Revenge of the Yearbook

     From my earliest school days, I recall my teacher’s threat whenever any infraction of rules, large or small, was committed: “This will go in your PERMANENT RECORD!” As a young child, I was cowed by the ominous pronouncement, but as I got older and wiser, I began to dismiss the idea of an all-encompassing history as a mere dusty file hidden in the school’s basement, forgotten and harmless.

     But now I understand all too well that I should have paid more attention to the somber prophecy of Mrs. Geisen—who terrified me with her size 12 orthopedic shoes and Far Side hair bun. I am sure even she could not have realized the true portent of her threat and the culmination of the “Permanent Record” scenario. It’s Facebook.

     Early this morning, among the usual updates in my in-box, I found an unnerving post: a horrifying pseudo-professional portrait of myself at age 16, pre-orthodontics, with a then-boyfriend sporting Napoleon Dynamite hair. My own long-forgotten copy of this image was destroyed eons ago, and I don’t even recall the circumstance of its origin. I was mortified to find this reminder of my ugly-duckling, bad-judgment-in-romance self haunting me from the screen of my laptop.

     The first order of business was to get the ghastly likeness off my Facebook page before anyone else could see it. I spent precious minutes Googling the correct incantation to rid myself of the terrible thing, all the while panic-stricken that someone I know now (read: my own children) might stumble upon it and ridicule me mercilessly.

     The source of this embarrassing surprise was a former classmate, whom I had recently befriended on Facebook, after our mothers had visited together in our hometown. I was reluctant to re-establish contact with him, as I’ve spent nearly 30 years distancing myself from the crushing humiliation of high school. Like a victim in the witness protection program, I’ve been hiding behind my married name in a series of populous cities for most of my adult life. But nostalgia got the better of me, and I opened the door to my old life just a crack.

     I soon realized that resurfacing may not have been my best idea. Several other classmates saw my name on his list and sent me friend requests. Most I just ignored. But some had been close enough to require a positive response, though their status updates proved we now share few, if any, common views. So I just hid their posts. Out of sight, out of mind.

     Then these friends began to tag me in old yearbook pictures. Aside from the laughable 80’s hair and fashion, I wasn’t embarrassed enough to protest. At least I was thin in those days. But now that an unwelcome old boyfriend has started digitizing his ancient photo album and sharing it indiscriminately, I’ve had enough. It’s disconcerting to think that someone would even keep a memento like that for so many years, much less feel the need to display it publicly.

     So now I’m back on the lam from my past, and my “Permanent Record”, having “un-friended” the whole lot from the class of ’82. My daughter tells me that they won’t be notified that I’ve cut them off, so I’ve got a good head start. But if you’re reading this and happen to have incriminating photos of me in disco clothes and big hair, please contact me first before you post them for the world, and my teenagers, to see. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.

Mother of the Homecoming Date

     My girl has a date for the Homecoming dance. She is ecstatic. I am petrified. She may be old enough for this, but what about me? And what, exactly, is the proper role for the Mother-of-the-Homecoming-Date in today’s exaggerated high-school social scene? I’ve checked, and Emily Post provides no guidance whatsoever on this momentous rite of passage. Too bad, because I could really use some help. To do too little will make me seem as though I don’t care, and to do too much will make me seem like a helicopter mom living vicariously through her child’s social engagement. Like so many other parenting challenges, it’s a tricky balancing act.
     The first question on my mind is The Mum. Who buys it, and how extravagant should it be? Mums are a very important part of the Homecoming scene, and big business for our school’s PTA. Mum Moms have been toiling for months cutting ribbon and assembling the elaborate corsages that both girls (and boys!) wear to the big game. Friends who grew up in other areas of the country seem perplexed by the hugely beribboned mum; I take it from their attitudes that our custom is a peculiarly Texan affair. I wasn’t previously aware of the cultural disparity, and thought all high school girls everywhere spent Homecoming day wearing corsages that make them resemble a Kentucky Derby winner. But what I personally find unusual is the trend in large armband corsages, complete with ribbons and teddy bears, for the guys. When I was in high school, a young man would rather have been boiled in oil than alight from his pickup truck sporting such an accessory. Obviously, times have changed.

     Then, there’s The Homecoming Dress. Fortunately for me, this particular detail was settled before I even knew it was an issue; I was thus saved much wailing and gnashing of teeth during hours of fruitless shopping at Northpark. My daughter found the “perfect” dress and shoes during the summer and bought them with an optimistic eye toward the future. When she announced that the outfit was for Homecoming, I was skeptical. “Do Freshmen go to the Homecoming dance? “ I asked. She accused me of doubting her ability to land a date. But truly, I never doubted her success for a minute (her dating prospects are what keep me awake nights) and attributed my confusion to a distant memory, from the dark ages of my own high school years, that only Juniors and Seniors attend the dance. Many, many things seem to start earlier now, and I clearly still have some distance to travel in catching up with the times.

     Finally, there’s The Pre-Dance Photo Op. Previously, I’ve seen caravans of cars lined up at neighbors’ homes around this time of year and asked myself, “Who died?” Nobody, fortunately. The traffic jam was just the dance attendees, along with their parents, gathering at one photogenic house to snap dozens of pictures in finery they’ll never wear again, with dates they may not even be talking to next week. This year, by some mysterious lottery, we have been designated as photo hosts. While I’m flattered that my home has been deemed worthy of the honor, I’m also a bit nervous. Of course I’ll have to clean the house, and perhaps even paint the front hall. But should I serve snacks to the other parents? Cocktails? Maybe I’ll have one now.

     The only saving grace in this whole affair is that my daughter’s date can’t drive yet, so there’s no worry about her riding off alone with a boy who has borrowed his mom’s nice car for the big night. At this point, unsupervised car travel might actually put me over the edge. Instead, I assume we parents will be pressed into chauffer service for the game and dinner (another detail to work out), to the dance, and back home afterward. At least I hope that’s what everyone has in mind. I really, really don’t want to have to pitch in for a limo. Not yet. We all need to save something for the kids’ weddings, or at least for the Senior Prom.

Beware of The Lost Symbol

      Literature lovers of the world, unite! There’s a threat forming on the horizon, and it’s coming our way this Tuesday, September 15th. Together we can defeat this menace! Yes, I’m talking about the new Dan Brown novel, The Lost Symbol.
     Last week Amazon.com posted a banner ad on its home page promising to deliver my copy of the new book before breakfast on release day. The ad touted the manuscript as so secret that it was under lock and key at the publisher’s location and required “two separate people” to access the supply. Pray tell, what is the alternative to “two separate people?” Would it be two conjoined people or simply a staffer with a dual personality? Maybe Mr. Brown wrote the copy for the advertisement, too.

     I know, I’m just a neophyte writer who can barely give away 500 words to the local paper, and Dan Brown is a bestselling jillionaire with movie deals and everything. But come on, his books (and the movies too, with Tom Hanks and his bouffant hair) are laughable. Very profitably laughable for Mr. Brown, to be sure, but that doesn’t make them any better for the rest of us.

       Back in the dark ages of 2003 I began hearing buzz about a new book called The Da Vinci Code. A pretty cool title, I admit, it jiggles the imagination of art lovers and mystery lovers alike. Critics were raving and friends were reading it while waiting in the carpool line, so lemming-like, I got a copy. At first, I was willing to go along with the wild yarn about the Knights of Templar and their secret antics. But then Mr. Brown veered down the path of Jesus’ supposed dalliance with Mary Magdalene and the whole "royal bloodline" business. At that point I began to feel the same way about The Da Vinci Code as I had felt about The Celestine Prophecy back in the 90’s. Both books seem just real enough to get people all riled up, debating whether the claptrap could actually be true. But in the end it’s all just pure hooey. I finished the book but had completely lost interest by then--I saw that red-haired brother coming a mile away.

     As if I didn’t hate the book enough already, another nail was driven into the coffin when I visited Paris in 2006. According to our Parisian tour guide, Mr. Brown apparently didn’t even consult a map of the city while writing. In addition to offering educational tours of real French historical sites, Isabella also led tourist groups on The Da Vinci Code walks in which they tried, unsuccessfully, to retrace Robert Langdon’s path through Paris on the fateful night described in the story. The main problem with the attempted tour was that Brown’s geographical references are so disjointed that it is impossible to follow the alleged route. My own knowledge of Paris is limited, but from Isabella I understood the problem to be something like saying Langdon went from downtown Dallas to Oak Cliff via Plano. You just can’t get there from here.

     Then came Angels & Demons, written first but (rightly in my opinion) not deemed publishable until The Da Vinci Code became such a hot item. Where do I start? Ludicrous does not even begin to describe this ‘prequel’ to Langdon’s Paris adventure. The story is so outrageous that after I read it I yearned for a good Danielle Steel classic to rid myself of the bad taste. I don’t remember the exact point at which I began to gnash my teeth in response to the dopey tale, but it may have been when Mr. Brown reveals the bad priest to be the love child of The Pope and a nun, conceived via artificial insemination. The love child part is not so bad--even celibates can fall in love--but artificial insemination? Give me a break. It all came apart for me though, when Robert Langdon falls out of the helicopter and into the river, not too worse for the wear and ready to go jump Vittoria’s bones. At that point I just wanted to toss the book into the trash, but had to restrain myself because it was a borrowed copy. As my grandmother used to say, that book just got “worser and worser.”

     I’ll probably read Mr. Brown’s new offering, if only to give myself justification for complaint. I wouldn’t actually want a The Lost Symbol on my bookshelf where others might see it, so I’ll probably have to wait a while and sneak a library copy into the house. I’m sure that even then it will still be on the New York Times best-seller list. If this all sounds like sour grapes, maybe I’m guilty. But another part is just morbid fascination with bad pop-culture writing. Maybe if I read another amazingly awful tale, and get a big bottle of whisky to wash it down, I’ll start getting some ideas for my own outrageous pseudo-historical novel. Like the saying goes, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” But if I do write something so crazy, I’ll definitely need a pen name. Suggestions, anyone?

Full Moon Over Spring Creek

     It began as a typical Saturday morning errand to the dry cleaners. Before it was over, a possible crime had been committed and more than one person, including me, would end up looking mighty foolish.
     A dry cleaning run is never complete without a visit to the adjacent donut shop, so my daughter waited in the car with her breakfast while I took the week’s laundry inside. It was morning rush hour and several people were in line ahead of me. While I waited my turn, a thirty-something guy came in and stood at the back of the line. He was tall, and was wearing gray gym shorts and a baseball cap. As I left the shop, I noticed his girlfriend waiting in a white sedan parked directly in front of the store’s windows.

     Because of the donut stop, I had parked several spaces away from the cleaner’s door, so the tall man probably didn’t notice me, or my daughter, sitting in the car. I hadn’t driven away yet because I was trying unsuccessfully to bum an apple fritter from her. And that’s when I saw the crime.

     The perpetrator was now alone in the shop, as the clerk had stepped to the back to retrieve his order. It all happened so fast, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The guy started to remove his shorts. My first thought was, “Why is he taking off his pants in the middle of the shop? He should have put them in the bag before he left home.” I’m pretty slow sometimes. But then I realized he wasn’t removing his pants to have them cleaned, but to share a little view of his, ahem, assets, with his watching girlfriend.

     From my vantage point all I could see was a hairy white butt, and not a great one at that. But from the degree to which he lowered those shorts and the hip-wiggling moves he aimed at the window, I’m pretty sure the girlfriend, with her more direct sight-line, saw more. A great deal more.

     I gasped aloud…and then, quite naturally I think, I pointed. My daughter, until this time interested only in the pastries, looked up. Her gaze followed my outstretched hand. Now we both had a view of the guy which I am certain he never intended.

     If I had been alone, I might have just shaken my head and driven away. But with a teenager along, I felt I had to express the appropriate indignation at this affront upon our collective female dignity. So I honked the horn. The guy’s head snapped around and he saw me. Immediately a look of panic covered his face. He jerked up the shorts.

     And then, God knows why, I got out of the car and stormed back into the shop. As I threw open the door, I practically screamed, “What do you think you’re doing? I’ve got a thirteen-year-old girl in the car!” By this time the clerk, and the store manager, had re-appeared with the clothes. They regarded me as if I were a lunatic, bursting into their store and shouting at another customer. At that point, I almost felt sorry for the guy. He turned red back to his ears and kept stammering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

     We all stared at each other for a long, uneasy second, until I beat a hasty retreat, as I’m sure the fellow did too. I still go to the same cleaners weekly, and neither the clerk nor the manager has ever mentioned the incident.

     But I’ve never seen Mr. Pants there again. He probably drives all the way to Plano to have his shirts done now. Afterward, I felt a bit silly reacting so strongly, but justified my behavior as a mother’s right to protect her child. All the wind went out of my sails, though, when I got back into the car and my daughter said, “Cool, Mom. I never would have looked if you hadn’t screamed and pointed.”