But on this night, we hatched a more daring—and cheaper—plan. We would all sneak through the woods surrounding the Palace Gardens, and crawl through an opening in the fence to see the movie for free.
We met up at Patti’s house, which was within walking distance of the drive-in, and the six of us made the attempt as a group. We had heard the rumors that the Palace Gardens management was cracking down on teens who refused to pay by lacing the fence with some kind of foul concoction made from watered down cow manure. We all knew nothing could ruin the chances of getting a boyfriend like stepping in manure, so we were all particularly cautious that night.
Using hand signals as if we were involved in some kind of special-ops raid on a drug lord’s compound, we snuck through the woods, giggling and squealing, and breached the fence without incident. Or so we thought.
The nightly double feature included the new hit Porky’s, but we weren’t interested in the risqué scenes flashing on the jumbo outdoor screen. We headed straight for the large group of loitering teens near the concessions pavilion. Just before we reached the group, we realized one of our comrades had been hit.
“What’s that smell?” Peggy whispered. Our noses quickly found the source of the pungent odor—Andrea’s Jordache jeans had been tainted by the enemy’s foul biological weapon. As teenage girls, we did not live by moral codes that compelled us to retrieve our wounded. We couldn’t abandon our mission after such a successful secret adventure. Besides, Andrea was no diva. Refusing to spoil our fun, she headed home to change into some fresh jeans and meet up with us later, while the rest of us mingled among the cars under the stars on that balmy summer night.
The next night, and the nights after that, were filled with more of the same: Patti and I and our goofy girlfriends scanning the perimeters of our meager summer realm for whatever excitement could be had. Sometimes we found it at Games 101, at Buttermilk Falls, at Meatball’s house, in Bennett’s woods, at the Palace Gardens, and on very rare occasions, on a date. But many nights, we just drove around, glossed and teased, for hours—searching, planning, scheming.
Decades later, I would watch my own teens as they foraged for excitement on lazy summer nights. I smiled, realizing what they would understand someday, too—it’s the scheming itself that is the most fun of all.
SEASON 3 EPISODE 7
THE ARMCHAIR OLYMPIAN
“I used to be a sprinter,” Francis said, while he watched the Olympics with a bag of tortilla chips placed conveniently on his middle-aged gut.
Is he being serious? I thought.
“Are you being serious?” Anna asked from her seat on the floor.
“Oh, sure. Back in eighty-eight when I was in Aviation Officer Candidate School down in Pensacola, they recruited me to be a sprinter for field day.”
I somehow kept my Diet Coke from shooting out of my nose and gave my skeptical daughter a knowing wink.
The Olympics had that effect on Francis. Despite his relatively sedentary middle-aged life, watching the Olympics compelled him to relive his youth, athleticism, and former waistline. I sympathized. We all like to tap into the time when we drove a used Chevette, didn’t pay taxes, regularly ate cold pizza for breakfast, found no use for fiber supplements, and said things like, “Decent.”
Ah, the good old days.
Thank goodness our children didn’t know us back then. They made the perfect audience for this little ego trip down memory lane … or Fantasyland, as it were.
“Now you see,” Francis bellowed from his BarcaLounger in our TV room during the men’s quadruple sculls final, “In my crew days back at GW, we had to be in tip-top condition to be able to withstand the rigors of the sport.” The kids looked on doubtfully.
I knew the truth, but I didn’t want to burst Francis’s bubble. Crew was something he did in college to enhance his image as the wrinkled-khaki-button-down-oxford-penny-loafer-preppy-frat-boy, in hopes it might score him a few decent chicks. He milked that gig until graduation, and then never set foot in a crew shell again.
But he analyzed the sport from his armchair as if he’d been an Olympic contender.
“See, that one there is the coxswain, who needs to be small and light. I was far too muscular for that position,” he said between sips of beer.
I must admit I, too, have claimed former athletic prowess while watching the Olympics from the comfort of my well-worn spot on the couch.
“What you don’t know about your mother is that I swam in college. Yup. We were Mid-American Conference Champions, so it was a pretty big deal.”
I conveniently left out that I was one of only two walk-ons to try out for my college swim team. There were only two open spots, so the coach had to take us both. The other girl was way better than I was, but she quit after two weeks. That effectively made me the only walk-on, and the worst swimmer on the team by a mile.
The kids didn’t need to know that part.
When the Summer Olympics came to an end, we had to once again face our middle-aged reality. But … the Winter Olympics were not far off.
Francis would most likely relive the winter he mastered the rope tow on the bunny slope during ski lessons in Maryland. And I would revive the burgeoning talent I exhibited at the Mack Park ice skating rink during those snowy Pennsylvania winters so long ago.
We wouldn’t mention that Francis hated ski lessons, and only agreed to go because his mother promised to buy him hot cocoa. And I would keep it my little secret that I never made a complete rotation around the skating rink without falling.
No need to spoil it for the kids.
SEASON 3 EPISODE 8
FEEL IT IN YOUR REAR
We universally accept that teenagers don’t know much about life, so why do we allow them to propel two-ton combustion engines over concrete at high speeds? After many months of pumping the phantom brake and digging my fingernails into the armrests, I couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when Hayden got his driver’s license.
After those long months of teaching Hayden to drive, I finally understood my own parents’ plight.
It was the day of my sixteenth birthday, and I was twirling the barrel of my curling iron through my bangs. I heard my mother’s voice calling from outside our brick ranch, “Sweet Pea! Come here, would ya?”
I groaned, rolled my eyes, and ignored.
“Honeybunch? C’mon, it’ll only take a sec!” Maz continued, eventually appearing at my bedroom door. I sassed back at her, annoyed by what I saw as her rude interference with the crucial task of heightening my bangs.
Eventually, I succumbed to her pleas, but not without attitude. I appeared outside, slump-shouldered and eyes rolling, where the cause of the hubbub was revealed. On our lawn sat a pale blue 1974 Volkswagen Beetle tied up with an enormous yellow bow.
I offered no apology for my embarrassing behavior. Instead, I screamed and ran to claim the gift, which I assumed I wholeheartedly deserved.
That day, my dad was going to help me deliver pizzas for a school fundraiser, and he thought it was the perfect opportunity for me to learn to use the Beetle’s stick shift.
My hair properly coiffed, I jumped excitedly into the driver’s seat and awaited Dad’s instructions.
A gruff former college football player, Dad was not delicate. He operated on pure instinct, street smarts, and gut feelings. I, on the other hand, uncertain of any innate abilities, relied on conscious analysis. Dad didn’t use maps, instructions, or cookbooks. I did. He used facial expression and volume to communicate more than words, while I spoke in great detail to explain my tho
ughts.
So, when it came time for me to learn how to drive a stick, we were not exactly compatible.
After several stalls, I eventually got the Beetle onto the road. I made every first-timer mistake—revving the engine, sputtering and stalling, rolling back after stopping on an incline, riding the clutch, and lurching. Each time, Dad bellowed, “Easy, easy! No, not now! There, now! Shift! The clutch, the clutch! Feel it in your rear!”
I couldn’t process the words he was blasting in my ear, and I soon began to cry.
“Can’t you feel it in your rear? That’s how you know when to shift!” he shouted in frustration. I had no idea what he was talking about, and continued to grind, lurch, and stall.
I was able to hide my tears during the first few pizza deliveries, but when the Beetle stalled in the middle of Route 286, downhill from a barreling coal truck, my father had to yell even more to get the car started and us to safety.
I was soon a blubbering, red-eyed, snotty mess. It didn’t help my delivery patter at the next stop.
“Hello—sniff—ma’am, I—I—I believe—snort—you ordered two—hiccup—pepperoni pizzas?” I managed to stammer out, rubbing my nose on my sleeve between my halting words.
“Oh, Sweetie, sure!” said the lady who answered the door. “Would you like to come inside and sit a while?”
I somehow managed to finish the deliveries without anyone calling child protective services but was devastated at my failure to understand my father’s instructions. Later, I took the Beetle out alone on the road in front of our house. Even though I still didn’t feel anything in my rear, I was surprised at how quickly I taught myself to shift successfully through the gear pattern.
Decades later, I realized being a passenger in a car being driven by your own teenager can be a real pain in the butt. Maybe that’s what Dad was talking about.
SEASON 3 EPISODE 9
THE CHAINS OF LOVE
Francis was deeply in love with someone. Someone with a great personality. Someone who made him feel like a real man. Someone with a really nice tush.
That someone was himself.
I was envious of his self-respect and confidence. I’d been trying my entire life to be satisfied with myself, but the best I could muster was the fleeting thought, I’m not so bad for a housewife.
By contrast, Francis’s ego was ironclad, and completely undiminished by hereditary balding, an ample spare tire, and no mechanical skills. He couldn’t even walk by a mirror or other reflective object without admiring his image. Every time he caught a glimpse of himself, he stretched his neck out a bit, sucked in his gut, and twisted to sneak a peek at his backside. It seemed to reassure him, Yup, I’m as good-looking as I think I am.
Francis’s self-admiration reached new heights thanks to his volunteer job with our kids’ high school football team. On Friday nights, he would slip into his Blue Devils jersey, double-knotting his sneakers and giving himself a wink in the mirror before heading to the stadium.
At the ticket booth, he would proudly say loud enough for everyone in line to hear, “I’m on the entry list—chain gang.” As a sacred volunteer, he sauntered through the gate without paying, as if he were Snoop Dogg being ushered through the velvet ropes at Studio 54.
He and the other chain gang dads gathered near concessions for their weekly pregame huddle. After handshakes and back slaps, they haggled over team stats and joked loudly, glancing around to see who was watching.
Just before kickoff, Francis slipped into the back door of the concession booth to obtain the first of three cheeseburgers he would consume throughout the course of the night. Unfortunately, the volunteer coordinator had offered the chain gang dads free food, and Francis took full advantage, deeming it absolutely necessary for sustenance.
Cheeseburger No. 1 went down in four chomps, and Francis disposed of the wrapper in one manly whip at the trash cans before marching purposefully across the lighted field to take his coveted position on the chains. As he approached the opposing team’s side, he relished his elevated status. Not everyone could walk onto the field minutes before kick-off, but he could because he was chosen to be in the inner circle of football volunteers. Not just any volunteer, but the kind that entered for free, walked on the field, and ate anything he wanted. Francis had reached the top echelon, the pinnacle, the upper crust of the football volunteer hierarchy, and he knew it.
After withstanding the grueling rigors of holding a pole for two whole fifteen-minute football game quarters, Francis made a shamelessly public display of running back across the field at half time in search of more refreshments. He chugged a can of soda as if he’d just finished an Iron Man competition in Death Valley and tossed the can with a masculine belch. Cheeseburger No. 2 was consumed with a serious demeanor. There was still work to be done.
Thankfully, the six-hundred-calorie burger gave Francis the strength he needed to endure holding a pole for the last half of the game. When the final whistle was blown, and the game was called, Francis paraded his weary body back across the field one last time, waving and winking on the way as if he were an integral member of the coaching staff.
Despite his exhaustion, he moved swiftly because he knew he must get to the concession before closing time. Cheeseburger No. 3 in hand, he took his place on the track to allow exiting spectators to get a good look at the illustrious chain gang.
Back at home, Francis carefully hung his jersey back in the closet to await the next game and readied himself for bed. Another glance in the mirror confirmed what he already knew—he was everything he ever wanted, and more.
SEASON 3 EPISODE 10
TEAM MOM SURVIVAL TIPS
It was my favorite time of year—high school football season—and even though I knew volunteer work could be a real hassle, I just wanted to be a part of it all.
I casually told Hayden’s football coach I would “help out,” which I thought meant I had agreed to send out a few emails, sell t-shirts, or bake cupcakes for the team dinners. However, I had just unknowingly leaped into a vast, dark chasm of unknown perils.
At some point, the coach began referring to me as “Team Mom.” Initially, I was flattered, because the new title seemed so loving, so nurturing. I envisioned the players giving me side hugs as I bandaged their boo-boos and offered them freshly baked cookies.
I soon discovered accepting the Team Mom title meant I was also expected to coordinate volunteers, type up and copy programs, raise thousands of dollars, plan the team banquet, throw a tailgate fundraiser, research and analyze complicated state regulations regarding 501(c)(3) nonprofit status, and split the atom.
Soon, I was forced to say goodbye to the things I once held dear—a clean house, home-cooked meals, a good night’s sleep, free time, sanity. I had unwittingly accepted hazardous duty without pay, and I had to learn to survive.
I also learned I had to watch out for The Haters. Apparently, becoming Team Mom had given me instant mortal enemies. The reasons were complicated, but those two innocent-sounding words, when placed together and assigned to a middle-aged housewife, incited extreme resentment, territorial hostilities, power struggles, bitter rivalries, and threats of violence.
When the booster club president approached me in an aggressive manner after the game and said, “So, who’s in charge here, YOU or ME?” I found out what she really meant was, “Listen, who the bleep do you think you are coming along with your smiley face and your Bermuda shorts, trying to steal my limelight? Get this straight: I like getting my ego stroked, and you are cramping my style. So back off.”
Also, there was one particular football parent who seemed to have it out for me. In addition to throwing killer glares and snide remarks my way as often as possible, she also cornered me during the tailgate fundraiser to accuse me of “messing up” the hot dog pricing. I was initially confused, until I realized what she really meant was, “Make no mistake about it, due to insecurities rooted in childhood, I have made it my goal to turn all the other moms against you bec
ause it makes me feel powerful, and I thrive on drama.”
Thankfully, I did not lose control of my bowels. Instead I smiled, pleaded ignorance, and carried on as if nothing had happened. Although I did make a mental note to start packing pepper spray.
As Team Mom, I became the inbox for every imaginable parent grievance about practice time, meeting time, position assignments, equipment distribution, fundraising, and penalty calls. I had no real authority to change anything, but the parents knew that. They weren’t asking for change. They were really saying, “We have no intention of complaining directly to the coach, because it might negatively impact our sons’ playing time. So, when we feel like launching into a bitter rant, we expect you to take it like one of those inflatable clown punching bags.”
Other than publicizing the coach’s cell phone number, the only thing I could do was learn how to look like a concerned listener, while singing the refrain from “I Will Survive” repeatedly in my head.
I learned valuable lessons from the experience: how to sell snow cones and price hotdogs, how to avoid Mean Lady and Hostile Mom in the parking lot, and how to appear sympathetic to Whiny Parent’s harangue about the odor of her son’s cleats, without taking in a single word. Also, I knew all of it, no matter how difficult or painful, had helped the team. I knew my son and the other players had made lasting memories, and I had been part of it all.
And I learned the most important Team Mom lesson: Convince some other sucker to do the job next year.
The Meat and Potatoes of Life Page 9
