Take Me Out to the Ball Game

by Lisa Curry

I love July for the same reason I hate July: It’s all-star baseball month for my sons, ages just-turned-nine and just-about-to-turn-eleven.

Don’t get me wrong – I love to watch my kids play ball more than just about anything else. And all-star baseball is the best baseball to watch – faster, more exciting and more competitive than regular-season baseball, with fewer fielding errors and none of those guaranteed outs when you reach rock bottom in the batting order.

But having two kids in five tournaments in three weeks becomes a bit wearying. We might as well just pitch a tent at the ball field, because when my husband and I aren’t at work, that’s where we live. Except that I’d need a tent with a washer and dryer to support my habit of staying up half the night making sure the all-star uniforms are clean and presentable for the next day’s game. If my tent also had a stove, I could buy some real food during my emergency Gatorade runs to the Giant Eagle, so we could eat something that didn’t come from McDonald’s or a ball field concession stand for a change.

My older son’s team just finished their first tournament with a second-place trophy Wednesday night. Last evening was blessedly baseball-free – a chance to catch up on laundry and grass-cutting and eat a home-cooked meal, albeit at ten o’clock at night. Both boys’ teams have games tonight, tomorrow and Sunday, so I expect to work on my baseball-fan tan (all on the front and none on the back) and develop bleacher dents in my butt. Depending on how their teams fare over the weekend, they may have a semifinal Monday or Tuesday evening and a championship game Wednesday.

Still, I wouldn’t trade all-star season for a cruise in the Bahamas. So I’ll leave you with a photo that’s a good representation of my life during July. I came home from work one evening about two weeks ago to find my hanging basket in this condition. When I asked what in heaven’s name had happened (as if the baseball still nestled inside the potting soil with little root tendrils dangling around it wasn’t clue enough), my firstborn said, “It was an accident, Mom.”

Yeah, I guess, ’cause who’d have ever thought you could put a perfect hole in a plastic pot with a baseball? Meanwhile, I still haven’t found time to repot the poor plant – I’ve been too busy at the baseball field.

But my kid’s got a heck of an arm, don’t you think?

A Little of This, A Little of That

By Lisa Curry

The Curry Brothers as the Blues Brothers

Last February, I blogged about my younger son’s performance in “The Talent Show.” A couple of weeks ago, both my sons were in this year’s elementary school talent show. They actually listened to me for once – bestill my heart – and performed as Jake and Ellwood, the Blues Brothers, doing Soul Man.

They were fabulous and funny and highly entertaining, and, yes, I’m sure I’d still think so even if I weren’t their mother. If you don’t believe me, ask all the other parents who sat through the dozen little Hannah Montana wannabes before them.

The funny thing I realized after the talent show is that a scorchingly embarrassing performance like last year’s makes for a much more interesting blog than when you’re proud of your children. Go figure.

Being of Sound Mind and Body

On the subject of those little charmers, my husband and I stopped procrastinating after only 10 years and had our will done. Now if we kick the bucket, at least we’ve made provisions for the care of our offspring. And what an interesting exercise that was. So interesting that it would have made a great blog topic unto itself, as long as I didn’t mind dissecting the characters of all my relatives and in-laws in a public forum.

Suffice to say that there are people I’d entrust with my children and people I’d entrust with my children’s money, but none of them are the same people. It’s not that I suspect that any of them would steal my children’s money, but I do fear they might let the kids buy Ferraris with their college fund. So in the end, we named one of his relatives guardian of the children and one of my relatives custodian of the children’s money.

During the will-planning process, it occurred to me that this would make a great exercise for writers to undertake with their characters. So tell me, if your main character had a child, whom would he/she name guardian in his/her will? If your character has a variety of perfect choices, may I suggest that you’re making life too easy on said character? His/her circle of friends and relatives – your cast of secondary characters – ought to be at least as odd and complex as my real-life family.

Emails, emails, emails…

Speaking of odd relatives, I have a couple who puzzle me with the emails they send. They do not appear to use email for any real, personal form of communication, but simply as a means to pass along emails they receive from others just like them – and apparently these others like them, who have nothing better to do than forward emails, are legion.

Two of these people have me on their lists. One of them sends me messages telling me George Bush is a saint, Hilary Clinton is a Communist, and Barack Obama is part of some jihadist Muslim plot to take over America (I can’t figure out if this person doesn’t know I’m a Democrat or actually thinks to convert me to the GOP with these emails), along with warnings about nefarious scams being perpetrated to rape, rob and kill people just like me – which always turn out to be urban myths.

I’m not exactly sure what the other one sends, because she and her friends have the nasty habit of forwarding emails as attachments, and I can tell from the subject lines (“This is soooo cute!!!!”) that the pay-off (a picture of a puppy?) won’t be worth clicking through eight layers of emails, so I don’t bother.

What I want to say is, “Quit clogging up my inbox with your crap!” but these people are related to me – or married to people who are related to me – and I hate to hurt their feelings. Do you know people like this, and if so, how do you tactfully ask them to remove you from their mass email distribution list? Or should I just keep gritting my teeth and hitting the delete key?

Santa Shops Victoriously

By Lisa Curry

My firstborn, Rainman, age 10, handed me his letter to Santa last week, all sealed up in an envelope addressed to the North Pole. I, of course, sent it on its merry way to the frozen arctic.

Santa Claus smiled when he opened the letter. Rainman is nothing if not specific. His Christmas wish list was typed, numbered, and included both sources and prices…

1. A customized Steelers 75th anniversary jersey with name Curry and #22 on it. Size Youth XL. You can get it at nflshop.com for $79.99.

2. An Adrian Peterson Minnesota Vikings sewn (not screen-printed) jersey. Size Youth XL. You can probably get it at Champs for $70.

We don’t call him Rainman for nothing.

The list went on in that fashion with about a half-dozen less expensive items and ended with “and anything else you think I’d like.”

Santa sat down at his handy laptop to visit nflshop.com.

Uh-oh. They were all out of customized Steelers 75th anniversary jerseys. He alerted me, so I could discuss the problem with Rainman, who decided he would settle for a Troy Polamalu Steelers 75th anniversary jersey – sewn not screen-printed, of course.

Santa dashed off to Champs Sports. They didn’t have that Polamalu jersey in stock, and they couldn’t get it in youth extra-large, but they could order an adult small, which was basically the same, and have it delivered right to his house. Oh, and by the way, the adult small cost $40 more than the youth extra-large.

“Good luck with Adrian Peterson. You’re not going to find that anywhere,” the Champs sales associate told Santa, who decided Rainman would receive a Brian Urlacher Chicago Bears jersey – sewn not screen-printed, of course – instead.

When he got home, Santa felt terrible, though. Poor Rainman, who’d been a fairly good boy this year, wasn’t going to get his first choice on either of the two top items on his Christmas wish list. Santa sat down at his laptop and jiggled the mouse to wake it up. The web browser came up with eBay on it. One of those darn elves must have been surfing the internet. On a whim, Santa typed in the search box, “Adrian Peterson sewn jersey YXL.”

He found two of them – both from the same seller. The auctions ended in a few days, only 7 minutes apart, and the current high bids were in the $40 range. Santa wasn’t an experienced eBay shopper, but he guessed from what the Champs clerk had said – not to mention the time of year – that these jerseys wouldn’t go cheap. He sighed and put them on the elf’s “My eBay Watch List.”

Meanwhile, back at our house, Rainman came running. “They have the customized Steelers 75th anniversary jersey back on nflshop.com. They must have got more of them!”

I alerted Santa, who sighed again and put in the order for the customized jersey with name Curry and #22 on it.

Now he would have to return the Polamalu jersey – which UPS had tried to deliver that day while he was out and wouldn’t leave without a signature.

Last night when the eBay auctions for the Peterson jerseys ended, Santa was poised at his laptop. He had calculated how much money he’d get back from returning both the Polamalu and Urlacher jerseys, deducted the eBay seller’s $10 shipping and handling charge, and decided that would be his highest bid.

As the first auction came to an end, someone ran the price up to $135 at the last second. Santa muttered a few bad words, made a mental note to put that dirty sniper on the naughty list, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

The second auction was his last chance. Santa clicked the refresh button again and again while the seconds ticked down. 10…8…4…1…

“Congratulations!” his screen read. “You won this item!”

And for $20 less than his maximum bid. Santa exhaled and smiled – victorious, but a little weary at the thought of fighting the holiday crowds to return the Polamalu jersey, which UPS had just finally managed to deliver that day, and the Urlacher jersey to Champs.

He would really have to look into teaching those lazy, internet-surfing elves to sew.

The Reluctant Volunteer

By Lisa Curry

The message was on my answering machine when I arrived home from work one day last month. “Lisa, this is Kim. I’m organizing the Fall Fest at school on the 31st, and I was hoping you could help me out that day by running one of the stations. It’s a Wild West theme this year. Give me a call.” Beeeep.

The Fall Fest at my kids’ elementary school is an all-day extravaganza with various ongoing arts, crafts and other activities for students in kindergarten through fourth grade.

Kim was a friend, and God bless her for taking on the Augean task of running the Fall Fest, but I had a multitude of good reasons to say no. At work, I was in the middle of producing a catalog that was already behind schedule, and I couldn’t afford to lose a day’s progress – not to mention a day’s pay.

Besides that, there’s a reason I became a writer instead of a teacher. I love my own kids, and I can deal with other people’s in small numbers. But spend the entire day surrounded by 200 screaming 5 to 10 year olds? Gee, thanks, but I’d rather have my fingernails ripped out with red-hot pincers. The mere idea gave me a twitch.

“Are you going to help at the Fall Fest, Mommy?” my younger son, Sean, asked with an eager smile.

“I really can’t, honey. I have to work.”

He drooped. “But can’t you take a day off?”

I was about to say no when my older son, Griffin, asked, “Yeah, why can’t you take a day off? Please, Mom?”

They’re 8 and 10. They still like me. They still want to show me off to their friends at school. How much longer will that last? I figure I have maybe 2 or 3 years before I morph into the biggest dork on earth, and they won’t want to be seen in public with me, let alone have me show up at their school – a fate worse than death.

All my good reasons to say no fled in the face of the two best reasons to say yes.

“Okay,” I groaned. “I’ll take the day off.”

October 31st – the day of my Halloween horror – arrived in the blink of an eye. How time flies when you’re dreading an event.

I sent my children off to their classrooms and reported to the school cafeteria for duty with the other PTA moms and dads.

“You’re outside in the OK Corral with Ted and Mike,” Kim said, pointing to her husband and another dad. “You’re going to have the kids shooting buffalo.”

How P.C. Considering that the school’s weapons policy considered expulsion a suitable punishment for carrying a pocket knife, I presumed we weren’t shooting the endangered species with BB guns.

The buffalo turned out to be painted plywood cut-outs propped up with 2x4s. The weapon was a catapult sort of affair made of stretchy rubber tubing with a nylon pocket in the middle. Someone told me it was designed to launch a water balloon, but we used Nerf balls as ammo. An adult held each side of the catapult, while a child loaded the Nerf ball into the pocket, pulled back the catapult as far as possible, and then let it fly. The object, of course, was to hit the plywood buffalo, but everyone got a little prize whether they succeeded or not.

I started the day as part of the catapult-holding duo with Mike, while Ted fetched the Nerf balls. Watching the kids shoot was so much fun I forgot I didn’t really like being around children. When the first graders – led by a substitute teacher and chaperoned by someone’s kindly grandma – dissolved into anarchy, stole all the Nerf balls, and chased each other around the field screaming like wild Indians instead of shooting buffalo, then nearly mobbed me over the prize bowl, I only twitched a little.

About mid-morning, Mike accidentally – I think – let go of his end of the catapult when it was stretched to maximum capacity. It snapped me on the butt, which stung. Right before lunch, he did it again, and it snapped me on the left breast, which stung even more.

After lunch, I decided to be the Nerf ball chaser and let Ted hold the catapult with Mike the untrustworthy.

When my kids’ turn at the OK Corral came, they yelled, “Mom!” and ran up and hugged me.

The day was sunny, warm and beautiful, and at the end of it, I realized I hadn’t thought about my languishing catalog – the one that frequently keeps me awake at night – even once.

The next day, Griffin brought home a thank-you card his class made for me and all signed. On the front, someone had drawn a decent likeness of one of the plywood buffalo, along with three misshapen people pulling the catapult.

“That’s you,” Griffin said, pointing to one of the people. “And that’s me shooting.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, “I should have recognized us by our curly hair.”

I hung the card on the wall in my cubicle at work, right over my computer. Sometimes when I’m tearing my curly hair out over that catalog – which is still behind schedule and still costing me sleep – I look up at the card and think of my day in the sun as a PTA mom.

Ever do something you really didn’t want to do, and end up really glad you did?

Me and Miss Clairol

It's our pleasure to introduce Robin Burcell as our first out-of-state guest blogger! Here's her bio:

Robin Burcell has worked as a police officer, a detective, and a criminal investigator. After more than 20 years in law enforcement, including work as an FBI-trained forensic artist and a hostage negotiator, Burcell is now writing full time. She is the author of the SFPD Homicide Inspector Kate Gillespie novels: EVERY MOVE SHE MAKES (nominated for an Anthony), FATAL TRUTH (winner of the 2002 Anthony Award for best paperback original), DEADLY LEGACY (winner of the 2003 Anthony), and COLD CASE (nominated for an Anthony.) Robin is working on a new series featuring an FBI forensic artist, the first of which should be out next year.

Robin Burcell:

A virgin no more. Yes, it’s true. This is my very first post as a guest blogger on Working Stiffs. I had thought about writing something on my old career, that of being a cop for a couple of decades, a career that certainly helps when it comes to writing crime fiction. Then again, maybe I should admit that my kids aren’t exactly thrilled about my past career. I tend to be a bit on the overprotective side, because I know what goes on out there, and it’s not just something I’ve read about somewhere else. I’ve seen it, experienced it, investigated it.

And my kids suffer for it.

Typical conversation with my oldest daughter, currently 16, after discussing something that usually concerns boys or crime as seen on TV news:
Me: I’m locking you in your closet until you graduate from college.
Daughter: You can only lock me in until I’m 18, and then I’m getting my bellybutton pierced.
Me: Not while you’re living under my roof.
Daughter: (raises eyebrows in that “we’ll see” look she’s perfected over the years).

Ah, my firstborn. Someone near and dear to my heart--maybe
a more apt description would be someone who makes my heart
stop each time she steps out the door,
no doubt because I was a cop for twenty years, and
I know what goes on out there in that big wide world.
You see, about a week ago, she passed her driver’s test
and is now an official licensed driver. This is the rite of passage
that nearly every teen aspires to.

And it’s the moment in life every parent fears.

It already costs me about a hundred bucks every six weeks to get my hair colored, and that was before my daughter was licensed. Now what am I supposed to do? I’m fairly certain that the speed in which my hair grays is commensurate to my children’s movement toward young adulthood and their knowledge that I can’t really lock them in the closet. And having experienced parenthood this far into the game, I’m absolutely certain that if any parent knew what to expect, knew what it felt like when their kid walks out the door that first time and each successive time thereafter with car keys in his or her hand, the population growth of earth would be about zero.

Really there should be some type of manual that is required reading before you ever contemplate having a kid, a manual that prepares you for these milestones and the untold money you will spend supporting the hair coloring companies. After all, there’s a book on WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN YOU’RE EXPECTING. And the popular sequels WHAT TO EXPECT THE FIRST YEAR and WHAT TO EXPECT THE TODDLER YEARS. I loved those books. They were well-worn in my house, especially the section that listed illnesses and diseases. If the pediatrician thought I was neurotic, it had everything to do with what was in the books. When my kids got sick, I’d look up the symptoms of such maladies as chicken pox and Fifth’s disease. Who would’ve guessed that the horrible rash my oldest daughter continually got as a toddler was from feeding her corn. That discovery was one little line, tucked in some chapter, and saved us a fortune in diaper rash prevention. And that whole fingernails-turning-blue thing that indicates pneumonia? Yep, found that in the back of the book, too, thereby getting my youngest to the hospital just in the nick of time.

Personally, I believe they stopped this wonderful series too soon. I think the last book ends at the age of five, or maybe that’s the last one I bought, because by then, I knew every symptom for every disease my children could possibly get. I was prepared.

Or so I thought.

Too late I thought of the book I really need: WHAT TO EXPECT THE TEEN YEARS. Someone needs to write this. And like the earlier books, it should have lots of photos. Especially of the parents and what they’ll look like each time their kid walks out the door with the car keys in hand.

And that’s where it should remind you that you might want to invest in a CPR manual and maybe a defibrillator so that when your kid starts up the car and pulls out of the garage, you and your significant other are prepared to resuscitate each other. Especially after the insurance company quote arrives to tell you how much it actually costs to insure your little darlings.

Anyone else hold stock in hair coloring companies?


Robin Burcell attempts most of her parenting skills in Northern California. Feel free to visit her website HERE or HERE. All teen parenting tips welcome.