Reunion Committee

I try not to make it a habit to tell my husband what to do. Unless we are in the kitchen or the bedroom. Those are places I usually have good ideas in. If I do this in other parts of the house, say hovering over the computer while he’s reading his email – it often ends up backfiring. Which is why I waited until he came upstairs (to the kitchen) to tell him that it would be a really good idea if he were to go back downstairs and retrieve the email he just deleted. The one asking for volunteers to serve on our 15 year college reunion class committee.

Because all committees need a token man. Preferably a strong one that can move heavy things.

I would have volunteered myself, except that would have cut into my yearbook study time. And that preparation is important. Especially for people like me who can’t remember the name of the doctor who delivered my first born. It can’t be wrong to want to at least act like I have a stellar memory for just a weekend.

Besides, I’m pretty bogged down already with committees at work. Like the “80’s Trivia Brown Bag Lunch Committee” (of which I’m a member in good standing but poor performance) or the “Bring Back the Sparkling Water to our Pop Machine Committee” (of which my friend Elaine is the President and Ted is the supervisor.) Note: this is the first time I have used a hyperlink in a post, Ted. I would have hyperlinked to Larry (President of the 80's Trvia Brown Bag Lunch Committee) except that his blog is password protected from people like me who would send him crushing amounts of traffic … as evidenced by the sheer volume of (hidden) comments left on my blog.

Come to think of it, most corporate work is managed via committee. Because it could be dangerous to trust one person to decide what color a brochure should be. I’m really not cynical about all collaborative thinking, just the kind that makes me crazy. Or the kind that make me want to do a quick ROI analysis on whether having a ninety minute meeting with ten people where the only clear output was to have a future meeting makes any economic sense for people being paid over $.99 an hour. I’m pretty sure these meetings don’t happen in the McDonald’s break room without someone getting fired.

Do people at the Nike corporate offices really “just do it?” Or do they too create subcommittees to do exploratory work which results in a matrix of potential solutions that are weighed and debated by a governing body before committing to a course of action on a trial basis? Just wondering. I’m just trying to figure out if it’s normal to take four weeks to make a text change on a website.

Anyway, back to my husband. He didn’t jump at the suggestion. But he also didn’t dismiss it entirely. So I emailed the committee chair to say that he was IN and “looking forward to it.”

It was the same approach I used to get him to chair the school auction clean up committee. I hooked him before he actually said yes or no. He’s done it for three years straight now … it’s a torch that’s hard to pass on. At least with this though, he knew that he’d be off the hook for the 16th year college reunion class committee. Because the only people that could possibly be on that committee would be ones that study their college yearbooks. And I don’t think there are many of us.

Anyway, the first meeting was a conference call. Held at the local Red Robin. (?) I can only assume that someone had a hankering for a bottomless plate of fries. Unfortunately, they weren’t able to patch Brett into the call. Perhaps Red the Mascot confiscated the meeting agenda that included out-of-town committee member’s phone numbers.

Since then all the committee activity has been over email. As far as I can tell, Brett’s only contribution so far has been to vote on the name for the Saturday night party. You’d vote too if the initial name was “1992 Reconnecting Dinner.” Because they are trying to actually encourage people to come. And because they want people to believe that their classmates will be there, not graduates from 1952. One very wise committee member suggested an alternate name: “Fiesta of Friends: Nacho Ordinary Party”. It was unanimously approved.

There was some more voting regarding the name and ticket pricing of the Friday Night Coffee House Concert. Apparently, Brett abstained from that vote --- maybe because he’s planning to be somewhere else that night? One of the other committee members swooped in quickly to find an underwriter for the event to keep the ticket prices down. It was of course a woman who is skilled at being a good, contributing committee member. Thank you, Shaney. I will definitely be there, with or without my husband, who may be playing a game of pick up basketball in Coray Gym instead.

The invitations got sent out this week. We got ours yesterday. Brett’s name is on it. As the first committee member listed. Hee-hee. And to think that all he had to do so far is agree that it’s better to eat nachos than reconnect.

My housemate Sarah was responsible for the invitation. I have a lot of respect for what she was able to do with an 8.5x11 invitation written on school letterhead. It requires a great deal of persuasive writing to convince someone that spending thousands of dollars to travel across the country to visit your Alma Madre is worth some chips and guacamole. She made me want to bleed orange and blue again and talk about how hard life was when all we had to do was take care of ourselves and make our way to class by 10am.

Brett and Stan must be saving their creative energy for the planning of the Saturday night program. That’s the part of the weekend that will involve moving things as well as the chance to grab a microphone …. and use it in front of people. People that I know.

Brainstorm! I think I shall email the Committee chair and suggest that all committee members be required to wear sombreros to the event. Now that would be awesome.

I keep asking him when the work is going to “kick in.” He keeps telling me that I should know before he does since I do an excellent job hovering over his email. Then he says that he’d be happy to turn over his committee spot to me, but then I guilt him about abandoning the only other male committee member. Plus, I think he’s secretly looking forward to the email chatter and virtual voting about decorations and centerpieces. And as you now know, I have 80s trivia to consider.

73 days and counting until Pinata Time!...

"Do Not Enter"

My oldest son is a rule follower. He especially likes to keep to the letter of the law with regard to the rules of the road. He has cried every time we (Brett) has been pulled over by a cop for speeding. Roadtrips are now quite a bit longer with Mr. Speedometer in the backseat. Thankfully he has not been in the car during one of my annual tire blowouts. I don’t think he’d understand if I tried to tell him that it was the encroaching traffic median’s fault (which by the way, it always is.) Not even the nicest Tow Truck driver in the world could keep Quinn from losing his marbles.

He is especially neurotic – and I mean that in the nicest way – when it comes to parking violations. He takes bus zones, three minute loading areas, and visitor parking very, very seriously. I’m still trying to explain how it is possible to park, order, pay for, and get a latte in under three minutes. He’s not buying it. Nor he is buying the fact that sometimes we really are in fact the visitor that the sign is referring to. Given his sensitivity to these issues, it is unlucky that our city neighborhood is zoned for parking and that we occasionally get tickets for parking in our own driveway. Though it is amusing to see my mild mannered husband mix it up with the parking rent-a-cops on those days.

While I’m thinking about it … I want to find and hurt the person who thought it was a good idea to put a 30 minute limit at the Airport Cell Phone Parking Lot. This is not helpful to any parent who has rule follower children. Unless of course they thought that circling the airport while throwing crackers to the screaming children in the back seat at the same time you’re leaving the sixth message on your husband’s turned off cell phone was safer than staying parked.

So it should not have surprised me when Quinn flipped out recently because I ignored a “Do Not Enter” sign. The sign was posted on a residential street that bordered a neighboring school. The street was not a one way street, so it was clear that the sign was being used to help manage traffic flow during school commuting times. All makes sense. However, at the time of this infraction, school was not in session and so there was no traffic to manage. There was also a piping hot pizza in the back seat. So my action to fly through the “Do Not Enter” sign was willful, but considered.

Quinn was stunned. After he realized my flagrant violation, out pops this:

“COME ON, Mom – use your skills!”

At first, I thought he meant my driving skills. I don’t have many of those. I wondered if he had noticed my overall reluctance to change lanes or the fact that I will do just about anything to avoid parallel parking. But I soon realized that he was really talking about my skills for following the rules.

I tried to explain some of my thoughts from above, about how sometimes rules can be flexed. About how the context or intention of the rule is also important. About how in business they tell you to “first break all the rules.”

Unsatisfied with my response, he then said, “But Mom, you can’t decide which things you want to follow and which you don’t want to follow. You have to follow ALL the rules.”

It was the same response I would have given at nine years old. Or, even at sixteen. I remember being incredulous when my Mom used to suggest that I skip school to go shopping. That was definitely not in the rules and oh my goodness, what would my absence note say?! To which she would reply that my note would simply say that my Mom it taking me out of class to get some new clothes and have a nice lunch and that PS, the nurses have permission to give me aspirin. I don’t think I ever took her up on the offer, but it certainly wasn’t for her lack of trying.

As I have reflected on this over the years, I have realized that this was one of the ways that the Mom was helping me to break out of being a rigid rule follower. She knew I wasn’t going to cut class, but she wanted to plant the seed that maybe one day that or something like that just might be OK.

I came around by college. And now, if asked to skip work to shop, my only question is who’s credit card will we be using.

So as grateful as I am that Quinn is wired the way he is, I’m hoping that one day he might find a reason to ignore a “Do Not Enter” sign … or at least speed in North Dakota.

Bocce Ball & Poker

So I knew that blurting out this statement: “Wow, I am like winning every game I play!” was a bad idea the moment I said it. Because everyone knows that once you say something like that, the odds of your continued success take a dramatic turn for the worse. And because anyone with a competitive husband knows, them are fighting words. I might as well have said to my darling husband that I could take him in a 50 yard dash and then eat twice as many burritos as he could.

My competitiveness with my husband dates back to our dating years in college. We took our first class together junior year. We both had good attendance. We both took copious notes. I studied. He did not. He got an A. I got a B+. The class: Drugs and Culture. I’m fine if chooses to bring this up in large groups. Because with bragging rights will come the need to explain why he choose such a lame class to begin with. And once he’s done explaining that, we can talk about my superior grades in every Math class starting from junior high on.



Earlier in the day of aforementioned statement (while on an extended family vacation on the Oregon Coast), my sister and I had beaten my husband and dad in a lively game of beach bocce ball. Unlike playing bocce ball on the grass, the sand is really fast and unpredictable - meaning that it takes a lot of skill to get your balls to land closest to the cue ball. The odds were not in our favor. After all, my dad is an above average bowler and has his own bowling shoes. And my husband probably slept with his basketball before I was in the picture. So these are men that know how to handle balls. But my sister and I were not to be denied. I don’t remember the exact score, but I remember that it was convincing enough that neither man asked for a rematch. Instead, my brother and 9 year old son asked for the next game. Another victory. So beautiful in fact that some elderly folks stopped along the beach to take a picture of my sister’s amazing landing of three balls. We were that good.

Coming into bocce ball, I was already on a high from winning Texas Hold Em the previous night. I won the last chips from my sister and father at 2am. My mom, sister-in-law, and husband had already lost it all earlier in the evening. Not bad for a rookie, eh? Even my brother was impressed with my ability to bluff. After all, it wasn’t a skill I often used in his defense during his high school partying years. Brett was fast asleep when victory was declared, but of course I woke him up to share the news. Because that is what good wives do. They wake sleeping husbands up to share good news, to just talk, to check for predators, and to get them to agree to things like major house remodels.

So the precise moment I uttered this statement was during a spirited game of Catch Phrase. (yes, my extended family enjoys a long list of leisure sports.) The Women had just handily won the first game against the Men. Confident from the poker victory and back to back bocce ball wins, I was feeling invincible. (editor's note: upon first reading of this post, my husband pointed out that I had actually written invisible -- opps.) At the time, it felt so right to point out my long string of successes. Particularly to my husband. This ended up being poor timing. You could say that this emboldened the enemy.

The Men ended up winning the next three games of Catch Phrase. I tried to point out that the Women were actually at a disadvantage because there were four of us versus three of them. In a game where the object is to pass a disk to the other team before the buzzer goes off, we had a 25% higher chance of the disk landing on our lap. I thought this was a solid point. Of course the Men argued back that this disadvantage was neutralized by the fact that we had more people to guess for our team. But then I ask, what would my college Statistics book say? I think it would say that I was right.

In an effort to reclaim my title, I then suggested that we then play a game of Scattegories. A game where each man and woman is on their own. The object: write down a unique item that fits into twelve predetermined categories all based on the same letter in three minutes. I felt like this would be an opportunity to recoup my loss, but then soon recalled why I stopped playing Scrabble with my husband years ago. He kicks my butt at anything involving vocabulary, spelling, or trivia. Oh well, I can still eat more chocolate chip cookies in one sitting than he can.

The game decider between my husband and sister: the category was “tool” and the letter was “g.” My sister’s answer: “gadget.” Excellent! Except that the Men didn’t agree. They said they didn’t have anything called a “gadget” in their manly tool boxes. (If the true be told, I don’t know if Brett could tell you the names of most of the things in his tool box.) Yeah, well my kitchen drawer is FULL of gadget tools. What else would you call something that allows you to squeeze all the juice out a lemon without getting any of the seeds? An AMAZING gadget!

So the weekend ended with my title in question, but I have since regained my position with my husband. I can man handle him in Nerts (the fast paced double solitaire game) and did so this week. Unfortunately though, Quinn is the all time Ballbach Nerts Champion. Both Brett and I can’t beat the kid. Ever.

Sounds like it’s time to get a Ping Pong table ….