I Write A Lot!

She doesn't stop me and I am able to start up my CD player before breaking into hysterics. Messing with her is like teasing a kitten. She gets all mad and then never does anything about it.

Twenty minutes later I've turned the music down and covered up all traces of my hysterical laughter induced crying with eye liner, mascara and gratuitous amounts of blush. I turn off the music completely and check out my outfit. I switch from my t-shirt to a long-sleeve white shirt with little black skulls on it, and my jeans for my favorite pair of cargo pants.

My plan for the evening is to meet Jules and Lani at the movie theater in twenty minutes. We'd all been wanting to see Survivor: Big Screen. The people behind the Survivor show were taking a page out of Joss Whedon's book and making a movie after being cancelled. None of us had actually watched much Survivor, but we were interested in finding out how they would work a process that usually took an entire season, approximately 16 hours of screen time, into a two and a half hour movie. After the movie we were going to head over to "Hannah's House of Pizza" for dinner and an informal discussion of the movie. Informal, of course, meaning things like along the lines of "that sucked" or "that guy was so hot".

After deciding that I was finally dressed and ready I grabbed thirty bucks from my "bank," a piece of metal Lani had banged into a slight curve and in our seventh grade shop class, and walked out into the living room.

"Mom, would you give me a ride to the theater?" I'd learned long ago that asked my parents if they could drive me somewhere or do something usually earned me a response like "yeah, I could, but I don't know if I want to."

"Sure Lisa." I rolled my eyes, not bothering to correct her for a second time. My Mom paused and then tried to break the silence. "So..." She dragged the word out to an unreasonable length. "What movie are you going to see?" She gathered up her keys and purse as we spoke.

Survivor: Big Screen, and then we're going over to Hannah's. Is that okay?" I force myself into my Mom's minivan. It's such a Mom mobile. I'm sure it's very safe, but I have to say that my Dad's black '67 Mustang convertible is way better for my "I hate society" image.

"That's fine, dear. As long as you're home by eleven, remember."

"I will. I'll call you on my...I left my cell at home." I sit thinking, my sentence unfinished. My Mom reaches, without looking away from the road, into a slot just below the CD player/radio and pulls out her cell phone. She disconnects it from the charger and deposits it in my lap.

"Call if you need a ride." I look between my Mom and the cell a few times before slipping the phone into my pocket. It amazes me sometimes the things my Mom is able to do without looking, like catching me sneaking ice cream, and the aforementioned cell phone stunt.