Macro does micro blogging...

The American informs me micro blogging is the way forward in 2009.

I really can't see the point of writing one line .

Just one line?

What can you say in a line?

There is too much to whinge about when you're the mother of a Meanager and why use 2 words when 10 can vent your spleen so much more effectively?

However, there may be something in more efficient blogging. Blogging less and more. Or more and less. What I mean is more blogs, less words.

The Teenager has just asks me what I'm doing. I tell her I am micro blogging. She raises the most exercised eyebrow in history and then shakes her head in way that expresses sympathy and utter disdain in tandem.

I realise her entire life is a micro blog. Why say 10 words when 2 will do? Words are for old people like me. In their 30's.

Regular readers will be pleased to know that next week normal service is resumed.

More paragraphs. Less micro. More macro.

Lots of words.

Single mother with socks appeal

After years of buggering up my social life and emptying my bank account The Teenager is finally giving something back. Inexplicably she seems to be a good luck charm for plane upgrades. For the second time in a row we get bumped up when we fly to see The American.

Admittedly there are more practical skills to possess that would benefit our everyday life, like champion dish washing or speed hoovering. Also, to profit from this skill I'd have to take her with me on every trip, which would definitely offset any benefits.

This time though, my very own lucky Leprechaun bags me an upgrade to Virgin Upper Class. However, the girl at the check-in desk decides not to inform us she's upgraded me to a £2500 seat and not done the same for my 14 year old.

So we don't find out until we get on to the plane and the steward directs me left.
''Left?'' I say, ''Left?!''
I have dreamed my whole life of turning left on planes! I don't say that last bit aloud. I am suddenly aware of the need to try to play it cool, like upgrades to first from economy are an everyday occurrence. I wonder what colour the free socks will be.

''You must have been upgraded.'' says the steward

''To first?''

''Upper, yes, but I'm afraid your fellow passenger is still in economy.''

''Oh great,'' says The Teenager to me ''so you're going to go in 'Upper' and leave me in economy''
''Umm. Yes?''

''Are you serious Mother?''

Ohgodohgod. Shut up child. I clasp onto my ticket for fear someone will change their mind and throw me into economy. Then the steward asks us to move as we are blocking the entrance to the plane. We shufty to one side.

''Listen'', I whisper to The Teenager ''One of us has to take this ticket. Do you realise how much they cost?"

''Oh right'' she snaps ''And that person should be you?''

''Well I am the frequent flyer here.''

''I can't believe you would go in first class and leave me.''

''You're just annoyed 'cos they didn't upgrade you.''

I turn to speak to the steward.

''Hi. I have my daughter with me. She's only 14. Is there any way she can come with me into Upper class?''

''No.''

''Oh. Could we both go in Premium instead?'' (I am hoping he says no on this one)

''No.''

''Mmmm. Shame.''

''What I will do for you though is let you share it. One of you go into Upper for the first half of the flight and then swap over''

''Really? Fantastic! Thank you!''

I turn to The Teenager.

''Great! Did you hear that?''

''Yep.''

''So shall we go settle you in economy first then?''

''What? You are going first?'' she spits
''Yes.''

''I'm going first and then you're going in first!'' I joke.

''Oh great. Nice.'' stoney faced she stomps off right while I go left.

I enter the purple lit haven of Virgin Upper class to the sound of champagne corks popping and take my window seat/lie down bed. I am immediately offered the 'cocktail of the day' and I accept, despite knowing that the frequent firsters only ever drink mineral water.

I pull on the black socks. Black! I should have guessed! So classy! Not garish red like economy or wannabe plum like premium. I rest my head on the feather pillow and strap myself into the padded leather seat and start texting everyone I know to tell them I'm in first. My brain is throwing out cliches like 'this is the life'.

The next 3 hours float by in whiff of attentive air hostesses and food and drinks served on a linen tablecloth. I make regular checks on The Teenager who's mood has denigrated into something like a hormonal Naomi Campbell.

''What's the matter?'' I ask her while she scowls at her pasta in plastic.

''What do you think?'' she spits

''Oh for god's sake! I am going to swap with you.'' I slur, slightly tipsy from the Tanqueray and Tonics.

''When?''

''Soon.''

She grunts and I glide back down to Upper in my black socks.

When the time comes to swap I realise I have made a big mistake. Being jammed back into economy feels a bit like getting chucked out of a penthouse to sleep on the streets. I have definitely done this the wrong way around. I make the reverse journey to see The Teenager in Upper where her mood has done an about turn and she is grinning and holding aloft something sparkly with a pink stirrer.

''Take some pics!'' and she hands me her camera.

I try and be subtle as I am aware of the judging eyes of the other passengers who fly this way every time and don't need photographic evidence. Self consciously I snap away while The Teenager goes into pouty Facebok pic mode.

Afterwards I trudge back into economy where the obligatory baby is screaming and the guy in front of me has put his seat right back, rendering my leg room from zero to minus. I gaze at my black socks and sigh.

Whilst slowly developing DVT I close my eyes and try to imagine what it is about The Teenager's charmless demeanour that makes her an upgrade lucky charm. Maybe it's the supermodel attitude. Or maybe the check in woman saw something in my eyes. A silent plea.
Something that said "I am a single mother being forced to take my moody teenager on a romantic getaway. Help me.''

So I ignored the helping hand but at least the Princess of Apathy appreciated something this time. When we are collecting our bags I ask The Teenager what she thought of Upper Class.

''Yeah. Good''

I silently seethe. I split my upgrade for a 'good'? I give a 14 year old £1250 worth of plane ticket and she gives me back a mere 'good'? I say nothing but vow to never again to share anything fabulous with the Princess of Apathy.

There is at least some consolation.

I got the socks.

Shiver me teenagers

The Teenager is dressing up as a pirate for Halloween. She tells me Hyper Value have some plastic swords for 99p and she wants to know if I have a bandanna she can borrow. I tell her I do not, on account of the fact it is no longer 1989.

''I'm going to wreck havoc!'' she declares while putting a jacket potato in the oven.
''What does that mean exactly?'' I ask
''I don't know. Just havoc.''
"Define havoc?''
''Just havoc and stuff.''
''I don't like the sound of havoc.''
''Chill out mother.''
''Will you be egging people's houses?'
''No. I'm not 10.''

Indeed. She was still cute when she was 10.

Later that week while we are driving to school she tells me:
''I am not wrecking havoc anymore on Halloween.''
''I am pleased to hear it.''
''It's too cold to wreck havoc.''

Before arriving home on Halloween I take a trip to Iceland where anything with sugar and E numbers is always on offer. I grab three pack of sweets for the Trick or Treaters and call The Teenager to see what she wants for dinner.

''Don't worry about me, I'm at my friend's house.''
''Oh.''
''Do you mind If I sleepover?''
''But I was getting scary treats.'' I say, while putting down a pack of Cadbury's Ghoulish Mini Rolls.
''Sorry Mum. Will you be ok on your own?

I do fake crying over the fish finger freezer.

''Let's spend Sunday together.'' she offers.
I sense guilt. I capitalise.
''Maybe.''
''I feel bad now'' she offers with something that sounds like sincerity.

Not bad enough to come home though.

So I am all on my scary lonesome at Halloween with only spooky movies and a big bowl of sweets for company. Then the Trick or Treaters start. A four year old witch in a spangly costume is on my doorstep.

''Owww you're very scary!' I kneel down to tell her green painted face
''That's because I'm a witch.'' she replies deadpan. I text Amber Why aren't you cute anymore?

Later that night Tipi Hedron is fighting off some seagulls while trapped in a phone box. The Trick or Treaters are coming thick and fast so I squirrel away some lovehearts. An hour and three fat pre pubescent witches later the kids are getting less cute and the sweets are running low. I turn off the lights and vow not to answer the door anymore.

At some point I fall asleep on the sofa and dream The Teenager is making me walk the plank. I wake up to a text from Amber saying Don't hate me I love you. We'll spend Sunday together! Oh god. Why is she being so nice? What has she done? As Tipi dodges some black crows I fear the worse.

I fall back asleep and have a nightmare The Teenager and me hearties are holding up the local Spar for blue WKD and Lambert and Butlers. I wake up to another text from The Teenager

Love you Mum

The clocks hits midnight and I feel a shiver run down my spine, but It's not the fear of ghosts, demented birds or even plunderers of the high seas.

Truly there is nothing more terrifying at Halloween or any other time than your Teenager being nice to you.

It's the little things

Don't sweat the small stuff. That's what all the teenage parenting manuals tell you. There are whole chapters on why you should only try and tackle the big stuff, like crack addiction and pregnancy. I make a resolution to try and not sweat the small stuff .

I fail at the first hurdle when I come home late from work to see The Teenager hasn't done the dishes for the third day running because of more pressing concerns like watching E4.

''Dishes!'' I scream.
''In a minute.''
''No. Now!''
''Mother. I am watching Desperate Housewives.''
''Dishes! Now! Now! Now!''
''Jeez-us. You need to caaaaaalm down.''
''Do it now! Or you're grounded.''
''I am grounded for not doing the dishes? Seriously? You're a freak. You need to chill.''

I deny I need to chill even though I know I do and the next day I am attempting to smile through gritted teeth when half the contents of my make-up bag has gone missing again. I spend the day with colleagues asking;

''Are you feeling o.k.?''
''Yes. I just don't have much make-up on.''
''Oh.''

When I get home that night I see if it is possible to bite my lip when I see The Teenager has left another lump of hard chewing gum on the arm of the leather sofa. She tells me she is saving it for later.

''Who are you? I roar ''Marmalade Atkins?''
''I don't know who the hell you're talking about Mother.''

Later that week I am attempting to avoid exorcist style head rolls when she uses all the bath towels and I have to stomp naked and dripping wet into the pit she calls a bedroom to discover them damp and smelling like old nannas.

I go back to the teenage parenting manual to see if there is a chapter on wet towels but there isn't so I assume they come under 'small stuff'. The teenager comes into the room and I shove the book under a cushion and flip on the TV. She narrows her eyes at me and snorts.

''I know what you're reading.''
''Not reading,'' I mumble trying to look engrossed ''watching tele.''

She raises an eyebrow at me as the SKY customer channel is informing me how to use the red button on my remote.

''Mum, the book is crap. I read it.''

Dammit! Leaving a teenage parenting manual lying around is a bit like running a highlighter pen over the good bits of a spy document and sending it recorded delivery to the enemy.

''Mother,'' she begins gently ''why are you wasting your time reading that? You can't generalise teenagers. We are all individuals and every situation's different.''

I try to speak but my lips won't move. While I was busy trying not to sweat the small stuff, I missed some big stuff, like my teenager growing up a little bit more

Just like wet towels, there is no chapter for that.

Still chewing the Big Apple...

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.''

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.

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.''

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.