Today I lost my car.
On Wednesday afternoon I parked my car in a ramp at the airport and headed to Dallas. I neglected to grab one of those little reminder papers, thinking I would surely remember where I had parked. I looked back as I entered the elevator and made a mental picture of the floor number and the parking aisle.
After an uneventful flight home, I was looking forward to being able to go home mid-afternoon and relax a little bit before picking up Lucy. I headed to the Gold Ramp, which required me to take the tram. I didn't take the tram the day I left, but didn't think much of it because I came in on a different airline than the one I flew on the way out. I was pretty sure it was the Gold Ramp, because something in my head was noting that it was a ramp in which I usually don't park, and I usually park in Green.
Once I arrived at the Gold Ramp, I tried the 4th level because I remembered being just above the skyway, which is on the 3rd floor.
Car was not there, and something didn't seem right. I stopped to think, and realized the rows didn't line up right. I remembered parking in a row which drove away from the entrance door, and was offset just to the right. These rows were set up the opposite, so I was definitely in the wrong ramp.
By this time, confidence in my memory was shot and I had no idea which of the other 3 ramps contained my car. I settled in to do a little detective work, using my phone to look at an aerial view and remembering how I drove into the ramp area. That didn't help; not enough detail. My phone was dangerously low on battery and no outlet in sight, so I was hoping it would hold out long enough for me to figure something out. All the while I was semi-frantically searching, I heard the same intercom announcement, over and over again:
Welcome to Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. You have parked in the [insert color] Ramp. Please take a ticket. It will help you remember where you parked your car.
I'm paraphrasing, but I'm pretty sure I got that last line right. The voice was mocking me.
Finally,I found a layout of the parking ramps on the airport website and figured out that along with Gold, the Red Ramp was set up the same. Two down, two to go. Blue and Green.
I got back on the tram to go back to where I started. Since I was convinced I had parked "differently" than I usually do (i.e. not Green), I tried Blue. Multiple levels of Blue. I definitely got my exercise, as I knew I had parked towards the end of the row on the right. So each level, I pulled my suitcase and carried my computer bag down the row. At one point, I finally thought to pull out my car keys and push the alarm button. Eureka, I heard it! But it sounded like it was coming from the adjacent ramp.
The Green Ramp.
Where I always park.
So, over to the Green Ramp. I was positive I had parked one level above the skyway, because I had a picture in my mind of looking down at the skyway from my level. So I tried Level 4 first. Walked all the way down the row. Nope. Pushed the alarm button. Closer! Must be one floor up. Nope!
Thank goodness the ramp is only 7 levels, the 7th being the roof which I knew wasn't right. I couldn't tell where that damn alarm was coming from. At one point, I couldn't get it to turn off, so the alarm was blasting and by that time, I would have fully welcomed a security car swinging by to give me a lift. No such luck. I even asked another guy in the parking ramp where he thought the horn was coming from. He didn't know.
In desperation, I tried Level 3, the same level as the skyway.
There was the Ford Fusion, parked exactly where I didn't think it would be.
I must be losing my mind. Lesson: grab the damn paper. Or at least take a picture of it.
Showing posts with label things that make you go "duh". Show all posts
Showing posts with label things that make you go "duh". Show all posts
Friday, October 24, 2014
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
So I Always Wondered...
...what would happen if someone lost their wallet containing all forms of identification before needing to get on an airplane.
Unfortunately, now I know.
Today I woke up in Memphis, TN at 5:00AM. I got myself ready and about 5 minutes before I was to meet a colleague and go to the airport, I reached into my bag for my wallet. It was not there. It was also not in my coat pocket, on the floor, in the garbage can, shoved in the couch cushions, under the bed...
You get the idea.
Somewhere between the span of 10PM and 5AM, my wallet disappeared somewhere in the hotel. The last time I saw it was to retrieve my frequent flyer card for the desk clerk to print my boarding passes. My wallet was in my coat pocket during that time. Following that, I have no clue what happened. I can only surmise that perhaps it fell out of my pocket and a) ended up somewhere tricky where it has yet to be found, or b) someone took it. Retracing my steps and a check at the front desk yielded nothing.
So off I trucked to the airport to see what my chances were of getting on my flight with no ID and nothing else with my name on it but a business card. A call to my company's travel agent indicated that the decision was really up to TSA, and that a police report might help. The Memphis police were very courteous, but thought otherwise. I couldn't prove it was stolen, so there was no need for a report.
So anxiously, I approached the woman in the security line who would normally take a look at my ID and my boarding pass, and explained my situation. Naturally a supervisor was called. He was incredibly nice and the process was as simple as me writing down my name and address, and him calling some magical person on the phone. That person asked me my age, if I went by any other names, who else lived at my residence, and then my birth date (presumably to double-check my age answer). After that, I endured a thorough pat-down, search of my luggage, and swiping of my hands and bags to test for explosives. After that I had the green light to head home.
The relief was quickly followed by the next task - following up on all of my lost items. I was envisioning someone wreaking havoc with my bank card and credit cards. Husband helped me out by canceling our shared credit card, checking my bank account online, and texting my phone numbers for my other cards so I could make calls on my layover in Atlanta. Luckily, at that point, nothing was compromised.
So I'm out $50 in cash and will be spending some time over the next few days ordering replacement credit cards, insurance cards, membership cards, drivers license...and have learned a few lessons along the way. For one, I didn't need to be traveling with all that stuff. I should've lightened the wallet before I left. Second, I should keep one card and a little cash in a separate bag in case something like this happens. A copy of my driver's license would probably also be helpful. Third, keep better tabs on my damn wallet!!
All in all things could have been a lot worse, and I was so very lucky to be able to get on the plane. I had more trouble getting out of the parking ramp at the airport in Minneapolis, with no money and no ID! (they finally decided, after about 45 minutes, that I was who I said I was, and they could bill me). I am back home and while it's a huge PITA to track all of this stuff down, I'm so grateful for the kind people who helped me along the way.
...what would happen if someone lost their wallet containing all forms of identification before needing to get on an airplane.
Unfortunately, now I know.
Today I woke up in Memphis, TN at 5:00AM. I got myself ready and about 5 minutes before I was to meet a colleague and go to the airport, I reached into my bag for my wallet. It was not there. It was also not in my coat pocket, on the floor, in the garbage can, shoved in the couch cushions, under the bed...
You get the idea.
Somewhere between the span of 10PM and 5AM, my wallet disappeared somewhere in the hotel. The last time I saw it was to retrieve my frequent flyer card for the desk clerk to print my boarding passes. My wallet was in my coat pocket during that time. Following that, I have no clue what happened. I can only surmise that perhaps it fell out of my pocket and a) ended up somewhere tricky where it has yet to be found, or b) someone took it. Retracing my steps and a check at the front desk yielded nothing.
So off I trucked to the airport to see what my chances were of getting on my flight with no ID and nothing else with my name on it but a business card. A call to my company's travel agent indicated that the decision was really up to TSA, and that a police report might help. The Memphis police were very courteous, but thought otherwise. I couldn't prove it was stolen, so there was no need for a report.
So anxiously, I approached the woman in the security line who would normally take a look at my ID and my boarding pass, and explained my situation. Naturally a supervisor was called. He was incredibly nice and the process was as simple as me writing down my name and address, and him calling some magical person on the phone. That person asked me my age, if I went by any other names, who else lived at my residence, and then my birth date (presumably to double-check my age answer). After that, I endured a thorough pat-down, search of my luggage, and swiping of my hands and bags to test for explosives. After that I had the green light to head home.
The relief was quickly followed by the next task - following up on all of my lost items. I was envisioning someone wreaking havoc with my bank card and credit cards. Husband helped me out by canceling our shared credit card, checking my bank account online, and texting my phone numbers for my other cards so I could make calls on my layover in Atlanta. Luckily, at that point, nothing was compromised.
So I'm out $50 in cash and will be spending some time over the next few days ordering replacement credit cards, insurance cards, membership cards, drivers license...and have learned a few lessons along the way. For one, I didn't need to be traveling with all that stuff. I should've lightened the wallet before I left. Second, I should keep one card and a little cash in a separate bag in case something like this happens. A copy of my driver's license would probably also be helpful. Third, keep better tabs on my damn wallet!!
All in all things could have been a lot worse, and I was so very lucky to be able to get on the plane. I had more trouble getting out of the parking ramp at the airport in Minneapolis, with no money and no ID! (they finally decided, after about 45 minutes, that I was who I said I was, and they could bill me). I am back home and while it's a huge PITA to track all of this stuff down, I'm so grateful for the kind people who helped me along the way.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Short Circuit
Lastnight was one of those weird evenings; one of those where you carry something into the house from the garage that should have stayed in the garage; or when suddenly hooking up the hose to the sprinkler system becomes a calculus equation; or when you push the button to close the garage door when your husband is standing right outside and needs to get in. I have no idea what my problem was, but the situation did not improve.
Later that night, before I headed to bed, I went downstairs to talk to Husband. We were having a perfectly decent conversation, but I was apparently having trouble focusing. I was looking around and randomly blurted out,
“Hey look, there’s a lot of space behind the couch!” Which had absolutely nothing to do with what we were talking about.
Husband stopped talking and just sort of looked at me, and I said,
“I know, I have a little bit of the AA.”
He burst out laughing. I knew the instant the words came out of my mouth that I said the wrong thing, but I could not for the life of me come up with the acronym that represented my complete lack of focus. (And no, I was not drinking).
“What is it? What is it?” I could not get the letters to rise to the top of my gelatinous brain. Husband was not helping, but rather enjoying the dance I was doing around the family room to try and jostle my neurons. Then, suddenly,
“A-D-D! IT’S A-D-D!”
Seriously. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself.
Lastnight was one of those weird evenings; one of those where you carry something into the house from the garage that should have stayed in the garage; or when suddenly hooking up the hose to the sprinkler system becomes a calculus equation; or when you push the button to close the garage door when your husband is standing right outside and needs to get in. I have no idea what my problem was, but the situation did not improve.
Later that night, before I headed to bed, I went downstairs to talk to Husband. We were having a perfectly decent conversation, but I was apparently having trouble focusing. I was looking around and randomly blurted out,
“Hey look, there’s a lot of space behind the couch!” Which had absolutely nothing to do with what we were talking about.
Husband stopped talking and just sort of looked at me, and I said,
“I know, I have a little bit of the AA.”
He burst out laughing. I knew the instant the words came out of my mouth that I said the wrong thing, but I could not for the life of me come up with the acronym that represented my complete lack of focus. (And no, I was not drinking).
“What is it? What is it?” I could not get the letters to rise to the top of my gelatinous brain. Husband was not helping, but rather enjoying the dance I was doing around the family room to try and jostle my neurons. Then, suddenly,
“A-D-D! IT’S A-D-D!”
Seriously. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Presumptive Assumptions
Lastnight as I was driving home, I reached into my bag for my wallet. It was not in the place it should be. Some idle perusing revealed nothing. I worried that I had left it on my desk at work. In fact I convinced myself I was sure I had left it on my desk. Then I worried the cleaning guy or someone else might be tempted to swipe it. Given the impending house purchase, this would be a very bad time to lost my wallet.
I called my office mate and asked if he could look to see if it was there. As he was looking, I dug deeper into my bag, and voila! It was right there. I kicked myself for making the assumption and calling my co-worker before I took the time to really look.
Later that evening Husband and I went out for dinner. I paid our bill and stuck my wallet back in my coat pocket. Or did I? We got home and as we walked in the door, I reached into my pocket and it wasn't there. I got into the driver's side of Husband's vehicle and looked over in the passenger seat. Nothing there. I figured of course I left my wallet at the restaurant. I had forgotten the remaining pork chop that the waitress had packaged up for me, so it made sense that I would be so stupid as to leave my wallet there also. So I drove back to the restaurant (luckily within 5 minutes of our place) and guess what? They didn't have it. Hadn't seen it. A sickening feeling came over me...did someone take it? As I walked back to the car, mind racing, I need to call the bank, I need to call my credit card company, how is this going to affect my credit report? I thought I'd better take one last look in the Envoy. I opened the passenger door this time, and reached my hand down between the seat and the console, and once again, voila.
I am lucky, but I can't help but think the universe is trying to tell me something. Like "hang onto your money, girl," or maybe even "quit worrying so much about money, things will work out." But the message that came through loud and clear is that I NEED TO SLOW DOWN. Take a moment to think about what I'm doing. Have a little faith in myself.
Don't automatically assume the worst.
Lastnight as I was driving home, I reached into my bag for my wallet. It was not in the place it should be. Some idle perusing revealed nothing. I worried that I had left it on my desk at work. In fact I convinced myself I was sure I had left it on my desk. Then I worried the cleaning guy or someone else might be tempted to swipe it. Given the impending house purchase, this would be a very bad time to lost my wallet.
I called my office mate and asked if he could look to see if it was there. As he was looking, I dug deeper into my bag, and voila! It was right there. I kicked myself for making the assumption and calling my co-worker before I took the time to really look.
Later that evening Husband and I went out for dinner. I paid our bill and stuck my wallet back in my coat pocket. Or did I? We got home and as we walked in the door, I reached into my pocket and it wasn't there. I got into the driver's side of Husband's vehicle and looked over in the passenger seat. Nothing there. I figured of course I left my wallet at the restaurant. I had forgotten the remaining pork chop that the waitress had packaged up for me, so it made sense that I would be so stupid as to leave my wallet there also. So I drove back to the restaurant (luckily within 5 minutes of our place) and guess what? They didn't have it. Hadn't seen it. A sickening feeling came over me...did someone take it? As I walked back to the car, mind racing, I need to call the bank, I need to call my credit card company, how is this going to affect my credit report? I thought I'd better take one last look in the Envoy. I opened the passenger door this time, and reached my hand down between the seat and the console, and once again, voila.
I am lucky, but I can't help but think the universe is trying to tell me something. Like "hang onto your money, girl," or maybe even "quit worrying so much about money, things will work out." But the message that came through loud and clear is that I NEED TO SLOW DOWN. Take a moment to think about what I'm doing. Have a little faith in myself.
Don't automatically assume the worst.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
With Candy Canes and Silver Lanes Aglow
While doing some holiday baking this evening, I learned a few things:
- 1 1/2 cups of crushed candy canes is A LOT of crushed candy canes
- I don't own a rolling pin
- A bottle of barbeque sauce works just as well
- A little red food coloring goes a long way
I was making peppermint fudge - very easy recipe that I found online. Aside from crushing the candy canes, everything was going well and when I finally poured it into the pan, it looked lovely. Wonderful creamy whiteness with chunks of candy cane. I was quite proud of myself.
Then I remembered. The food coloring. I had read of a delightful red "swirl" that one person had done. How hard could that be? I almost stopped - it looked pretty good already. It didn't need a anything else. But ultimately, the though of a perfectly executed swirl was just too exciting to pass up.
Just a drop or two will do, I thought.
My first mistake was pouring it directly from the bottle. The second was not stopping after the first pour.
I knew it was bad. I tried to "swirl" and it got worse - like something out of a low budget horror film. Yes, it looked like my fudge was bleeding. I tried to dab it with a paper towel (which doesn't work by the way), and got it all over my fingers. Then it looked like I was bleeding, and all for nothing. The fudge still looked like an open wound.
So, I plopped it back in the pan and just stirred it all up. So now I have peppermint fudge befitting Strawberry Shortcake. Or the Easter Bunny.
And it tastes darn good.
While doing some holiday baking this evening, I learned a few things:
- 1 1/2 cups of crushed candy canes is A LOT of crushed candy canes
- I don't own a rolling pin
- A bottle of barbeque sauce works just as well
- A little red food coloring goes a long way
I was making peppermint fudge - very easy recipe that I found online. Aside from crushing the candy canes, everything was going well and when I finally poured it into the pan, it looked lovely. Wonderful creamy whiteness with chunks of candy cane. I was quite proud of myself.
Then I remembered. The food coloring. I had read of a delightful red "swirl" that one person had done. How hard could that be? I almost stopped - it looked pretty good already. It didn't need a anything else. But ultimately, the though of a perfectly executed swirl was just too exciting to pass up.
Just a drop or two will do, I thought.
My first mistake was pouring it directly from the bottle. The second was not stopping after the first pour.
I knew it was bad. I tried to "swirl" and it got worse - like something out of a low budget horror film. Yes, it looked like my fudge was bleeding. I tried to dab it with a paper towel (which doesn't work by the way), and got it all over my fingers. Then it looked like I was bleeding, and all for nothing. The fudge still looked like an open wound.
So, I plopped it back in the pan and just stirred it all up. So now I have peppermint fudge befitting Strawberry Shortcake. Or the Easter Bunny.
And it tastes darn good.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Say What?!
I woke up this morning with the song "Let's Get Physical" by Olivia Newton-John in my head. I have not heard this song recently, so it must have been triggered by something in a dream. And no, it was not that kind of dream. I think I would remember that.
Anyway, it got me thinking about how when you're young, the meaning of certain songs completely escapes you. You like a song because of the beat, the melody, whatever. You may have been singing every word as an 8-year-old, but had no idea what you were saying. Now listening as an adult, you're thinking "Whoa! Did my parents know I was listening to this?!"
Take "Let's Get Physical." It's about working out, right? I remember the video, with Olivia and all those sweaty fat guys in the gym, and the surprise! shocking! ending. But I'm pretty sure the song is not just about an afternoon on the treadmill.
Some other examples:
Pour Some Sugar on Me - Def Leppard
As a kid I wondered why on earth anyone would want sugar poured on them. Gross!
As an adult I realize the power of the metaphor.
Little Red Corvette - Prince
A guy singing about his car, sweet.
Car = girl; the oldest analogy around.
Rock You Like a Hurricane - Scorpions
Yeah! This song rocks! Like a hurricane! Powerful rock!
Google those lyrics and you will be amazed. My mouth dropped. Shame on German hair bands!
Is this proof that our top-40 songs are inundated with sexual innuendo?
Or is it proof that people rarely pay attention to lyrics, and if you've got a good beat and a kick-ass chorus, you've got it made?
You be the judge.
I woke up this morning with the song "Let's Get Physical" by Olivia Newton-John in my head. I have not heard this song recently, so it must have been triggered by something in a dream. And no, it was not that kind of dream. I think I would remember that.
Anyway, it got me thinking about how when you're young, the meaning of certain songs completely escapes you. You like a song because of the beat, the melody, whatever. You may have been singing every word as an 8-year-old, but had no idea what you were saying. Now listening as an adult, you're thinking "Whoa! Did my parents know I was listening to this?!"
Take "Let's Get Physical." It's about working out, right? I remember the video, with Olivia and all those sweaty fat guys in the gym, and the surprise! shocking! ending. But I'm pretty sure the song is not just about an afternoon on the treadmill.
Some other examples:
Pour Some Sugar on Me - Def Leppard
As a kid I wondered why on earth anyone would want sugar poured on them. Gross!
As an adult I realize the power of the metaphor.
Little Red Corvette - Prince
A guy singing about his car, sweet.
Car = girl; the oldest analogy around.
Rock You Like a Hurricane - Scorpions
Yeah! This song rocks! Like a hurricane! Powerful rock!
Google those lyrics and you will be amazed. My mouth dropped. Shame on German hair bands!
Is this proof that our top-40 songs are inundated with sexual innuendo?
Or is it proof that people rarely pay attention to lyrics, and if you've got a good beat and a kick-ass chorus, you've got it made?
You be the judge.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
I Are Smart
So...there is a friendly guy in my office who is always poking his head in, saying hi, seeing if people want to go to lunch, etc. A couple of months ago, he popped in and said,
"You garden?"
Assuming he was referring to the flowers on my desk, picked from Husband's parent's house the day before, I said,
"No - mother-in-law. Wish I could though!"
He nods, moves on to the next office. I didn't think a thing of it.
Today, same guys pokes his head in.
"You garden?"
For a second, I am confused. There are no flowers on my desk. Then it dawns on me.
U Garden is a Chinese restaurant near the University of Minnesota. He was asking if I wanted to go to lunch, not making small talk about my day lilies.
Uh-huh. Yeah.
So...there is a friendly guy in my office who is always poking his head in, saying hi, seeing if people want to go to lunch, etc. A couple of months ago, he popped in and said,
"You garden?"
Assuming he was referring to the flowers on my desk, picked from Husband's parent's house the day before, I said,
"No - mother-in-law. Wish I could though!"
He nods, moves on to the next office. I didn't think a thing of it.
Today, same guys pokes his head in.
"You garden?"
For a second, I am confused. There are no flowers on my desk. Then it dawns on me.
U Garden is a Chinese restaurant near the University of Minnesota. He was asking if I wanted to go to lunch, not making small talk about my day lilies.
Uh-huh. Yeah.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Grow Your Own
I have to first say that I've been saving this story until I had the visual...and since it's nearly Mother's Day (you'll get this connection in a moment), and we're actually in Iowa, all the more perfect! Happy day to you, Mom!
So one night Husband comes upstairs, laughing, and saying, "You've GOTTA call your mom..."
Brandon called Husband and said, "Dad, I gotta tell you a funny story." Apparently he was at school one day and got called into the counselor's office and was asked,
"Why are you wearing a shirt with drugs on it?"
"What? It's corn." Counselor looked closer, stifled a laugh, and sent him back to class.
Now, tell me, when you see this shirt, do you think corn?
Hmmm...from a distance it may look like something else, eh?
The ultimate kicker is this: my mom bought Brandon this shirt.
Bless her heart, she thought it a fitting tribute to the great state of Iowa. When we first saw it, we busted out laughing. The slogan and the suspicious "corn" seemed all too obvious. She admonished us for being tainted, ill-minded 30-somethings. This was months ago. I've seen Brandon wear it around our house, but didn't know it traveled outside these walls.
Am I thrilled he wore it to school? Nah, but no harm done. It is corn, after all, but I have a feeling that excuse may only work this one time. But overall, telling my dad the story on the phone and hearing my mom shriek in the background, "Oh no, that SHIRT?! He wore it to SCHOOL?!"
Priceless.
I have to first say that I've been saving this story until I had the visual...and since it's nearly Mother's Day (you'll get this connection in a moment), and we're actually in Iowa, all the more perfect! Happy day to you, Mom!
So one night Husband comes upstairs, laughing, and saying, "You've GOTTA call your mom..."
Brandon called Husband and said, "Dad, I gotta tell you a funny story." Apparently he was at school one day and got called into the counselor's office and was asked,
"Why are you wearing a shirt with drugs on it?"
"What? It's corn." Counselor looked closer, stifled a laugh, and sent him back to class.
Now, tell me, when you see this shirt, do you think corn?
Hmmm...from a distance it may look like something else, eh?The ultimate kicker is this: my mom bought Brandon this shirt.
Bless her heart, she thought it a fitting tribute to the great state of Iowa. When we first saw it, we busted out laughing. The slogan and the suspicious "corn" seemed all too obvious. She admonished us for being tainted, ill-minded 30-somethings. This was months ago. I've seen Brandon wear it around our house, but didn't know it traveled outside these walls.
Am I thrilled he wore it to school? Nah, but no harm done. It is corn, after all, but I have a feeling that excuse may only work this one time. But overall, telling my dad the story on the phone and hearing my mom shriek in the background, "Oh no, that SHIRT?! He wore it to SCHOOL?!"
Priceless.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
When was the last time you felt stupid?
For me, this afternoon. I put delicious food in the crockpot this morning, something we put together at one of those meal assembly places. I had a crappy day at work and one consolation was that dinner would be done when I got home, and it was going to be good, after simmering all day. I imagined walking in the door to delectable smells...
Husband called at 4:00 and told me the crockpot was not plugged in.
Beef. Out. All. Day. Ruined.
Grrrrr...I am a spaz.
For me, this afternoon. I put delicious food in the crockpot this morning, something we put together at one of those meal assembly places. I had a crappy day at work and one consolation was that dinner would be done when I got home, and it was going to be good, after simmering all day. I imagined walking in the door to delectable smells...
Husband called at 4:00 and told me the crockpot was not plugged in.
Beef. Out. All. Day. Ruined.
Grrrrr...I am a spaz.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Kids These Days
Yesterday Brandon came into the livingroom while I was watching the Hawkeye game. He watched for a bit and then asked "Is it a penalty when you call a fair catch and then don't go after the ball?"
My first inclination was to look for my husband, the walking encyclopedia of sports trivia. With him nowhere in sight, I considered the question and applied my minimal football knowledge and some common sense. "I would think so," I said, proud of myself. Here's me, bonding with my 13-year-old stepson.
"I thought so," he said. "That's why I keep getting penalties when I play. I call it but then I don't try for the ball."
Just when I'm about to put on my compassionate yet authoritative parent voice and talk to him about why he doesn't try for the ball, something clicks. He's not talking about actually playing a game of football, as in outside with other kids...he's talking about playing a video game.
How times have changed. Yet another realization in the life of a new stepmom.
Yesterday Brandon came into the livingroom while I was watching the Hawkeye game. He watched for a bit and then asked "Is it a penalty when you call a fair catch and then don't go after the ball?"
My first inclination was to look for my husband, the walking encyclopedia of sports trivia. With him nowhere in sight, I considered the question and applied my minimal football knowledge and some common sense. "I would think so," I said, proud of myself. Here's me, bonding with my 13-year-old stepson.
"I thought so," he said. "That's why I keep getting penalties when I play. I call it but then I don't try for the ball."
Just when I'm about to put on my compassionate yet authoritative parent voice and talk to him about why he doesn't try for the ball, something clicks. He's not talking about actually playing a game of football, as in outside with other kids...he's talking about playing a video game.
How times have changed. Yet another realization in the life of a new stepmom.
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