Leaving the nest

As a parent of teenagers, I am starting to face the oncoming empty nest syndrome.

My daughter has a job now, and will soon be heading off to the University of Georgia. My son has a girlfriend, car and drivers’ license, so I see him about as often as Halley’s Comet. Sometimes I walk through a quiet house that once was full of life and I get a little sad, thinking of them being gone for good.

And then other times I think, “Bring it on!”

Sure, I’ll miss them. But there are a lot of things I won’t miss. I won’t miss, for example, having to move three cars every time I need to back out of the driveway. I won’t miss lathering up my face with shaving cream, then opening a drawer to discover my razor has been “borrowed.” And I won’t miss never getting a good night’s sleep.

The other night, my wife and I were lying in bed asleep, since it was after 11 p.m. and we’re old. The bedroom door burst open and in stormed my 18-year-old daughter. She is a very girly, pretty, sweet girl, but at night she walks around the house like a water buffalo. She slams doors and cabinets and makes enough noise to scare away the devil. I should have known something was up when she didn’t sleep through a single night the first six months of her life. It was a bad omen.

On the night in question, she stomped through the room, opened the bathroom door, flipped on a light, grabbed something, and walked back out. “Don’t mind us,” I called out as she slammed the door behind her. “We’re just sleeping.”

The next night, I had hope of actually getting some sleep. My son was off at a church camp about 30 miles away, and my daughter was working late and wouldn’t be home until midnight. I was hoping I could be sound asleep by the time she blew into the house like a hurricane, as is her style.

At about 11:30, the phone rang. Any parent with children of driving age knows the absolute terror that sound can cause. You answer the phone in fear, praying that you won’t be hearing a state trooper on the other end of the line, or that your child is not calling you from a pay phone in the county jail or a wedding chapel in Gatlinburg. My fear quickly subsided, though, when I heard, “Uh, dad, see, what happened was, my car keys jumped out my hand, and got stuck in the ignition, and then I panicked and accidentally hit the lock button and closed the door, and…”

Suddenly, feared turned to anger. At this point I was fully awake and I said, “You locked your keys in your car AGAIN?” Then, to make sure I didn’t say anything that would be used against me later in a child protective services’ hearing, I did the smart thing and handed the phone to his mother. I tried to fall back asleep as they worked out the details of how to get the spare key to him. I knew I was going to wind up getting screwed in this deal, so I figured I’d at least try to get rested before my early morning drive.

Of course, within a few minutes the phone rang again. It was my daughter, thoughtfully letting us know that instead of midnight, she might not get home until 12:15. I know, I know, I should count my lucky stars that she was thoughtful enough to call me. Yep, that’s exactly what I was thinking. I’m a lucky, lucky man.

Speaking of Lucky – I had just laid my head down on my pillow when she decided to add to the fracas with some poorly-timed and very loud barks. I went to the back door and put it to her straight – “Look, I can’t do this with the rest of them, but if you don’t shut up I will duct-tape your mouth closed and put you in the trunk of a car until the morning.” She’s not leaving the nest, so I have to be a little more proactive with her.

Before I know it, I’ll be getting a good night’s sleep, I’ll always know where my razor is, and I won’t have to drive 60 extra miles on the way to work to unlock somebody’s car. And I’ll probably hate it.

Cold hard cash

My daughter got her own debit card the other today. I haven’t read the Book of Revelation lately, but I’m pretty sure that’s one of the signs of the apocalypse.

I think my kids believe that debit cards are magic. They don’t fully comprehend the concept yet that without money in the bank account, the debit card is worthless. It’s like the old joke, I can’t be broke, I still have checks!

I was a full-grown adult by the time debit cards came into existence, and replaced cash in my wallet. You can buy just about anything anywhere with a debit card, but every now and then that dependence jumps up to bite me.

For example: I went to a CD store today to buy tickets to go see one of my favorite bands, Blue Rodeo, at Smith’s Olde Bar. I talked to the aging hippie who runs the store on the phone and, when the pot residue allowed him to make a complete sentence, he told me that if I got to the store by 2, I would be able to get my tickets.

So I drove all the way up Alpharetta, which is about halfway to the Yukon Territory from my house, and I went in the store, where Anglo-Cheech tried to sell me the tickets. After staring at the computer screen for a few minutes like the little girl watching TV in Poltergeist, he said, “Ok, there it is. That’ll be $34, dude.”

I pulled out my debit card, and he said, “Oh, it’s cash only for tickets.” Cash? What the heck is going on? Who outside of drug dealers, strippers and Congressmen demands to be paid only in cash?

As luck would have it, I did have some cash in my wallet, so I started counting out the bills, laid everything I had on the counter, and it came to – wait for it - $33. I looked at the guy pleadingly and I said, “I have $33 right here.” And he just stared back at me. He wasn’t having it.

“Hang on a sec,” I said, and I went out to my car, got on my hands and knees, scrounged between the seats and under the floor mats and I was able to come up with a quarter, six dimes and three nickels. I now had $34 on the button, so I went in the store, reminded the guy who I was and why I was there, then paid him and walked out with my tickets.

I got in the car, started heading back south, and it hit me – I had to go through the toll booth on Georgia 400, and that costs 50 cents, and I didn’t have it, cause mister dazed and confused wouldn’t cut me a break on the tickets! I got off at the next exit, found an ATM, withdrew some money, stopped in a convenience store for some gum so I wouldn’t have to break a $20 bill at the toll booth, and got back on the road.

I had always wondered what would happen to you if you got to the toll booth and you just flat-out did not have the 50 cents required to go through. Would they drag you out of your car and beat you? Would they impound your car and make you walk home? Do they take IOUs?

I was about to find out. I pulled up to the one of the booths with a cashier, since I didn’t have exact change, and noticed the brand-spanking-new sports car in front of me, which probably cost about $50,000, wasn’t moving, because the driver didn’t have 50 cents! He was talking to the toll-booth lady, who got out of the booth, walked behind his car, took a photograph of his license plate, went back into her booth, then handed him a slip of paper and lifted the gate. Ok, so THAT is what happens.

The moral of this story is, always keep a little cash on hand. You never know when you’re going to run into a toll booth or a Congressman.