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Ditching the Big Ask

Grab the marmalade. Homecoming season is toast.

Shelve the sequined dresses, the purple dress shirts, the manicures and the dinner parties.

That tremendous whoosh at the beginning of November?

It was all the high school guys heaving a sigh of relief.

HoCo is done. You can now safely enter the cafeteria.

I feel sorry for high school guys today.

In addition to all that strange peer pressure to wear Chubbies, it’s not good enough for a guy to have his palms get clammy and his heart nearly explode as he screws up the courage to furtively beg a young woman to spend a mere four hours with him.

Nope. He must stage an elaborate production requiring more creativity, more effort and more anxiety than applying to 18 highly competitive colleges and FSU as his safety school.

It may also require the renting out of a dirigible or exotic animal petting zoo. Or, if funds are tight, bungee jumping off the high school gym into a vat of 6,000 cafeteria tater tots all individually hand-painted in sparkly nail polish with The Question:

Homecoming?

Furthermore, the guy must do all this in front of hundreds of other students to prove he will risk even suicidal mortification to win the right to have the love of his life stand radiantly beside him in the HoCo Grind Line.

At least judging from all their mamas’ pictures on Facebook.

You know it’s all true. You’ve gotten carpel tunnel from clicking Like so quickly.

In recent years I’ve seen a guy who convinced 30 of his best friends to stage a Flashmob at the mall food court. The production culminated in the guy falling to his knees and popping the big question.

Right before it culminated again with mall security slapping plastic cuffs on him. (It was more mob and less flash.)

Another guy painted an entire wall in the girl’s bedroom with the question “Homecoming?” Then he filled the room with an ocean of balloons and hid beneath them to surprise her.

Because totally cool parents are apparently totally OK with a guy totally hiding in their daughter’s bedroom.

Another guy cut out 72,000 black footprints. He put Hershey’s kisses on each one of them in a trail leading to the girl’s room, where he placed a big poster that said: Now that you know I kiss the ground that you walk on, will you go to Homecoming with me?

Now that you’ve finished gagging, answer me this: Is anyone else concerned this always ends up in the girl’s bedroom?
If your Facebook friends don’t offer enough ideas to steal, hundreds of Web sites offer tips to make your son’s Homecoming invitation preparations simple and easy.

One suggests he spend several hours before daybreak – on five consecutive days – sketching anonymous chalk drawings and messages on the girl’s driveway, culminating in drawing himself and her touching fingers like God and Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Another suggestion?

He can write, illustrate, self-publish, print and mail his hoped-for date an entire book titled Reasons You Should Go to Homecoming With Me.
If he selfishly needs to keep his Homecoming preparations to something less than a full-time job, he can ask the local pizza delivery franchise to deliver a pizza with the big question, “Homecoming?” spelled out in pepperoni.

Then, when she winds up at HoCo with the Papa Johns’ driver, he can have another sent to his own house topped with the word “Idiot.”

What’s The Big Ask standard? If his HoCo video fails to go viral on YouTube, the photos still must get at least 100 Likes on his mama’s Facebook page.

Does something strike you as suspicious?

No adult male is this romantic let alone high school guys who wear the same unwashed clothes to sports practice all semester long without realizing that they started smelling dead back in October.

These Big Asks require preparation, careful thought and creative planning.

Having taught high school for a dozen years, I assure you that the only thing high school boys carefully plan in advance is their farts.

There’s only one explanation. The Big Ask is just another production brought to you by Moms With Too Much Time on Their Hands, Inc.

Women who use HoCo Season to get warmed up for this month’s Elf on a Shelf Facebook competition.

There are dramatic social consequences to courting on steroids, ladies. The average American guy is getting married far later. Or he’s simply skipping that walk down the aisle altogether.

Likely because he’s yet to figure out a bigger and better way to ask his HoCo date to marry him.

The Times Square newsfeed and the First Lady are booked through 2016.

Even if the newer and hipper Pope tweets his marriage invitation, there’s still the silver wedding anniversary to worry about.

You see where this is going.

We’re creating monsters.

So, moms, back off. And, sons, if your mother won’t back off, just hide her smartphone until she completes FB detox and wanders off to Trader Joe’s.

Then, in an unexpected romantic twist, be yourself. Buy a bouquet of flowers from Publix for $4. Jam it into your sports bag and lie to your buddies that it’s just your basketball stuff. Nearly ask her in Chem class but chicken out at the last minute. Screw up the courage and approach her one last time before the school bus arrives. Turn red and thrust the crushed flowers at her, stuttering she’ll make your day by going to Homecoming.

She’ll still think you’re awesome.

And her father will love you for not hiding in her bedroom.

By Chris Barrett, Publisher

COMMENTS

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Reflections of a Crash Test Dummy

She inches past a guy watering his grass like she’s a mobster slowing for a hit. He looks up suspiciously.

She passes and heaves a sigh of relief. “That’s my first pedestrian I didn’t hit!”

It’s been a month of inspiring firsts.

All culminating in her profound observation about learning to drive: “This is more complicated than Mario Kart.”

A video game that triggers excited cackling in her throat whenever she runs Cousin Izzy off the road.

The Sophomore is driving me east on Forest Lakes Road toward Race Track Road – our first venture out of 25 mph neighborhoods. She’s successfully keeping my heart rate under 100 bpm.

Until 10 yards before the Race Track Road intersection, when we enter the Big Brakes or T-Bone Stakes Zone.

And the traffic light slings yellow.

She has two milliseconds to choose between slamming the brakes, flinging her crash-test dummy dad against his seat belt, or slamming the accelerator, rocketing through the intersection to beat red.

Instead, she gasps. She pulls her foot off both pedals.

My spine fuses.

And her right foot demands a UN Debate.

“JUST…!” I sputter.

“WHAT?!”

She starts convulsing. She taps the brake. She taps the accelerator.

I brace my feet against the floor in a futile attempt to run away.

Her foot comes back up.

The Chinese and Russians have vetoed the General Assembly’s resolution to Just Do Something.

And the light clicks red.

“AUGH!”

“OHMIGAHD!”

I brace one hand on the car ceiling, the other against the door. We roll into the eight-lane crowded intersection – against the light – at five mph.

If this were a Pixar film, you’d suddenly notice the 8-year-old standing on the side of the road, mouth gaped in mid-lollipop lick, his saucer eyes slow-motion tracing the most ludicrous thing he’s ever seen passing by:

A screaming 15-year-old girl snail-driving through a hellaciously busy intersection while brakes shriek; her father stands completely upright inside a Toyota Corolla; and the guy selling Ruskin tomatoes on the side of the road seizes his own head to brace for impact.

We interrupt our regularly scheduled program for an important safety announcement:

Next time tell your wife to take the child driving.

Breaking news:

That’s not gonna work either.

The Sophomore blasts into the house the next weekend. “I am never going driving with her again!” She flees to her room to thrust her brain inside her iPod.

“I am never going driving with her again!” her mother, entering from the garage, unwittingly echoes.

Overhearing, The Sophomore jets back to the living room to address this outrage.

“She thinks I drive crazy!”

“Um,” I interrupt. “You both agree. Yet still you manage to argue.”

The Momster calmly points at her. “She thinks that speed limits are goals to be reached within three seconds.”

“No one ever told me they were just maximums!” The Sophomore cries.  “Mom just sits there, herky-jerky gesturing and sputtering!”

The Sophomore turns to address the woman who carried her for nine months, foregoing her Friday glass of wine and her daily morning coffee, before nearly splitting in two pushing her large, purple head out. “When we passed my friends on Montague Street, you looked like you were dancing the Robot in the front seat!” The Sophomore gestures like an out-of-control C3PO. “How embarrassing is that?!”

Her Puerto Rican mother holds up her hands. “The problem is…”

The Momster pauses dramatically.

The Sophomore and I both fall silent. Momster’s look makes clear that what she will utter will explain everything perfectly.

“…I learned to drive in Spanish.”

I realize I’m mouth-gaping like the Pixar kid.

The Sophomore is C3POing again.

“Every time she does something,” Momster says in perfect, unaccented English, “by the time I get it out of my mouth, it’s a half mile back.” She shakes her head. “You’re taking her driving from now on.”

So, two days later, we’re in the parking lot of the local elementary school, where the bus dumps all the loser high schoolers who don’t drive themselves. I’ve decided to let The Sophomore drive home.

“Did you check your mirrors?”

“Ugh!” She growls and adjusts them. “Someone keeps moving these!”

“You always need to adjust them before driving. We’re different heights.”

“Oh!” she exclaims.

The same “Oh!” she exclaimed when I first answered her puzzled query, “So, how do I get this thing to go backwards?”

“This is not going well!” her fourth grade sister announces from the back.

“Dad, can you please tell her I need complete silence?”

I turn to evil-eye Grace and find her lying across the seat in the fetal position.

“Do you really think that’s helpful?”

“I only do this when she’s backing up.”

“Dad!” The Sophomore exclaims. “I need to concentrate!”

Grace falls silent and The Sophomore heaves the van into reverse. She ever-so-cautiously creeps backwards.

A handful of juniors, the last to clear out from the bus stop, stand over by the bike rack. They watch the unfolding drama, astride their bikes, frozen until we’ve safely moved on.

Her highly complicated reversal complete, The Sophomore pauses. She rubs her sweaty hands on her shorts and clears her throat. She heaves the van into drive…

And rockets forward.

Arriving at the parking lot exit’s stop sign, she slams on the brakes. Not firmly hitched, my seat suddenly rolls forward until it catches and flings me against the seat belt.

Ka-THUNK!

It’s either the seat mechanism catching or my collar bone snapping.

“Sorry!”

She turns out of the lot and kathumps off the curb. It finally hits me. I just don’t want her to drive.

I don’t want her to climb into a thin metal can and drive out into a world where a man with Ebola lies on an immigration form and flies into Dallas. I don’t want her bee-bopping out into a county where drivers, drunk beyond reason, sail south on northbound highways.

A man spends 15 years protecting the most remarkable achievement of his life. And then, with a snap of the fingers, she begs the keys and drives off into a world he simply doesn’t trust.

While he sit there like the Ruskin tomato man.

Is it too much to expect that she just stay happily in the living room running Cousin Izzy off the road?

Yet, with her outstretched hand, she’s asking me to take the next, difficult step in a parent’s life. A process begun in June of 1999, when a delivery nurse offered an outstretched hand, where I found the scissors to cut through the thick rope binding her to her mother.

While I wept like a fool.

Halfway home from the school lot, The Sophomore pulls over to offer a friend a ride.

Specifically, she pulls entirely onto the grass and almost the sidewalk.

“What are you doing?!”

“I’m pulling over.”

“Into someone’s front yard!?”

“Is it a big deal?”

“If you’re offering someone a ride, you’re not supposed to run them down beforehand.”

She huffs.

I roll down the window. “Are you really sure you want a ride?”

“Sure!” Michael says excitedly. He’s either exhausted from walking a whole block or feels compelled to witness the trainwreck firsthand.

But she does it. She actually gets Michael home safely, slowly and smoothly and he jumps out.

“My first real passenger,” she says, forgetting the crash-test dummy beside her.

Beaming, she calls out her window to her friend. “How was it?”

Michael thinks on this. “You drive like my grandmother.”

“Thank you!” she chirps.

And The Sophomore drives off…

With the crash-test dummy clutching the door.

By Chris Barrett, Publisher

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