Colla Voce

Colla Voce – Follow the voice. A directive to the musican (normally accompanist) to perform the indicated passage in a free manner following the tempo and style of the solo performer.

When I was a college student, I used to have arguments with a faculty member about tempo. It was less of an argument and more like good-natured teasing, but he would always say something along the lines of "You young people, you want to sing everything fast, fast, fast." I would give him a look best interpreted as "damn right" and proceed to leave him in a musical melismatic dust. I liked to sing fast. From a technical aspect, I knew I was spot-on. From a young, punk, bad-ass Soprano aspect, I knew it was impressive and intimidating. I didn't know it at the time, but I think the only person I was impressing was myself. And as for intimidation, I believe, in hindsight, it takes someone to care enough to be intimidated before that can happen, so most likely I was tilting at windmills.

Vocal music is an interesting beast. For me, whereas text and harmony speak directly to the heart, melody and rhythm speak to the head. What's interesting is that the tempo of a piece speaks to both. I am a firm believer that each musical composition has its own "natural" tempo where it all the elements fit together and work.  Metronomes are not required. If you are sensitive to the natural tempo of a piece, you will feel it lock into place as if it were a puzzle piece. A correct tempo lets the melody, harmony and text work together as they were intended. Of course, this entire conversation excludes the wild and wonderful world of jazz, where all bets are refreshingly off.

Of the thousands of hours I have listened to music, the two things I am most judgemental about are pitch and tempo. Being out of tune will cause my eyebrows to skyrocket, my shoulder to twitch and my head to involuntarily flip around like a musical weathervane: down and to the left if it's flat, up and back if it's sharp. I don't know why. I just do it. Tempo, however is another story. Music that is much too slow causes every bone and muscle to cease functioning and I sink down into my chair, wimpering and whining like a baby. "Nooooo. Nooooooo. Pleaaaassssse. It's so sllllooooooow. HOW MUCH LONGER?!?" (Yes, hello issues with waiting. Nice to see you back again). Music that is too fast makes me twitchy and nervous. I keep looking around as if something is wrong, like maybe a FIRE.  "Why? Why so fast? What's the rush? Do you have somewhere else to go or something else to do? If you cannot breathe or say the words, don't you understand that it's TOO FAST?!?"

Finding the natural rhythm of music takes time.  There is definitely a learning curve and yes, I do believe some of that wisdom comes with age.  Don't get me wrong.  Fast is fabulous.  Fast is exciting and refreshing and a little bit dangerous but in the end it is enormous fun.  Fast is unbounded joy (albeit with some very cleverly disguised control).  It's Champagne and fireworks and glittering jewels.  If you got fast, you flaunt it, baby.  No apologies.  But slow I've grown to love.  If fast is youth, then slow is the experience that comes with age.  Slow is no longer boring and ponderous.  Slow is more -- more peaceful, more sorrowful, more touching, more meaningful.  Having the patience to hold the tempo back, to enjoy the moment, to let the harmonies mesh, to let the sound live in its space before fading away, to let the words gather together into a deeper meaning is rewarding in a way that fast can never be.

Today marks the thirtieth and final day of the annual National Blog Posting Month writing project.  Before Novemeber 1st, it had been nearly six months since I had clicked the infamous publish post button.  Ideas for posts came for a visit every now and again, but got pushed aside for any one of a number of other pressing (and not so pressing) matters.  I knew I had the chops to write for 30 days in a row, but I wondered if it had been so long that I wouldn't be able to find the rhythm of the words, and the tempo that allowed them to work.  I won't kid you: between job number one and job number two and a teenager involved in plays (plural) and concerts (many) and the daily soap opera that is high school (never-ending), it wasn't easy.  Looking over the last twenty-nine posts, only six were completed before 11pm, and of the remaining twenty-three, more than half were posted in the last 15 minutes of the day.  Although in the beginning I felt anxious and rushed, as the month wore on, I relaxed and eased into the writing process a bit more.  Sometimes I sat down without a topic in mind.  But instead of panicking, I would slow down and wait for the ideas and words and stories to catch up.

Now that November is over, what's next?  I'm excited that Holidailies -- another month-long writing project that I've participated in for several years -- is going to ramp up again in about a week.  Although it might be nice to take some time off in between writing projects, I think I won't.  Six months was a long time to be gone, and I really and truly did miss this little corner of the Internet that I call my own.  Now that I've settled into a tempo that works for me, I'm going to let it the rest work as it should.  It's fast enough to keep me at it, but slow enough to allow me to sit and think and allow my thoughts to gather into a deeper meaning.

And I'm proud to say, at the downright civilized time of 9:20 PM, I've reached the 2009 NaBloPoMo finish line.

Publish Post.

The Waiting Game

For those of you in the know (or not in the know, or just stuck reading this blog hoping for something witty), today marks the beginning of the season of Advent in the Christian Calendar.  Although as a church season it is not as penitential as Lent, Advent is nonetheless a more subdued season.  There are no Advent marching bands, hallelujahs! processions or widespread celebrating.  Advent can be summed up in one non-celebratory word:  Advent is a season of waiting.

In one respect, Lent (the most penitential ("bummer-rific") season of them all) is also a season of waiting.  The difference, however is vast.  It seems we spend Lent just waiting for it to be over.  And although Easter awaits at the end of Lent, it often seems the real victory of waiting-out Lent is simply surviving the 40-day countdown of self sacrifice.  We don't give up anything during Advent, but it's a waiting game just the same. 

The whole concept of waiting isn't unique to the Christian tradition.  It seems every religion has a component of "waiting" in it.  And if you don't subscribe to any particular religion, the same concept of waiting could be applied to generation, to community, to gender, or what have you.  Everybody is waiting for something: an end to poverty, equal rights, the next Harry Potter movie, Godot.  Waiting is universal.

And you know what?  We stink at waiting.  In fact, we are so bad at waiting, that we have formed our very existence around NOT waiting.  We have fast food, lightning deals and instant credit.  We hate waiting so much that we have caller ID so we can know before we answer who is on the phone and then end the call before they even say hello.  Waiting is not necessary.  If you want to see horribly unhappy people, spend some time in the one place where waiting is required:  The Waiting Room.  Not only is waiting no longer a part of our social and cultural makeup, to have to wait for something is now almost a dirty word, and is certainly the opposite of progress, invention and the great American way.

One has to try really, really, really hard to put on the brakes and just wait.  Once we hit Advent we know the payoff of Christmas is coming, and with the secular so intertwined with the sacred, it's hard to honor the idea of waiting when faced with blowup Santas, animatronic penguins and miles of outdoor lights strung on rooftops, trees, bushes, and any other surface within reach.  Retail outlets don't make it any easier.  Christmas starts sneaking in in mid-October (totally bypassing Thanksgiving) and is in full bloom come November 1st.  Just try to avoid it.

I think a main component of being a successful "waiter" -- that is, one who "waits" as opposed to one who brings you more dinner rolls -- is accepting life in the present, even when you know there is something better coming.  Acceptance, however, isn't static or complacent.  It can, however, be a challenge to learn to live and find the worth in the right now instead of marginalizing or skipping it for the next bigger and better event.

Nowadays, it's harder to wait during Advent because we've read this story before and the next chapter is one of our favorites.  But oftentimes when we are faced with something new or frightening or unsure, the last thing we want to be is in a hurry.  We prefer all the time we can get to think, process, and formulate meticulous (not to mention wildly successful) plans for whatever comes next.

Maybe instead of bypassing Advent -- these four weeks leading up to Christmas -- we should embrace the waiting.  Take the time to think about where you are in life.  Accept your present existence.  Find it's goodness and worth.  And while you process and formulate meticulous (not to mention wildly successful) plans for what we already know comes next, remember that what comes next isn't the end of the story.  Not even Christmas is static or complacent.  The story continues, even after December 25th.

Just wait and see.

Fit as a Fiddle

Today (Thanksgiving Day Number Two) we ate ourselves into near comas and then dispersed around the house.  TeenTuna and NephewTuna adjourned and decided to play some Wii Fit. 

Computer games -- especially first-player games -- are a funny thing.  Of course there is a bit of a learning curve as you figure out how to move, carry an object, or complete a task.  In other words, it's not that you don't know how to run.  You simply have to learn how to run the way the game wants you to run.

NephewTuna decided he wanted to try the jogging portion of the WiiFit.  The skill required here is elementary:  Holding the remote control in your hand or putting it in your pocket, simply jog in place.  The vibrations registered in the remote signals how fast or slow you're moving, and the little shadowy cartoon figure (that's you) will jog along the trail.  Seems simple, right?

Ten year-old boys being what they are (squirrely and apt to ignore rules), never do anything the simple way.  First, NephewTuna figured out he could just shake the remote in his hand and his figure would jog.  The committee of the rest of us told him no, he had to actually jog in place which, sadly for him, required the movement of feet.  He asked about "the purple guy" who was always in front of him.  We explained that the purple guy was like a "pace car" and he shouldn't pass him.

"But what happens if I do?"
"If you run too fast, you fall."
And sure enough, his character did a total face plant on the jogging trail.

Now, you might think that post-face plant, it would be suffice as cautionary tale.
Instead all three of us laughed hysterically and yelled, "Do it again!"
And he did.  And we laughed. And he did again.  And we laughed harder.

A little later down the course, as he was jogging (currently in the upright position) several cartoon dogs jog past in the other direction.  "PIG!" exclaimed my nephew.
"What?!??" I laughed.  It's not a pig.  It's a DOG." 
"Pig...dog....whatever.  It looks like a pig."
As the DOGS got closer I explained, "it's not a Pig.  It's a Dog.  It's got long ears."
And sure enough, I seemed to have won that squirmish.

Not long after he jogged by some DOGS again.  Deciding to end a repeat performance of the great pig debate before it even begun, I said, "They aren't PIGS, they're dogs.  See their colorful colorful collars?"

Without skipping a beat, he said simply,  "that's to tell them apart."
And with that irrefutable piece of information hurled at me, all I could do is wish him luck and find that piece of Pumpkin Cheesecake that had my name on it.

Hypocrite, Table for One

Dear Internet:

In regards to yesterday's post about Black Friday shopping that was along the lines of, "Not in a car, not in a tent, not in the dark, I said what I meant..."

Yeah. Well, just remember:
1. The guy finally did try green eggs, and ham. And he liked them.
2. It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind (Just ask Harold Arlen)
3. My TV was dying.
4. This excursion occurred during a time of day that included daylight and the letters PM.

The most important excuse factoid in this scenario was number three.  I've been researching TV's for quite awhile, and had gotten to the point where I was carrying my 2010 Consumer's Reports buying guide with me.  My old television (my FREE 32" Toshiba, for those of you who remember from back in the day) had a thick black bar across the bottom of the set, and it was migrating northward at a worrisome pace.  For several months now, people have had extremely stumpy legs, and I never know the score of any sporting event, because that critical piece of information had floated into the abyss off the top of the screen.  So this afternoon, while TeenTuna was off with a friend, GramTuna and I grabbed a sandwich and then moseyed over to Sears to look at stoves.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, we never made it.  All the televisions were in the way.

And now I'm all set with a new set.
I didn't have to fight anyone for it.
I didn't have to pitch a tent (or a fit)
I spoke AT LENGTH to the sales dude
I made the sales dude laugh
I got it home, and set up without any help at all.  I was my own personal geek squad.

And seeing as it was the BIG shopping day of the year, it was (relatively) civilized.

So, mission accomplished Black Friday: 
The store got its sale. 
I got the TV. 
We all kept our sanity.

Thank you, Thank you, Sam-I-Am.

Presents Past Tents

As we were driving home tonight from Thanksgiving (Chapter 1), we were driving through town and happened to drive past the local Best Buy. There, we noticed what must have been 20 tents set up outside the door.

In 30-degree weather.
In the rain.
At 5:45pm
Almost HALF A DAY before tomorrow's 4am opening bell.

I understand that "Black Friday" shopping is a tradition for some, and a sport for many.  Around here it's almost like Deer Hunting season  There are those who do and those who don't, and the philosophical differences are so vast that there is no point in trying to reason with the other side.

But I live in a KumBahYah kind of world, and I'm pretty good at seeing both sides of a story.  If you're a Black Friday participant, you love the thrill of the hunt, scoring the exceptional deal, and completing your holiday shopping a full month ahead of schedule, which, of course, gives you more time to decorate every flat surface with flashing lights, plastic cling decals, glitter, tinsel, swag, puffy paint, candles, calendars, singing fish with Santa hats and Christmas Villages large enough to give every sheep, shepherd and wise guy man their own private suite.





The thing is ... if you are NOT a Black Friday participant, you STILL love the thrill of the hunt, scoring the exceptional deal and completing your holiday shopping a full month ahead of schedule.  The only difference is, there isn't enough money, bargains, rebates and/or coffee in the world that could get you out of bed and out the door in the middle of the night.

This year it seems there has been increased incentives to shop online.  Some of the sales have already begun, and I must admit there are some advantages to this option.  First, pajamas.  Second, tents are not required.  Third, a drastic decrease in the number of annoying people, and any that you would encounter, well...you're related to them, so you can't really blame that on the store.  Finally, considering that last year people were trampled to death trying to enter a store, shopping online means you eliminate the whole DEATH part of the experience.  You have to admit it...it's pretty tempting.

And I will admit that I have poked around (a little) online, but only half-heartedly.  I've come to the conclusion that I'm just not a professional shopper, or a full-contact tackle shopper, or a rugged outdoorsman pitch my tent on the pavement shopper.  I've looked at the ads.  There are decent deals.  But there isn't a one of them that is better than spending a little extra time in bed, and spending a lot of extra time with my family.  Bargains come and go, and I plan to hunt down the sales as best I can.  But, as is the case every year, I'm shopping on my own terms and in my own time.  My tent, my wallet, and my sanity are all staying home tomorrow.  If you are one of the midnight warriors, best of luck to you.  I promise I won't get in your way.

Pass the Soup

Today at lunch GramTuna, TeenTuna and I had to run an errand, and then decided to get lunch out on the town before returning to work for the afternoon. We chose a local eatery that Gram and I had eaten at once before, but was new to TeenTuna. The Soup Spoon Cafe is small, wonderful place that serves fabulous soups, salads, sandwiches and other entrees that turn a run-of-the-mill lunch on a run-of-the-mill day into something special.

Between the three of us we purposely chose three different soups and three different entrees.  It would have been easier if our entire table was a giant lazy Susan because we spent the entire meal tasting, swooning, passing the food to the left and starting over again.  There wasn't anything that wasn't absolutely scrumptious, and all the way back to work our conversation consisted of three sentences:  Wow, that was good... That was really, REALLY good ... I WANT TO GO BACK!!

In case I haven't made it clear, we really enjoyed our meal.  If you asked me about it, I would gush all over again about the tasty this and the fabulous that.  But if you asked me what my favorite was, you might be disappointed, because I don't believe in favorites.  From music to books to food to entertainment to travel, I am a firm believer in trying something new, exploring the unfamiliar, reading something different, and listening to things I've never heard before.  If you looked at the books by my bed or the contents of my iPod, you might think I suffer from multiple personality disorder.  Fiction, Non-Fiction, Essays, Historical works, Biographies, Humorous books, Spiritual books and even a Children's book and several Sudoku volumes occupy the same bookshelves.  Veggie Tale Silly Songs live happily alongside Ella Fitzgerald singing the American Songbook, Daughtry, Latvian choral music, Shostakovich 5, Bach Violin concertos, Goethe-Lieder and the ever-present Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (6 minutes, 14 seconds IN CASE YOU FORGOT).

As the "holiday season" come screaming down the turnpike, I am aware that it is the time when lots of people take stock of who and what and why and where they are, be it emotionally, financially, physically or otherwise.  It's the time of making lists and ticking off favorites, memorable events, and those pesky things we'd like to change come the stroke of midnight on New Year's Day.  I tend not to do any of that for a wide variety of excuses reasons.  What I will say, on this Thanksgiving Eve, is that I'm grateful for opportunities.  I'm thankful that with every book I read or CD I hear or fabulous lunch I share that I've given myself the chance to expand my world a little bit more.  And it all doesn't have to be true love.  After all, if we didn't have at least a small roster of things that cause a Grade-A MINCE PIE FACE, what would we have to talk about?

So, here's to recognizing opportunities for what they are:  chances to grow and change.  Maybe some day I'll settle on a favorite, whether it be a taste, a place, a path, a book, a song or a friend.  Or maybe I'll just accept the fact that they are all favorites -- good or bad -- because they the experiences that make up my life.  And no matter what that experience might be, in my life there is always room for one more.

Pass the soup.

Door locked, Lights Out

It's a little after 11pm and everyone in the house (except for me) has cashed in for the night. TeenTuna, now school-free until Monday has been in bed for awhile, probably thumbing through her iPod. Music and bedtime is always a ritual in this house in one form or another.  Mila, the dark grey cat has decided to take up residence on her bed for the evening.  It's hard to know how long it will last, but with the special fleece blanket on the bed, last time I checked she looked pretty content in that regal Egyptian paint me a mural kind of way.

Gabby, the other cat, has decided to start the evening on my bed off to the side.  My bed is more than a little cluttered with clothes at the moment (a definite downside to working two jobs), but there are two possible sleeping locations for the cats each night.  One is at my feet and the other is at my side.  It had been a long standing habit that Mila would be at the foot of the bed and Gabby off to the side, until one night Gabby got there first and when Mila finally jumped on the bed, she displayed this amazing look of surprise and devastation that someone took HER SPACE.  It's at times like these that one will probably become a bit aggressive, and we'll enter a good twenty minute full-house version of Kitty Big-Time Wrestling. 

Aside from the fact that I'm still awake and working, I rather like this time of evening.  The house is entirely still, save for the clicking of the computer keys and the ticking of the living room clock.  There is no TV or radio playing.  It's peaceful and quiet, and I find that after a particularly crammed day, those two things are what I crave most.  The house is comfy and cozy and warm and safe and content.  In other words, it's snug.  Not in a "my jeans don't quite fit" kind of way, nor in a "bugs and rugs" kind of way.  It's finding comfort in the knowledge that your family (human and furry) is nearby, wrapped in blankets and enfolded into the deep blue night.  It's recognizing that although you don't have everything you want, you have everything you need, and just knowing that fact makes you smile willingly, not sigh wistfully. It's getting up to turn off that last light and as you do, knowing that once again, that everyone is safe and sound.  At least for this night.

It might sound insignificant, but believe me, it's not.  I'm grateful for every last bit of it.  Even the cats.  Even the clutter.  Even the teenager and my family near and far.  Even for this little corner of the Internet I call home.  All of these things are gifts, and I rather like it here.  It's snug.

Now it's my turn for bed.
Goodnight.

Now SLEEEEEEP!

This summer I discovered the cult television classic Mystery Science Theater 3000 (MST3K).  It doesn't matter that I was about twenty years late to the party.  I stumbled on it on the Internet (a breeding ground for just such a thing), and instantly fell into hysterical love.  For those of you who were die-hard fans from the beginning, you are justified in the rolling of eyes and wondering what took me so long.  For those of you who many not be familiar with this beast, let me introduce you.

The premise is a human and his two robot pals (Tom Servo, whose head is a gumball machine, and, Crow T. Robot, whose mouth is a bowling pin sawed in half) are tortured weekly by being forced to watch a bad movie.  Needless to say, over the years there were lots of Godzilla movies, Hercules movies, Spiders, Leeches, Werewolves and other forms of cinematic horrors.  There were Creeping terrors and She Creatures.  Even Santa Claus and Jack Frost made an appearance or two.  What made it so good was the constant acerbic banter that went on DURING the movie.  Some of it was juvenile, some of it was slapstick, some of it was obvious, some of it was unfunny, and much of it was downright intellectual.  Badness never had it so good.

The first movie I saw was The She Creature, which is famous for a long-standing retort NOW SLEEP during every hypnosis scene.




Having discovered something hysterical, the first thing I did was show TeenTuna several clips.  I figured she would like it (LOVED IT) and she would get most of the jokes.  As I expected, it was right up her alley.  After all, in the movie The Screaming Skull, when the soundtrack becomes extra "scary" with a lone Soprano Ahhhh-ing all over the place, how many people are going to understand the crack, "...Kiri Te Kanawa is drunk again" and think it's funny?

I'm raising my hand.



One of our favorites was a dubbed-over German version of Hamlet that was heavy on the ham.  We were thrilled to hear the return of "to SLEEEEEEP" in his soliloquy, and one of TeenTuna's favorite lines is where Crow T. Robot utters a very embarrassed, "he said bare bodkin!" and giggles like a sixth grader.



The show was extremely witty when it came to musical references.  There were riffs about Stravinsky and Rimsky Korsakov, and at the end of one stellar movie (Werewolf) they sang over the entire closing credits in a kind of tag-team version of popular music.  TUSK!



Even big-budget action-adventure musicals didn't escape the love of MST3K.  My favorite?
Uh...if you find a melody, Sinbad....hop on.
Everybody ... just the goldfish now!



This summer, in a stroke of fabulous coincidence, the MST3K crew did a live riff of the cult classic Plan Nine from Outer Space.  This performance was broadcast live in several hundred movie theaters throughout the country.  Of course, TeenTuna and I were besides ourselves with ridiculous excitement.  And the film didn't disappoint, either.  Although the two of us definitely looked like we didn't belong, it was a great evening.  TeenTuna in particular was ROLLING in the aisle.



Mystery Science Theater 3000.  Check it out.

On Looking and Leaping

I had the strangest dream the other night. I'm terrible with details, and don't keep anything like a dream journal but I remember the basics.  It had to do with being on a sinking ship and frantically trying to find the things I wanted to save.  As the ship listed dangerously and took on water, I looked over the side for a way to escape.  I suddenly saw a sidewalk next to the boat, but being too dumb in my dream to jump off the boat and onto the sidewalk, I just kept on looking for a place to jump into the water and save myself before the ship sank.

I guess I'm not too smart in my dreams.

When I woke up I didn't think twice about this ridiculous sleep-robbing dream. I just shook my head, thought, "that was weird" and then went about my Sunday routine as usual.  As I was sitting at the computer tonight, staring at the screen and wondering what I might write about, my mind started to veer towards the calendar for the next week or so.  This upcoming week means a short school week for TeenTuna, teaching as usual for me, working through Wednesday, and then it all begins.  With that realization I gritted my teeth and felt that usual twinge of exhaustion and dread.  And then, I thought of the boat.

I know it's coming.  The December schedule.  The school concerts.  The holiday gigs.  The weather.  The shopping.  The family-go-round.  All these things are important in their own way, but where December is concerned, it's easy to get overwhelmed. 

Now, I have no illusions that by simply stating "I shalt not be overwhelmed" it will be so.  Let's face it, wishing it so hasn't worked so far, and I'm fairly sure the story will be the same this year as well.    I could sit down and make a list of resolutions to keep myself mindful of what I need to do.  But that sounds like a lot of work and a lot for time, and I already have too much of the first and nowhere near enough of the second.  I could make a detailed list of my obligations and seasonal "chores," but list-making and me don't always get along, and now is not the time to add "relationship repair" to my holiday dance-card.

I think my goal -- and realistically the best I can do -- is to be aware and open to escape whenever and wherever I can.  Even in my busiest days, I need to discover opportunities to step back and step out of the line of holiday fire.  Instead of resolving to escape the holiday hub-bub, I'm going to focus on finding the opportunity to do so.  A walk here, a chapter in a book there, an opportunity to take just a little time for myself.  Unlike my dream, maybe this holiday season I won't be quite so dumb, and I'll recognize the sidewalk for what it is: an escape route from the sinking ship and a path leading toward something new.

Verb! That's What's Happening!

Today I:

Awoke (Myself)
Fed (Cats)
Awoke (TeenTuna)
Drove (Car)
Ate (Breakfast)
Shopped (Groceries)
Washed (Dishes)
Peeled (Carrots)
Roasted (Squash)
Chopped (Onion)
Simmered (Soup)
Frizzled (Leeks)
Extinguished (Flames)
Tasted (Concoction)
Nagged (Others)
Showered (Myself)
Ate (Again)
Slept (A lot)
Awoke (Groggy)
Drove (Again)
Gassed (The Car)
Returned (Home)
Discovered (Pajamas)
Pondered (Mikes)
Rejected (Mikes)
Recounted (Minutiae)
Posted (Blog)
Met (Time Limit)
Sighed (Relief)
Typed (Goodnight)

Pennsylvania 6-5000

I got my shoes shined up

I got my hair slicked down

'Cause baby I wanna hit the town

Call me - Pennsylvania 6-5000.

According to any non-bill paying child, the need to have a cellphone ranks up there in importance with food and water and unlimited sleeping rights on the weekend.  In reality, it probably ranks higher than both food and water, because "water is gross" and food can always be procured one way or another, often by engaging in the great food bartering system found in any school cafeteria.

The desperate wailings for a cellphone began in middle school.   TeenTuna opted for a double-barreled approach, by combining pathetic pleas with humiliating digs.  I would hear something along the line of "when can I have a cell phone?  I really, really, reeeeeeeeeeaaaaalllly  need a cellphone...." and her whining would be topped off with an icy, "So-and-so has a cellphone and they are in ELEMENTARY SCHOOL."

I rejected out of hand her need to have a cell-phone as a seventh grader.  I scoffed at the mere thought of elementary school kids having cellphones.  And even though I was entirely correct on the first count, and shockingly wrong on the second count, I was undeterred.  The child did NOT need a cellphone.  She didn't drive.  She wasn't a latch-key child.  She didn't have meetings to schedule or bosses to answer to.  Most importantly?  She didn't pay the bills.  Ergo, she didn't need a phone.

Mean mom?  Maybe.  But I was comfortable with the label.

I began to reconsider once high school rolled around.  Despite our best planning, it seemed as if her schedule was changing constantly (Can I stay after school to work on a project?  Can I stay after school for an extra rehearsal?  Can I stay after school to build the float?  Can I stay after school because Drama Club changed their meeting?) and it was making after school pickup a nightmare.  There are no such things as payphones anymore (because everybody has a cellphone, dontcha know) and she was constantly having to go to the office or borrow a friend's phone (after school only, as they are banned during the school day).  I knew I was going to have to reverse my decision, and I wasn't thrilled.

I wanted to lay the groundwork early for the reversal.  I didn't want to appear as if I were caving.  I wanted there to be clear rules and regulations -- part and parcel of the mean mom's handbook.  I began chanting my mantra over and over again in her presence: "A cellphone is a tool, not a toy."  Initially it was met with the rolling of eyes and the deep put-upon sigh of the exasperated.  It eventually mellowed to a resigned, "I know, I know," and I figured at that point that was as good as I was going to get.  So last December, we went to get a cellphone.

Being a normal child attracted to the shiny-pretty, she bee-lined to what was the most expensive phone in the store, and I went directly to the mean mom script:  No. No.  No. ARE YOU SERIOUS?  No.  No.  No. Her suggestions were rejected right and left.  When we finally found a phone in our price range that was sturdy enough to withstand teenage use and still had the most important accouterments she thought she needed, I thought we were set.  Surprisingly, she still wasn't happy.  She wanted that OTHER phone, and her body language, tone of voice and martyred sighs made it clear that this phone would always and forever in her eyes be second-rate.  I shrugged and said fine.  And took her out of the store and went home.  I wasn't about to lay out money and commit to yet another monthly expense when she made it plain she would be so wildly unhappy.  So she could do without.  I think she absolutely could not believe I did that.

This photo for illustrative purposes only.

Actually, this phone would be rejected out of hand.

It doesn't have a QWERTY keyboard.

Never underestimate a mean mom.  We mean business.

It took her exactly 24 hours to entirely change her tune. She wanted that phone.  She loved that phone.  That phone would be perfect.  It was exactly what she wanted, and it would be a great tool (that last part was pure suck-up, but at this point, I didn't mind).  Could we go back and get it that night?  Please?  We did, and she was thrilled.  She loved it and hugged it and petted it and called it George.  And all was good.

I have to admit, she has always been quite good about using the phone, and more importantly, NOT using the phone.  It has indeed come in handy more times than I can count, and has helped immensely in dealing with her constantly changing school and social schedule.  She knows that it is never to be touched during dinner, with family or out in public where she is expected to have her attention on someone or something else.  It goes off for movies and concerts, and we've never had a problem with it.  It has indeed been a very valuable tool.

This past October, her phone was stolen.  I was angry not only because someone went into her belonging and took it, but because now it was gone.  I vowed at that point she was simply going to have to do without her phone for a good long while.  She didn't have one before, and now she didn't have one again . She'd simply have to deal with it. 

Just like the olden days.

My red-hot resolve lasted exactly one week.  We needed that tool back.  So I sucked it up, bought another one, kept her same phone number (evidently beloved above all others) and made sure this time I had insurance put on the dumb thing.  Here's to everybody learning their lesson.  And now we have our tool again, and all is well.

The funny thing is, with all the importance she has heaped upon this little rectangular piece of electronics, if I ask her to use the phone to call somebody she practically turns green.  We have to go over what she is supposed to say.  It's as if she were suddenly allergic to dialing the phone and speaking to people.  This cool, confident, poised teenager morphs into AWKWARD-GIRL when she hits "call".  I suppose I have to take the hit for that one.  Although neither of us possess the talk on the phone for hours gene, we are both experts at interpreting another very important tool:  the Caller ID screen.

So nearly a year later, I'll admit it.  The cellphone was a good idea.  She has used it wisely.

Mission accomplished, mean mom.
Good job, TeenTuna.