On our second week in New York The Teenager, The American and I get tickets for the Yankees Red Sox game for a sum that could clear third world debt. We take a packed subway out to The Bronx and buy baseball caps and $8 hot dogs and get lost in the sea of navy and white. The American shakes his head at how touristy we are. I tell him he's Californian, so technically originates from just as far away.
Once inside we discover there's more entertainment in the stands than on the pitch. Goaded by the crowd, the NY cops throw a succession of Boston fans out for no other reason than supporting the wrong side. Aside from the woman who punches a female cop, she kinda had it coming.
The Teenager is revelling in this gladatorial pit and joins in with the crowds yelling ''Assssssshhhhhhhooooooooole.'' at a lone Red Sox fan. I join in with an ''Arsehole!'' but it's impossible to do in a British accent. You have to yell assssssssss-hole in a Janice from Friends voice.
''Can we get popcorn to chuck it at him Mum? The teenager's eyes are bright with excitement.
''No.''
''Pleeeeeeeeease?''
''No!''
I tell her I think he's good for food as a cup of Labatts and a handful of peanuts land on his head.
The Yankees lose that night.
Later that week I manage to convince The Teenager to take a trip out to Long Island, despite the limited shopping opportunities. She wants The Hamptons but I convince her it's less S.A.T.C and more W.A.S.P
Instead we head to a place called Fire Island that involves two trains, a taxi and a ferry. When we arrive and hit the near deserted white sands and clear sea it's more than worth the the trek. We lay out in the 80 degree heat and marvel at how a place just 50 miles away from Manhattan can seem like a million.
The Teenager gets me to take pictures of her in something that possibly started life as a bikini. I make her promise she won't put them on her BeBo.
''No one does BEBO anymore mother''
''Oh right.''
''It's Facebook now.''
''I thought Facebook was for old people?''
''Old-der. I'm 14 now.'' she sighs theatrically while holding the camera aloft and pouting into the lens.
On our last day in New York we head to Manhattan and emerge from the Union Square Subway to something that looks like a Monsoon. New Yorkers, never phased by extreme weather are donning wellies, brollies and waterproofs. The Teenager and I are wearing sundresses and flip flops. The American plays the hero and runs to the nearest Duane Reed to buy us umbrellas.
''He needn't have bothered,'' I tell The Teenager ''any minute now there'll be a crazy guy selling them'' She raises a suspicious eyebrow but watches out nevertheless. 30 seconds later a hunched figure with a coat fashioned from bin bags comes around the corner.
''UM-ber-rellas. Fiiiiiive dollar!'
On the way home the next day at JFK a minor miracle occurs. Despite it being 6 a.m. and my face scrubbed of make-up we get a free upgrade to Premium Economy. A show of rare excitement from The Teenager is short lived until she sees the cabin and realises there are no lie down beds or beauty therapists. Her mood returns to Mariah Carey when she discovers her water's not room temperature.
''So what was your favourite part of the trip?'' I ask her as we eat food from real china with real cutlery at 35,000 feet.
She sighs wearily ''You asked me this already.''
''I'm asking again.''
She rolls her eyes.''THE SHOP-PING.'' she enunciates as if I am a monkey with brain damage. I was hoping the answer might have changed. She sips the white wine she has acquired without me noticing.
''So is like, the food, like... any different in Premium economy?''
''No, but you get real cutlery and china!''
''But we get like...the same food?''
''Yes.''
''Oh.''
Wednesday, 17 September 2008
Monday, 8 September 2008
The Teenager takes a bite out of the Big Apple-part 1
The Teenager and I have returned from New York City after two weeks with The American. Despite having turned apathy into an art, even she could not fail to be impressed by the city that never sleeps. She could, however, try and sleep as much as possible in it. I would bound into her room at 11 a.m. to try and rouse her.
Sometimes it worked well: ''Hey let's go to Chinatown and buy fake Chanel!''
Sometimes,not so much: ''Hey let's go and see the Jeff Koon exhibition at the Met!''
I manage to get her to the MoMa but she is still asking ''Do I have to?'' as I'm paying for the tickets to which I reply that yes, at least one art museum is probably a good idea as she wants to go to art college. The Teenager is spectacularly unimpressed with the stream of Picassos and Pollacks and so we enjoy some mother daughter bonding flicking the finger at such great works as a blank canvas and a piece of pink plastic leaning against a wall.
The Teenager resumes her default NY setting of thinking she's Paris Hilton. When we first visited in 2006 all she wanted to do was shop, get manicures and take yellow cabs everywhere. This year replace the taxis with a subway card (mysteriously she was always feeling ill when actually on one) and add in trying to get served cocktails at dinner. Is it actually irresponsible to let your 14 year old sip a Flirtini at dinner? Probably not if the waitress is stupid enough to think she's 21.
New York is a dangerous place for a teenager who looks like an adult. There is not only her burgeoning interest in the opposite sex to but also their interest in her. And we're not talking boys here, we are talking grown men with stubble and jobs and trendy lofts downtown. Looking at her like they want to take her back to their apartment and show her how to press the buttons on their Bang and Olfusen.
My scowls at the men went largely unnoticed. My scowls that said ''Go away Perv before I attack you with my $1 hot dog!'' I considered a placard with 'She's only 14!' and an arrow pointing in her direction. The American unhelpfully suggested a burkha.
Sometimes it worked well: ''Hey let's go to Chinatown and buy fake Chanel!''
Sometimes,not so much: ''Hey let's go and see the Jeff Koon exhibition at the Met!''
I manage to get her to the MoMa but she is still asking ''Do I have to?'' as I'm paying for the tickets to which I reply that yes, at least one art museum is probably a good idea as she wants to go to art college. The Teenager is spectacularly unimpressed with the stream of Picassos and Pollacks and so we enjoy some mother daughter bonding flicking the finger at such great works as a blank canvas and a piece of pink plastic leaning against a wall.
The Teenager resumes her default NY setting of thinking she's Paris Hilton. When we first visited in 2006 all she wanted to do was shop, get manicures and take yellow cabs everywhere. This year replace the taxis with a subway card (mysteriously she was always feeling ill when actually on one) and add in trying to get served cocktails at dinner. Is it actually irresponsible to let your 14 year old sip a Flirtini at dinner? Probably not if the waitress is stupid enough to think she's 21.
New York is a dangerous place for a teenager who looks like an adult. There is not only her burgeoning interest in the opposite sex to but also their interest in her. And we're not talking boys here, we are talking grown men with stubble and jobs and trendy lofts downtown. Looking at her like they want to take her back to their apartment and show her how to press the buttons on their Bang and Olfusen.
My scowls at the men went largely unnoticed. My scowls that said ''Go away Perv before I attack you with my $1 hot dog!'' I considered a placard with 'She's only 14!' and an arrow pointing in her direction. The American unhelpfully suggested a burkha.
On one our many pitstops at an the inescapable Starbucks for iced drinks to fight the 80 degree heat the Teenager considers our age difference
''So you know that I, like, look older and stuff?''
''Yes.''
''And you look like, a bit younger and stuff?''
''Oww do I? Thank you!
''Yeah, I wasn't like paying you a compliment.''
''Oh.''
''Yeah, so I was just thinking that either people will think we're sisters or they will think we're mates. They wouldn't think we're mother and daughter, cos then you look like you had me at 13 or something.''
''You don't really think that people will think we're mates?'' I was suddenly worried about how weird I'd look having friend so much younger than me.
''Probably...'' she shrugged sipping on an overpriced strawberry and vanilla frappacino ''and they probably think you're a freak.''
At least in New York being 'a freak' simply makes me fit in.
The Teenager and I beat a retreat back to The Americans super untrendy nothing-like-a-loft apartment in Queens and watch the Tyra Show and eat Oreos till he come home from a typical NY 14 hour working day.
''So what's been your favourite part of New York so far?'' I ask The Teenager
''Shopping.'' she replies without a pause.
''What about the the art and culture? Central Park? The architecture? The amazing vibe? The Food? The people''
''Nope'' she sighs, accompanied by a classic teen eyeball rolling ''It's definitely the shopping.''
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
Balls of steel
The teenager has balls of steel.
They were evident from an early age, in complete contrast to me. When I was a child my mother was a formidable figure. I crossed her at my peril and suffered early bedtimes as a result. But sending a child of the modern era to their bedroom is no punishment at all, not when they have a laptop, a wii, a mobile, a flat screen TV and Sky+. If I were a Daily Mail reader I'd liken it to incarceration in a young offender's institute or holiday camp as they like to call it.
The teenager fears nothing and no one. This could be translated as a lack of respect or simply 'spirited'. I sit somewhere in the middle and just say 'Balls of Steel'. I vaguely remember that fearlessness and invincibility. I enjoyed it for just a few years before getting knocked up at 18. The teenager is fond of asking teachers, 'Is that a rhetorical question?' when challenged about pretty much anything. At Chav Towers more than two syllables counts as extra credit.
When I was 7 I can remember creeping silently onto the hall landing and hearing grown up sounds of a gathering downstairs. They enthralled me those adult sounds, what could be happening in the mysterious world my parent's inhabited after my bedtime? I was under strict instructions not to cross the stairs. The teenager at the same age would hop out of bed, casually stroll right down into the living room and ask if there was any chance of some toast. Good thing there there was nothing 'adult' going on in my living room. The most risque thing would have been me having a sneaky fag while watching Coronation Street.
Witness the balls of steel in evidence just the other day when I come home to find The Teenager's best friend cleaning our bathroom.
''Uh, hi, why you are cleaning our bathroom?''
The teenager appears from her bedroom to quickly explain her nifty bit of delegation.
''Hi Mum, yeah, it's cool. She wanted to help me.''
''She wanted to help you clean? I asked you to do it. It was the only job I gave you.''
''Not strictly true Mum, I had washing up to do as well.''
''But that was from yesterday. It's the holidays. You've had all day.''
''Not really. I didn't get up till 2. It's only 6.''
I remove a scouring pad and some Flash bathroom cleaner from her best mate's hands and apologise and tell her we're not in the habit of getting our guests to scrub the limescale. The teenager has already moved on and is laughing to a boy on her mobile while making a bad job of cleaning two day old risotto off the frying pan.
Which leads me to only thing that The Teenager does fear, removal of her phone. I have attempted this several times as punishment for various misdemeanours but she guards it like a Colombian drug lord guards his AK47. She sleeps with the phone under her pillow and even takes it into the bath with her.
The balls of steel were in evidence again just a day later when I discover pictures on my computer of The Teenager and friend and two boys who look like they'd rob your grandmother for her Murray Mints.
The pictures were taken in my house, the time shows it was past midnight, about 6 months ago. I am confused until I remember I was away for the Valentine's weekend with the American and had entrusted The Teenager to my mother.
I ask her about the pictures. Her face says busted but I can see her brain going 90MPH behind the eyes. She's thinking-how much does my mother know? The game of strategy begins.
''So when were these taken?''
''It was a Saturday night, early.''
''Funny because this one was taken at 12.30 a.m.''
Battleships. Teenage Ship down!
''So where did you tell Grandma you were that night?''
''At my mate's house.''
''And where did you actually stay?''
''Here.''
''And these boys?''
''I swear to go they didn't stay here and we didn't do anything wrong, like drinking or anything. They only stayed an hour.''
''Funny 'cos there's one photo here taken at 10.45p.m and another at 12.30 a.m.''
Ship two down!
She pauses for thought ''I swear to go they didn't stay here and we didn't do anything wrong like drinking or anything.''
I do that disappointed face that always gets her. Bored of sinking all her ships I send her to her holiday camp to reflect.
A hour later she is washing up badly without being asked and I am cooking a dinner of gruel and dripping and deciding on what punishment might have any effect at all.
Cheerily she says ''I guess now is not the best time is not the best time to ask you if I can go to Bristol next week for a day trip?''
When I have picked myself up off the floor laughing I tell her that no, now is not the best time to ask. You have to admire those balls of steel. Or brass neck cheek as my Dad would call it.
Either way, she's got metal, you gotta give her that.
They were evident from an early age, in complete contrast to me. When I was a child my mother was a formidable figure. I crossed her at my peril and suffered early bedtimes as a result. But sending a child of the modern era to their bedroom is no punishment at all, not when they have a laptop, a wii, a mobile, a flat screen TV and Sky+. If I were a Daily Mail reader I'd liken it to incarceration in a young offender's institute or holiday camp as they like to call it.
The teenager fears nothing and no one. This could be translated as a lack of respect or simply 'spirited'. I sit somewhere in the middle and just say 'Balls of Steel'. I vaguely remember that fearlessness and invincibility. I enjoyed it for just a few years before getting knocked up at 18. The teenager is fond of asking teachers, 'Is that a rhetorical question?' when challenged about pretty much anything. At Chav Towers more than two syllables counts as extra credit.
When I was 7 I can remember creeping silently onto the hall landing and hearing grown up sounds of a gathering downstairs. They enthralled me those adult sounds, what could be happening in the mysterious world my parent's inhabited after my bedtime? I was under strict instructions not to cross the stairs. The teenager at the same age would hop out of bed, casually stroll right down into the living room and ask if there was any chance of some toast. Good thing there there was nothing 'adult' going on in my living room. The most risque thing would have been me having a sneaky fag while watching Coronation Street.
Witness the balls of steel in evidence just the other day when I come home to find The Teenager's best friend cleaning our bathroom.
''Uh, hi, why you are cleaning our bathroom?''
The teenager appears from her bedroom to quickly explain her nifty bit of delegation.
''Hi Mum, yeah, it's cool. She wanted to help me.''
''She wanted to help you clean? I asked you to do it. It was the only job I gave you.''
''Not strictly true Mum, I had washing up to do as well.''
''But that was from yesterday. It's the holidays. You've had all day.''
''Not really. I didn't get up till 2. It's only 6.''
I remove a scouring pad and some Flash bathroom cleaner from her best mate's hands and apologise and tell her we're not in the habit of getting our guests to scrub the limescale. The teenager has already moved on and is laughing to a boy on her mobile while making a bad job of cleaning two day old risotto off the frying pan.
Which leads me to only thing that The Teenager does fear, removal of her phone. I have attempted this several times as punishment for various misdemeanours but she guards it like a Colombian drug lord guards his AK47. She sleeps with the phone under her pillow and even takes it into the bath with her.
The balls of steel were in evidence again just a day later when I discover pictures on my computer of The Teenager and friend and two boys who look like they'd rob your grandmother for her Murray Mints.
The pictures were taken in my house, the time shows it was past midnight, about 6 months ago. I am confused until I remember I was away for the Valentine's weekend with the American and had entrusted The Teenager to my mother.
I ask her about the pictures. Her face says busted but I can see her brain going 90MPH behind the eyes. She's thinking-how much does my mother know? The game of strategy begins.
''So when were these taken?''
''It was a Saturday night, early.''
''Funny because this one was taken at 12.30 a.m.''
Battleships. Teenage Ship down!
''So where did you tell Grandma you were that night?''
''At my mate's house.''
''And where did you actually stay?''
''Here.''
''And these boys?''
''I swear to go they didn't stay here and we didn't do anything wrong, like drinking or anything. They only stayed an hour.''
''Funny 'cos there's one photo here taken at 10.45p.m and another at 12.30 a.m.''
Ship two down!
She pauses for thought ''I swear to go they didn't stay here and we didn't do anything wrong like drinking or anything.''
I do that disappointed face that always gets her. Bored of sinking all her ships I send her to her holiday camp to reflect.
A hour later she is washing up badly without being asked and I am cooking a dinner of gruel and dripping and deciding on what punishment might have any effect at all.
Cheerily she says ''I guess now is not the best time is not the best time to ask you if I can go to Bristol next week for a day trip?''
When I have picked myself up off the floor laughing I tell her that no, now is not the best time to ask. You have to admire those balls of steel. Or brass neck cheek as my Dad would call it.
Either way, she's got metal, you gotta give her that.
Sunday, 25 May 2008
SATs all folks
Chav Towers seem to be the only school left in Wales still holding SATs exams.
A couple of weeks before she is due to sit them The Teenager arrives home and adopts that casual tone that means she has done wrong and is trying to play it down.
''So, some kids yeah? Like...got hold of some SATs papers right? And they, ummm, kinda were giving them out and stuff. So yeah, I got one.''
And she tosses a Maths exam paper on the the table and shrugs to emphasise how this is not a big deal.
''So what should I, like...do?''
Just the fact that she is asking my advice rouses my suspicions further.
''Who was giving them out?''
''Just some kids.''
''What kids?''
''I dunno, some kids.''
''And where did they get them from?''
''Some other kids.''
''And where did the other kids get them from?''
''For god's sake! I don't know!
And then she pauses
''What's for tea then? I'm starving.''
Later on I attempt to get more information out of The Teenager but she is solid as a Guantanamo suspect.
''Okay, so we are going into school tomorrow morning to give the paper back''
''Seriously?''
''Yes, seriously. You need a pre-emptive strike.''
''A what?''
'' You need to get in and apologise, admit you were wrong to accept one of these papers.''
''No way. I'm not a freak, mother.''
''Tomorrow. First thing.''
''For god's sake.''
''That's what's happening.''
''Fine!''
Then a thoughtful pause.
''Well can we at least photocopy it first?''
8.15 a.m. the next morning and I press for a last ditch confession when we are around the corner from the school.
''Just tell me now if you had anymore to do with this. Because If I go into that school and defend you and you're not innocent here, I will be really mad.''
A guilty pause. Followed by guilty eyes meandering everywhere but to meet my gaze.
''I knew it! What did you do?''
''NothingmuchreallyIjuststoodoutsidewhiletheboystookthepapers.''
''You just stood outside? So you were the bloody lookout? Oh great. This is bloody brilliant! And now you tell me?''
I pull into Chav Towers carpark grimfaced while my very own Tony Soprano looking petrified. But her fear is not born out of what punishment she faces, but more of being spotted at school with her mother. When you go to a school for wannabee gangsters it is better to pretend you are the orphan of a crack 'ho from Compton.
Once inside and having 'fessed up, we learn that someone has already grassed. The teenager has been marked as a key member of the crime ring. Shame she was not villainously minded enough to spot the CCTV cameras apparently recording her every move.
Over the next few days we await news of punishment. The Teenager's year tutor calls my mobile on her speed dial. She says the CCTV footage confirms my daughter's part in the crime. I lament the old days when teachers had to bully confessions out of kids, rather than get them off a tape.
We are now in a different league to the spitting in the stairwell incident, or the can of coke thrown in the canteen that started the food fight. This is even worse than the alleged happy slapping-to which the teenager maintains she was not the only one filming, but was simply picked on because her videophone had more mega pixels.
The Teenager will spend a day in 'base'. Although it sounds like a nightclub, I am informed it is actually a 'solitary confinement educational unit' where the punished are made to sit alone in booths with high walls and no talking is allowed. It sounds far scarier and progressive than exclusion, where she would simply stay at home and celebrate a day off lessons with a lie-in and Jeremy Kyle.
The Teenager calls me up crying and wailing about 'base'. I am thrilled to learn there is something she is actually fearful and consider building my own 'base' in the front room. I mutter something about don't do the crime if you can't do the time.
I call the American and suggests I should tell her that if she wants to be a criminal, she should be a better one and watch out for obvious traps like CCTV.
10 days later The Teenager sits her Maths SAT paper. It is an entirely re-written one from the one she stole. 5 days after that she spends a day in 'base' and declares it 'absolutely hideous'. 7 days after that she gets her results.
Maths-91%
So it seems that despite what my own mother told me, cheaters do sometime prosper, even if they're unsuccessful ones like my daughter.
A couple of weeks before she is due to sit them The Teenager arrives home and adopts that casual tone that means she has done wrong and is trying to play it down.
''So, some kids yeah? Like...got hold of some SATs papers right? And they, ummm, kinda were giving them out and stuff. So yeah, I got one.''
And she tosses a Maths exam paper on the the table and shrugs to emphasise how this is not a big deal.
''So what should I, like...do?''
Just the fact that she is asking my advice rouses my suspicions further.
''Who was giving them out?''
''Just some kids.''
''What kids?''
''I dunno, some kids.''
''And where did they get them from?''
''Some other kids.''
''And where did the other kids get them from?''
''For god's sake! I don't know!
And then she pauses
''What's for tea then? I'm starving.''
Later on I attempt to get more information out of The Teenager but she is solid as a Guantanamo suspect.
''Okay, so we are going into school tomorrow morning to give the paper back''
''Seriously?''
''Yes, seriously. You need a pre-emptive strike.''
''A what?''
'' You need to get in and apologise, admit you were wrong to accept one of these papers.''
''No way. I'm not a freak, mother.''
''Tomorrow. First thing.''
''For god's sake.''
''That's what's happening.''
''Fine!''
Then a thoughtful pause.
''Well can we at least photocopy it first?''
8.15 a.m. the next morning and I press for a last ditch confession when we are around the corner from the school.
''Just tell me now if you had anymore to do with this. Because If I go into that school and defend you and you're not innocent here, I will be really mad.''
A guilty pause. Followed by guilty eyes meandering everywhere but to meet my gaze.
''I knew it! What did you do?''
''NothingmuchreallyIjuststoodoutsidewhiletheboystookthepapers.''
''You just stood outside? So you were the bloody lookout? Oh great. This is bloody brilliant! And now you tell me?''
I pull into Chav Towers carpark grimfaced while my very own Tony Soprano looking petrified. But her fear is not born out of what punishment she faces, but more of being spotted at school with her mother. When you go to a school for wannabee gangsters it is better to pretend you are the orphan of a crack 'ho from Compton.
Once inside and having 'fessed up, we learn that someone has already grassed. The teenager has been marked as a key member of the crime ring. Shame she was not villainously minded enough to spot the CCTV cameras apparently recording her every move.
Over the next few days we await news of punishment. The Teenager's year tutor calls my mobile on her speed dial. She says the CCTV footage confirms my daughter's part in the crime. I lament the old days when teachers had to bully confessions out of kids, rather than get them off a tape.
We are now in a different league to the spitting in the stairwell incident, or the can of coke thrown in the canteen that started the food fight. This is even worse than the alleged happy slapping-to which the teenager maintains she was not the only one filming, but was simply picked on because her videophone had more mega pixels.
The Teenager will spend a day in 'base'. Although it sounds like a nightclub, I am informed it is actually a 'solitary confinement educational unit' where the punished are made to sit alone in booths with high walls and no talking is allowed. It sounds far scarier and progressive than exclusion, where she would simply stay at home and celebrate a day off lessons with a lie-in and Jeremy Kyle.
The Teenager calls me up crying and wailing about 'base'. I am thrilled to learn there is something she is actually fearful and consider building my own 'base' in the front room. I mutter something about don't do the crime if you can't do the time.
I call the American and suggests I should tell her that if she wants to be a criminal, she should be a better one and watch out for obvious traps like CCTV.
10 days later The Teenager sits her Maths SAT paper. It is an entirely re-written one from the one she stole. 5 days after that she spends a day in 'base' and declares it 'absolutely hideous'. 7 days after that she gets her results.
Maths-91%
So it seems that despite what my own mother told me, cheaters do sometime prosper, even if they're unsuccessful ones like my daughter.
Monday, 21 April 2008
The Queen Teen's two birthdays
The Teenager has yet again pulled off her annual trick of having two birthday celebrations.
She has cleverly arranged a party with her friends the weekend after she turns 14. Despite the fact that it is the Easter holidays so she could easily do this on the actual evening of her birthday. This means I have to organise an entire day of stuff on her birthday. And be nice to her. For two days rather than one.
The plans began several weeks ago. I tell her I'll to the restaurant but she tells me she already has. I offer to help with her costume, but she's got that covered too. She's already bidding on a Alice in Wonderland Queen of Hearts outfit on ebay. In my name. Snacks for the sleepover? She's called my mother with a shopping list.
''So how many girls have you invited to the sleepover?''
''Including or not including me?''
''Including you. Obviously. Unless you plan on sleeping elsewhere?''
''Ummm. About 7.''
'' You can't have an 'about'.''
''7 then.''
''Including you? So you've invited 6?''
''Oh. Well it's 8 then.''
''Jesus. Where are they all going to fit? We live in a two bedroomed terraced. 8 is the absolute max!''
''Don't worry Mum!'' She trills with rare optimism ''I'm doing a sleeping plan!''
The costume on ebay is modelled by a woman who looks like her main occupation involves wearing a lot less clothes. The Queens of Hearts was stern and scary and used to shout at all the little card men. I don't remember her looking anything like a ho' on the croquet lawn. I ask The Teenager what everyone else is coming as.
''Sexy Little bo peep, Sexy Little red riding hood, Sexy Miss Muffet, Sexy Alice in Wonderland''
I email the Queen of Hearts costume to The American, to get a male perspective. He replies saying I am sending the following message: ''Hey my 14 year old daughter is going to be a stripper for her birthday! Wanna stop by?"
5 days later and The Teenager's costume arrives on my desk at work. Fearful of my colleagues thinking I've taken up stripping or worse for extra cash -I unwrap it in a toilet cubicle and am relieved to discover it looks far more innocent than it did on the model slash actress.
April the 2nd arrives and it's exactly 14 years since I brought the most beautiful baby ever into the world. I make a fudge cake, it looks rubbish but tastes good. We have a great day, we get on brilliantly, there are no fights. I ponder the possible correlation between me being nice and us getting on.
3 days later and eleven 14 year old's descend on my house dressed in their stripper nursery rhyme costumes. Some have diverted from the theme and there is a sexy bumble bee and a muslim girl with a pair of Playboy ears over her hijab.
I call Amber into the kitchen to ask her who out of these 11 girls is sleeping over.
''All of them?'' she enquires hopefully
''I said a maximum of 8! Where will they all sleep?!''
''I don't know Mum'' and she looks at me with ridiculous puppy dog eyes ''Which ones should I send home?''
I'll give it to her. She's good.
''Well which ones have you not mentioned a sleepover to?''
''Just Little Red Riding Hood''
''So you have told 9 they can sleep? That's 10 including you.''
I peer into the living room and see Little Red Riding Hood munching a piece of birthday cake and drinking cherryade. She is the tiniest of the group and probably doesn't get picked for games.
I tell her that we'll obviously have to let everyone sleep.
''Thanks Mum!'' and she plants a kiss on my cheek.
And with that rarest of rare display of affection she skips off back to her friends.
Being nice is easier than I thought.
I might try it more often.
She has cleverly arranged a party with her friends the weekend after she turns 14. Despite the fact that it is the Easter holidays so she could easily do this on the actual evening of her birthday. This means I have to organise an entire day of stuff on her birthday. And be nice to her. For two days rather than one.
The plans began several weeks ago. I tell her I'll to the restaurant but she tells me she already has. I offer to help with her costume, but she's got that covered too. She's already bidding on a Alice in Wonderland Queen of Hearts outfit on ebay. In my name. Snacks for the sleepover? She's called my mother with a shopping list.
''So how many girls have you invited to the sleepover?''
''Including or not including me?''
''Including you. Obviously. Unless you plan on sleeping elsewhere?''
''Ummm. About 7.''
'' You can't have an 'about'.''
''7 then.''
''Including you? So you've invited 6?''
''Oh. Well it's 8 then.''
''Jesus. Where are they all going to fit? We live in a two bedroomed terraced. 8 is the absolute max!''
''Don't worry Mum!'' She trills with rare optimism ''I'm doing a sleeping plan!''
The costume on ebay is modelled by a woman who looks like her main occupation involves wearing a lot less clothes. The Queens of Hearts was stern and scary and used to shout at all the little card men. I don't remember her looking anything like a ho' on the croquet lawn. I ask The Teenager what everyone else is coming as.
''Sexy Little bo peep, Sexy Little red riding hood, Sexy Miss Muffet, Sexy Alice in Wonderland''
I email the Queen of Hearts costume to The American, to get a male perspective. He replies saying I am sending the following message: ''Hey my 14 year old daughter is going to be a stripper for her birthday! Wanna stop by?"
5 days later and The Teenager's costume arrives on my desk at work. Fearful of my colleagues thinking I've taken up stripping or worse for extra cash -I unwrap it in a toilet cubicle and am relieved to discover it looks far more innocent than it did on the model slash actress.
April the 2nd arrives and it's exactly 14 years since I brought the most beautiful baby ever into the world. I make a fudge cake, it looks rubbish but tastes good. We have a great day, we get on brilliantly, there are no fights. I ponder the possible correlation between me being nice and us getting on.
3 days later and eleven 14 year old's descend on my house dressed in their stripper nursery rhyme costumes. Some have diverted from the theme and there is a sexy bumble bee and a muslim girl with a pair of Playboy ears over her hijab.
I call Amber into the kitchen to ask her who out of these 11 girls is sleeping over.
''All of them?'' she enquires hopefully
''I said a maximum of 8! Where will they all sleep?!''
''I don't know Mum'' and she looks at me with ridiculous puppy dog eyes ''Which ones should I send home?''
I'll give it to her. She's good.
''Well which ones have you not mentioned a sleepover to?''
''Just Little Red Riding Hood''
''So you have told 9 they can sleep? That's 10 including you.''
I peer into the living room and see Little Red Riding Hood munching a piece of birthday cake and drinking cherryade. She is the tiniest of the group and probably doesn't get picked for games.
I tell her that we'll obviously have to let everyone sleep.
''Thanks Mum!'' and she plants a kiss on my cheek.
And with that rarest of rare display of affection she skips off back to her friends.
Being nice is easier than I thought.
I might try it more often.
Tuesday, 18 March 2008
Email is so over
''No one uses email anymore''
This is the futurespeak gospel according to the Teenager. Email is 'over' apparently. Now it's seemingly far too time consuming to actually type someone's email address into a box, construct a few grammatically complete sentences and hit send.
Dare I venture what the alternative is? I retain some credibility with a correct guess that it's social networking sites and IM that have replaced the retromail. Of course, I don't say 'social networking sites' and 'IM'. These would take far too long. I just say 'Bebo and MSN?' and she grunts ''uh....yeeeeah'' in the kind of patronising drawl you would use with with someone who's frontal lobes have been sliced out.
Call me old fashioned but I am still impressed by the way email flies around cyberspace and lands at it's destination in a second...or 60 or them if you're an Orange broadband customer. I like the way people take their turns to speak, it's very British.
I treat Facebook with a similar distaste to smallpox. Why would I willingly allow all the no doubt hideously unflattering pictures of myself that exist out there to be branded with my name? I have lost count of the amount of times grown adults have begged me..yes begged..to join. I won't kid themselves they want me in their gang, I know they just want to up their 'friends' count. I can't afford another frivolous but delightful waste of time in my life. Asides from my beloved retromail, there is already ebay, popbitch and the Top Shop website. But the friends persist and then they get upset that they can't share their album with 250 pictures of their new baby. Then they send hopeful invitations to join. 'Your saddo mate with too much spare time wants you to poke them on their Facebook profile!'
They send these to my email. See how things come full circle.
My 33 year old brain cannot keep with IM. No sooner have you responded to one question, than the conversation has moved on. IM is nothing more than an intense workout for the fingers. Russians could train armed KGB agents in swift response by simply sitting them in front of MSN for an afternoon. The teenager can shut down around 20 chat boxes in the time it takes me to step over her bedroom* threshold. I guess she does not want her mother to question what the intentions are of the young gentleman who appears to have lost his shirt.
On Monday morning something strange arrives through my letterbox. I open the red hand written envelope with trepidation. Inside is what appears to be a letter from a friend thanking me for her birthday present. Wow. What to do with something that involved a pen and a stationary set? Handling it like a ancient relic I move it to the mantelpiece.
The Teenager scowls at it as she walks past.
I sit down to write an email of thanks.
*slum
This is the futurespeak gospel according to the Teenager. Email is 'over' apparently. Now it's seemingly far too time consuming to actually type someone's email address into a box, construct a few grammatically complete sentences and hit send.
Dare I venture what the alternative is? I retain some credibility with a correct guess that it's social networking sites and IM that have replaced the retromail. Of course, I don't say 'social networking sites' and 'IM'. These would take far too long. I just say 'Bebo and MSN?' and she grunts ''uh....yeeeeah'' in the kind of patronising drawl you would use with with someone who's frontal lobes have been sliced out.
Call me old fashioned but I am still impressed by the way email flies around cyberspace and lands at it's destination in a second...or 60 or them if you're an Orange broadband customer. I like the way people take their turns to speak, it's very British.
I treat Facebook with a similar distaste to smallpox. Why would I willingly allow all the no doubt hideously unflattering pictures of myself that exist out there to be branded with my name? I have lost count of the amount of times grown adults have begged me..yes begged..to join. I won't kid themselves they want me in their gang, I know they just want to up their 'friends' count. I can't afford another frivolous but delightful waste of time in my life. Asides from my beloved retromail, there is already ebay, popbitch and the Top Shop website. But the friends persist and then they get upset that they can't share their album with 250 pictures of their new baby. Then they send hopeful invitations to join. 'Your saddo mate with too much spare time wants you to poke them on their Facebook profile!'
They send these to my email. See how things come full circle.
My 33 year old brain cannot keep with IM. No sooner have you responded to one question, than the conversation has moved on. IM is nothing more than an intense workout for the fingers. Russians could train armed KGB agents in swift response by simply sitting them in front of MSN for an afternoon. The teenager can shut down around 20 chat boxes in the time it takes me to step over her bedroom* threshold. I guess she does not want her mother to question what the intentions are of the young gentleman who appears to have lost his shirt.
On Monday morning something strange arrives through my letterbox. I open the red hand written envelope with trepidation. Inside is what appears to be a letter from a friend thanking me for her birthday present. Wow. What to do with something that involved a pen and a stationary set? Handling it like a ancient relic I move it to the mantelpiece.
The Teenager scowls at it as she walks past.
I sit down to write an email of thanks.
*slum
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
A teenage cover-up part two
So what is the problem with teenagers and coats?
Mine is still treating hers with the kind of contempt usually reserved for anyone who still has the audacity to breath over the age of 20.
Every morning the battle lines are drawn at 8.30 a.m. in the hall of our tiny terrace. Me on one side with a not unreasonable request for the coat to be worn ''It is still winter.'' The teenager on the other throwing back "I'll take it but I won't wear it."
'N'er cast a clout till May is out'. My mother's words still ring in my ear from childhood. She sometimes replaced the 'N'er' bit with 'Never'-which made more sense, as my mother has n'er even been to Lancashire. This phrase would shout loudest in my clubbing days. Not for me shivering on a street corner at 4 a.m. waiting for a taxi. I might have had to queue for the cloakroom, but I went home warm.
So what is the problem with teenagers and coats? The Teenager says it's because Chav Towers has a rule that bans coat wearing inside. (Is it just me or is this bollocks? A rule for the sake of it.) So therefore, taking a coat means having to carry it around school all day. Which I guess is a problem as you might want your hands free to draw horns on pictures of teachers or whatever it is that kids do when walking between classes.
But the coat aversion doesn't end in school. It extends to her social life. Every time she goes anywhere she is always saying goodbye while halfway out of the door, so by the time it has registered she is trying to escape coatless and I have taken chase- she is halfway down the street. Wearing short sleeves.
I didn't always observe my own mothers mummerings about the clout. Sometimes I cast a clout in April and feel deliciously rebellious. The phrase may have to be rewritten in the light of global warming. Or just teenagers in general, who seem to want to cast their clouts all over the shop.
Mine is still treating hers with the kind of contempt usually reserved for anyone who still has the audacity to breath over the age of 20.
Every morning the battle lines are drawn at 8.30 a.m. in the hall of our tiny terrace. Me on one side with a not unreasonable request for the coat to be worn ''It is still winter.'' The teenager on the other throwing back "I'll take it but I won't wear it."
'N'er cast a clout till May is out'. My mother's words still ring in my ear from childhood. She sometimes replaced the 'N'er' bit with 'Never'-which made more sense, as my mother has n'er even been to Lancashire. This phrase would shout loudest in my clubbing days. Not for me shivering on a street corner at 4 a.m. waiting for a taxi. I might have had to queue for the cloakroom, but I went home warm.
So what is the problem with teenagers and coats? The Teenager says it's because Chav Towers has a rule that bans coat wearing inside. (Is it just me or is this bollocks? A rule for the sake of it.) So therefore, taking a coat means having to carry it around school all day. Which I guess is a problem as you might want your hands free to draw horns on pictures of teachers or whatever it is that kids do when walking between classes.
But the coat aversion doesn't end in school. It extends to her social life. Every time she goes anywhere she is always saying goodbye while halfway out of the door, so by the time it has registered she is trying to escape coatless and I have taken chase- she is halfway down the street. Wearing short sleeves.
I didn't always observe my own mothers mummerings about the clout. Sometimes I cast a clout in April and feel deliciously rebellious. The phrase may have to be rewritten in the light of global warming. Or just teenagers in general, who seem to want to cast their clouts all over the shop.
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