What do you do when your teenaged son--a child whose record in life thus far has not proven him to be an entirely trustworthy individual, let it be noted--is having trouble with an authority figure at his school, a man that you, in fact, suspect to be more than a wee bit off-kilter, if not completely unhinged?
I've always had trouble with this whole parenting--authority figures--respect thing. I'm a classic Good Kid. I instinctively obey. I'm rather in awe of those foks whose first response to a direct command is to question it. Except, that is, when "those folks" means my own kid, who dammit has never ever done anything I told him to do without first querying me as to the why, how, what for, so what, and what if. I spend my professional life teaching students to question the evidence, suspect the authorities, push the boundaries, be critical and inquisitive and ask the awkward questions. And then I come home, and my teenaged son treats me like some kind of iffy historical document. I do not find the irony in the least bit amusing.
But let's set aside the whole Parent-Child thing. What about Child-and All Those Other People? The teachers? The principals? The neighbor? The youth leader? All those authorities? My training and my personality both demand that authority be respected, even if the person in authority is a total dick. I remember coming to political consciousness in the midst of Watergate and demanding of my mother what she thought of Nixon. She looked at me in surprise. "He's the president," she said, as if that settled it. I pushed, I wanted to know, what did she think of what he was doing, of what he might have done. "He's the president," she repeated, and then she explained, in a tone that made clear that really, surely, I knew this already, "You respect the president."
But what if you don't? And what do you tell your kids?
When I was in my mid-20s, I dated a guy several years older, divorced, with a 7-year-old son. I remember vividly this little kid regaling us one night over pizza with stories of how utterly stupid and fat his teacher was. I couldn't believe that his father, this guy I then thought I would marry, allowed, downright encouraged, this kind of talk. "It's his teacher," I said, horrified. "You can't let him talk like that about his teacher." He was equally horrified by my response. "Why not? Why should he respect her just because she's his teacher?" I didn't marry this guy. I'm glad I didn't, for oh so many reasons, but that conversations is certainly one of them.
But now I have my own kids. And I struggle. How do you teach them to fight for what's right, not to settle, not to give in, not to be pushed down and around--and yet to respect what and who should be respected?
Hugh is a 16-year-old boy who still hasn't figured out cause and effect, who thinks time is elastic, who regards the truth as whatever serves his desires at that very moment. I have five older brothers. I find none of this all that surprising. But the thing is--we've had quite a tussle this past week with Hugh's "prefect," the guy in charge of his floor in his residence hall at boarding school. He tells me that everything out of Hugh's mouth is a lie. And I look at and listen to my son, and I know that this man is wrong. And in my gut, I believe he's bad for Hugh. So now what? Because he's there, and this man is in charge. "Keep your head down and your mouth shut," I tell him.
And I hate myself.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
At the Y
Part of my New Year's resolution is to resume exercising, so I did so yesterday, just one day into the New Year. (I've decided I am now Chinese. Or Vietnamese. That works too.)
The problem with excercise is that I seem to be coming apart at the seams. I do want to exercise, I really do, and I actually enjoy it, well, some forms of it. . . can't stand team sports which totally negate one of the best things about exercising--the opportunity to withdraw completely into yourself--and bring back horrific memories of junior high and high school P.E. classes. Dear God, those volleyball drills, surely now condemned as a violation of human rights.
Anyway, team sports aside, and also any of those extreme activities that involve actual agony, I do like physical action. It's just that my body doesn't. I used to run, and really, truly, I enjoyed it; then my knee gave out. OK, I walked. I love walking but since my botched foot surgery I can hardly get through an hour's stand-up lecture without limping out of the classroom. So swim! say well-meaning friends. Great idea, say I, except I can't swim because, well, I can't swim, I can only do a kind of awkward dog paddle, and also chronic vulvadynia ensures that after just a few minutes in chlorine, my nether parts burst into metaphorical flames. So that leaves bicycling, which is totally groovy, if you ignore the Helmet Hair and the fact that because of my wrist problems my hands go completely numb within fifteen minutes, plus bike seats and tender vulvas don't always harmonize well. The weak wrists make tennis a no-go area. They also problematize yoga (all those doggy poses involve a lot of wrist action ) but that's ok as I can't stand yoga. I know it's a moral fault, I know Good People Do Yoga, but all that omming and centering. Gah. It's just so boring.
Which brings me to the Y and the weight room. It seems a good option. I can sit. Careful selection of machines reduces wrist pain. No teammates. No pressure on the old vulva. No omming (tho' an enormous amount of huffing and panting and grunting from the He-Man crowd).
So there I was in the Y, at the start of the Chinese New Year, ready to conquer my body and the world. I straddle the machine, I push up the weights--and oh my! At every machine, every repetition, such a crunching and popping and snapping and crackling. I kept waiting for those three little elves from the Rice Krispies commercial to show up and pour milk all over me, or for the He-Men to tell me I needed to take my old-lady rickety-rackety-causing-such-a-ruckus joints up and outa there. But they were kind. They just smiled, grunted, and moved out of range.
The problem with excercise is that I seem to be coming apart at the seams. I do want to exercise, I really do, and I actually enjoy it, well, some forms of it. . . can't stand team sports which totally negate one of the best things about exercising--the opportunity to withdraw completely into yourself--and bring back horrific memories of junior high and high school P.E. classes. Dear God, those volleyball drills, surely now condemned as a violation of human rights.
Anyway, team sports aside, and also any of those extreme activities that involve actual agony, I do like physical action. It's just that my body doesn't. I used to run, and really, truly, I enjoyed it; then my knee gave out. OK, I walked. I love walking but since my botched foot surgery I can hardly get through an hour's stand-up lecture without limping out of the classroom. So swim! say well-meaning friends. Great idea, say I, except I can't swim because, well, I can't swim, I can only do a kind of awkward dog paddle, and also chronic vulvadynia ensures that after just a few minutes in chlorine, my nether parts burst into metaphorical flames. So that leaves bicycling, which is totally groovy, if you ignore the Helmet Hair and the fact that because of my wrist problems my hands go completely numb within fifteen minutes, plus bike seats and tender vulvas don't always harmonize well. The weak wrists make tennis a no-go area. They also problematize yoga (all those doggy poses involve a lot of wrist action ) but that's ok as I can't stand yoga. I know it's a moral fault, I know Good People Do Yoga, but all that omming and centering. Gah. It's just so boring.
Which brings me to the Y and the weight room. It seems a good option. I can sit. Careful selection of machines reduces wrist pain. No teammates. No pressure on the old vulva. No omming (tho' an enormous amount of huffing and panting and grunting from the He-Man crowd).
So there I was in the Y, at the start of the Chinese New Year, ready to conquer my body and the world. I straddle the machine, I push up the weights--and oh my! At every machine, every repetition, such a crunching and popping and snapping and crackling. I kept waiting for those three little elves from the Rice Krispies commercial to show up and pour milk all over me, or for the He-Men to tell me I needed to take my old-lady rickety-rackety-causing-such-a-ruckus joints up and outa there. But they were kind. They just smiled, grunted, and moved out of range.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
A New Semester
The new semester began this week. What do people do, normal people in normal jobs? How do they cope without the constant renewal of the semester system? Every few months my world is made fresh--new schedule, new faces, new problems, new topics, new hopes and ambitions. Of course, a few months later, those hopes lie wrecked, those ambitions unrealized. But then I get to try again, and delude myself again, and I fall for it every time.
Anyway, a new semester has dawned and a colleague of mine greeted it by giving a cultural literacy quiz to the students in his introductory American history survey. About 120 students, mostly but not entirely sophomores, from all majors. As expected, they know nothing about the past. I get that (I've been a history buff since before I knew the word "history"--truly, since before kindergarten--but I get that I'm weird). So a rocking 0% identified Woodrow Wilson correctly and even here in the Deep South, only 22% correctly identified William Tecumseh Sherman (with “LSU president” counted as a complete and correct answer; what I loved was that several students thought he invented the Sherman tank). No surprises there. And really, even if they never actually learn who Wilson and Sherman were, life will go on, the social order will not be compromised, they'll live valuable and productive lives.
But then, bizarrely, 91% knew Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. Huh? Why do they know that? When (sob!) only 4% recognize a photo of George Harrison (with a guitar, mind you) and only 3% know who Orson Welles was. So much for their popular culture expertise. And of course, when you venture into the realm of the political, the results are mind-bogglingly horrifying: just think, of these eligible voters, 10% identified Ruth Bader Ginsburg, 19% knew Donald Rumsfeld (maybe that one's a good thing), and 0%-ZERO-nada-none of 'em knew that the city of Karachi is in Pakistan, that rather unstable nation-state that just may determine much of our future.
Still, lest we despair about the future of our country, take comfort in these stats:
Anyway, a new semester has dawned and a colleague of mine greeted it by giving a cultural literacy quiz to the students in his introductory American history survey. About 120 students, mostly but not entirely sophomores, from all majors. As expected, they know nothing about the past. I get that (I've been a history buff since before I knew the word "history"--truly, since before kindergarten--but I get that I'm weird). So a rocking 0% identified Woodrow Wilson correctly and even here in the Deep South, only 22% correctly identified William Tecumseh Sherman (with “LSU president” counted as a complete and correct answer; what I loved was that several students thought he invented the Sherman tank). No surprises there. And really, even if they never actually learn who Wilson and Sherman were, life will go on, the social order will not be compromised, they'll live valuable and productive lives.
But then, bizarrely, 91% knew Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. Huh? Why do they know that? When (sob!) only 4% recognize a photo of George Harrison (with a guitar, mind you) and only 3% know who Orson Welles was. So much for their popular culture expertise. And of course, when you venture into the realm of the political, the results are mind-bogglingly horrifying: just think, of these eligible voters, 10% identified Ruth Bader Ginsburg, 19% knew Donald Rumsfeld (maybe that one's a good thing), and 0%-ZERO-nada-none of 'em knew that the city of Karachi is in Pakistan, that rather unstable nation-state that just may determine much of our future.
Still, lest we despair about the future of our country, take comfort in these stats:
- 99% did not recognize a photo of Jon Huntsman (oh,come on, you remember him? running for the Republican presidential nomination til just a few days ago? really rich guy? oh right, they're all really rich. . . so google him).
- 45% knew Mr. Clean, the commercial cartoon character for cleaning products.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
More Ding-Dongs
As an update to my post "Hostess" on 1/12: for all of you desperate folks, should the Hostess Company bankruptcy mean the end of Ding-Dongs, here is a recipe from BeantownBaker.com, via a loyal reader:
Homemade Ding Dongs from BeantownBaker.com
Cake
3 ounces fine-quality semisweet chocolate
1 1/2 cups hot brewed coffee
3 cups sugar
2 1/2 cups flour
1 1/2 cups unsweetened cocoa powder (not Dutch process)
2 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp baking powder
1 1/4 tsp salt
3 eggs
3/4 cup vegetable oil
1 1/2 cups well-shaken buttermilk
3/4 tsp vanilla
Preheat oven to 300°F. and grease pans. Line bottoms of 2 10-inch round cake pans with wax paper and grease paper. If you don't have 10-inch cake pans, you can make 2 9-inch cake pans and a dozen cupcakes.
Finely chop chocolate and in a bowl combine with hot coffee. Let mixture stand, stirring occasionally, until chocolate is melted and mixture is smooth.
Into a large bowl sift together sugar, flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. In another large bowl with an electric mixer beat eggs until thickened slightly and lemon colored. Slowly add oil, buttermilk, vanilla, and melted chocolate mixture to eggs, beating until combined well. Add sugar mixture and beat on medium speed until just combined well.
Divide batter between pans and bake in middle of oven until a tester inserted in center comes out clean, 1 hour to 1 hour and 10 minutes.
Cool layers completely in pans on racks. Run a thin knife around edges of pans and invert layers onto racks. Carefully remove wax paper and cool layers completely. Cake layers may be made 1 day ahead and kept, wrapped well in plastic wrap, at room temperature.
7-minute frosting
2 egg whites
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup light corn syrup
2 Tbsp water
1 1/2 tsp pure vanilla extract
Combine frosting ingredients with a pinch of salt in a metal bowl set over a saucepan of simmering water and beat with a handheld electric mixer at high speed until frosting is thick and fluffy, 6 to 7 minutes. Remove bowl from heat and continue to beat until slightly cooled. Use frosting the day it is made.
Ganache
1 cup heavy cream
1 Tbsp unsalted butter
12 oz semisweet chocolate, chopped into 1/2-ounce pieces
Heat the heavy cream and the butter in a 3-quart saucepan over medium high heat. Bring to a boil.
Place the semisweet chocolate in a 3-quart stainless steel bowl. Pour the boiling cream over the chocolate and allow to stand for 5 minutes. Stir until smooth.
To assemble the Ding Dongs
Once the cake layers have cooled completely, use a small round cookie cutter to cut small circles of cake out of the layers. Enjoy the scraps or save them for cake balls.
Using the cone method, scoop out a small portion of cake from each circle. Fill with 7-minute frosting and replace top of cake.
Using a pastry brush or spoon, cover individual cakes with ganache. Allow ganache to completely set up before serving.
Yes, really. Can you imagine? Oh please, Hostess, please don't go!
Homemade Ding Dongs from BeantownBaker.com
Cake
3 ounces fine-quality semisweet chocolate
1 1/2 cups hot brewed coffee
3 cups sugar
2 1/2 cups flour
1 1/2 cups unsweetened cocoa powder (not Dutch process)
2 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp baking powder
1 1/4 tsp salt
3 eggs
3/4 cup vegetable oil
1 1/2 cups well-shaken buttermilk
3/4 tsp vanilla
Preheat oven to 300°F. and grease pans. Line bottoms of 2 10-inch round cake pans with wax paper and grease paper. If you don't have 10-inch cake pans, you can make 2 9-inch cake pans and a dozen cupcakes.
Finely chop chocolate and in a bowl combine with hot coffee. Let mixture stand, stirring occasionally, until chocolate is melted and mixture is smooth.
Into a large bowl sift together sugar, flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. In another large bowl with an electric mixer beat eggs until thickened slightly and lemon colored. Slowly add oil, buttermilk, vanilla, and melted chocolate mixture to eggs, beating until combined well. Add sugar mixture and beat on medium speed until just combined well.
Divide batter between pans and bake in middle of oven until a tester inserted in center comes out clean, 1 hour to 1 hour and 10 minutes.
Cool layers completely in pans on racks. Run a thin knife around edges of pans and invert layers onto racks. Carefully remove wax paper and cool layers completely. Cake layers may be made 1 day ahead and kept, wrapped well in plastic wrap, at room temperature.
7-minute frosting
2 egg whites
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup light corn syrup
2 Tbsp water
1 1/2 tsp pure vanilla extract
Combine frosting ingredients with a pinch of salt in a metal bowl set over a saucepan of simmering water and beat with a handheld electric mixer at high speed until frosting is thick and fluffy, 6 to 7 minutes. Remove bowl from heat and continue to beat until slightly cooled. Use frosting the day it is made.
Ganache
1 cup heavy cream
1 Tbsp unsalted butter
12 oz semisweet chocolate, chopped into 1/2-ounce pieces
Heat the heavy cream and the butter in a 3-quart saucepan over medium high heat. Bring to a boil.
Place the semisweet chocolate in a 3-quart stainless steel bowl. Pour the boiling cream over the chocolate and allow to stand for 5 minutes. Stir until smooth.
To assemble the Ding Dongs
Once the cake layers have cooled completely, use a small round cookie cutter to cut small circles of cake out of the layers. Enjoy the scraps or save them for cake balls.
Using the cone method, scoop out a small portion of cake from each circle. Fill with 7-minute frosting and replace top of cake.
Using a pastry brush or spoon, cover individual cakes with ganache. Allow ganache to completely set up before serving.
Yes, really. Can you imagine? Oh please, Hostess, please don't go!
Monday, January 16, 2012
Never mind
So the night before last Keith was in the mood and I was not. Such an odd situation, sigh, we wish. Anyway, we both went to sleep with no canoodling. Then, in the wee hours of the morning, Keith began to kick me. Not "kick me" as in he's sleeping and rolling over rather restlessly and his leg bumps mine. I mean, Keith began to kick me: he grabbed me and started to kick the daylights--except I guess they were nightlights--out of me. I hollered and woke him up; he's all confused and apologetic and out of it; the dog, standing anxiously at the foot of the bed, is wondering what he's supposed to do now; the cats have hightailed it out of there. The next morning, Keith vaguely recalls his dream: he was running from someone and had to kick a door.
OK. Except that evening, as I'm walking the dog, I start thinking about the whole sequence of events. And the proverbial light bulb winks on, as I realize, hey, wait just a sec, I say no to sex and he's kicking open a door!! I'm outraged and horrified, I'm in total feminist mode, I can't believe my husband was trying to kick open my door. I hurry the dog on home, a cruel act as the dog has a hard time hurrying these days, and storm inside and confront him. Him. My husband. This lovely man who has suddenly descended down the evolutionary ladder and now looks to me like some sort of primitive beast. "Do you realize what has happened? Do you realize I said no to sex and then you have a dream where you're kicking in a door?? And you're really kicking me? My door!?"
Keith looks up from the football game. He's a tad surprised. He says, "But honey, in my dream I was kicking the door closed."
Oh. Well then. Never mind.
OK. Except that evening, as I'm walking the dog, I start thinking about the whole sequence of events. And the proverbial light bulb winks on, as I realize, hey, wait just a sec, I say no to sex and he's kicking open a door!! I'm outraged and horrified, I'm in total feminist mode, I can't believe my husband was trying to kick open my door. I hurry the dog on home, a cruel act as the dog has a hard time hurrying these days, and storm inside and confront him. Him. My husband. This lovely man who has suddenly descended down the evolutionary ladder and now looks to me like some sort of primitive beast. "Do you realize what has happened? Do you realize I said no to sex and then you have a dream where you're kicking in a door?? And you're really kicking me? My door!?"
Keith looks up from the football game. He's a tad surprised. He says, "But honey, in my dream I was kicking the door closed."
Oh. Well then. Never mind.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
New Year's Resolution
Owen flew back to Oregon and college on Friday, and I cleaned his room and changed his sheets yesterday, so I figure the New Year starts today and therefore I must decide on the whole Resolution thing. I do know that technically the New Year began two weeks ago but one must not let technicalities become tyrants, and how the heck is one supposed to make sound resolutions on a day one is hung over and facing hours of clean-up from the massive party the night before, and as long as the kids are here it's still the holidays, and the New Year does not start til the holidays are over--itt's a rule.
I resolved, actually, not to make any resolutions this year because it seemed silly and the road to sure defeat and disappointment, but then I read an interview with one of the guys who've written this book on will power, and he said that although only 30% of people who make New Year's resolutions fulfill them, one still has a better chance of effecting real change if one makes a resolution than if one does not. Okey dokey. Herein be it resolved that I. . . . That I what? Here's where I freeze up. I'm still traumatized by the list of resolutions I drew up a couple of years ago: I sat down and thought, ok, what absolutely must change, and I ended up with something like 38 items, and the last one was "Be less hard on myself" and I wasn't even being ironic.
So, this year, just one resolution and it is sooo boring and banal and a downright cliche': yes, yes, like everyone else in the Western world, I resolve to lose weight. More specifically, I resolve to go back on Weightwatchers and lose the 12 pounds that I lost two years ago, pounds that had gradually crept up on me during my 40s, pounds that came hustling back home this past year. The lesson is clear: In your 40s, pounds creep; in your 50s, they leap. Ceaseless vigilance is required.
Honestly, I think I look fine, as long as I'm not naked or in a swimsuit or (worst of all) in jeans without a top on. (Hugh walked in on me that way a few weeks ago and burst into horrified laughter.) "Muffin top" hardly does me justice--more like one of those giant scoops of ice cream gorging over the side of the cone. Still, I'm not a swimsuit model or a porn star and I usually do remember to put a top on, and so the only person who sees me regularly in such conditions is Keith, who--bless him--continues to want sex with me anyway. And I live in Louisiana where obesity is such an epidemic that my doctor, scarred by what she sees everyday, tends to think I'm anorexic.
So why then worry? Why bother with Weightwatchers and all the ensuing self-discipline and hunger and crabbiness and worst of all, the constant self-obsessive thoughts -- oh, can't have that, oh shoot, how many points is that, no better not try that? The answer is simple: my underwear is tight and my bra, even on the loosest hook, is uncomfortable, and I bought this swimsuit two years ago that I really like but can't fit in right now ditto my favorite little black dress. Basically, I don't wanna buy new undies, I hate bra-shopping, and damn, it's such a cute suit and I do love that dress.
No, that's not true. Well, all of that is true, but there are other factors:
1. To lose weight, I have to return to exercising regularly. When I am exercising regularly, I feel sexier. So we have sex more often. This is a big deal to Keith. He's a good guy. He deserves big deals.
2.To lose weight, I have to drink less. Descended from and related to a veritable crowd of alcoholics, I think maybe this might be a good idea. Damn. And heavy sigh.
3. Keith now weighs less and is in better shape than at any time in the period I have known him. He's become Mr. Fitness. If we continue on as we are, we'll be able to illustrate a new edition of "Jack Spratt and His Wife." This is not a future I want to contemplate.
So, hey celery and carrot sticks, happy new year.
I resolved, actually, not to make any resolutions this year because it seemed silly and the road to sure defeat and disappointment, but then I read an interview with one of the guys who've written this book on will power, and he said that although only 30% of people who make New Year's resolutions fulfill them, one still has a better chance of effecting real change if one makes a resolution than if one does not. Okey dokey. Herein be it resolved that I. . . . That I what? Here's where I freeze up. I'm still traumatized by the list of resolutions I drew up a couple of years ago: I sat down and thought, ok, what absolutely must change, and I ended up with something like 38 items, and the last one was "Be less hard on myself" and I wasn't even being ironic.
So, this year, just one resolution and it is sooo boring and banal and a downright cliche': yes, yes, like everyone else in the Western world, I resolve to lose weight. More specifically, I resolve to go back on Weightwatchers and lose the 12 pounds that I lost two years ago, pounds that had gradually crept up on me during my 40s, pounds that came hustling back home this past year. The lesson is clear: In your 40s, pounds creep; in your 50s, they leap. Ceaseless vigilance is required.
Honestly, I think I look fine, as long as I'm not naked or in a swimsuit or (worst of all) in jeans without a top on. (Hugh walked in on me that way a few weeks ago and burst into horrified laughter.) "Muffin top" hardly does me justice--more like one of those giant scoops of ice cream gorging over the side of the cone. Still, I'm not a swimsuit model or a porn star and I usually do remember to put a top on, and so the only person who sees me regularly in such conditions is Keith, who--bless him--continues to want sex with me anyway. And I live in Louisiana where obesity is such an epidemic that my doctor, scarred by what she sees everyday, tends to think I'm anorexic.
So why then worry? Why bother with Weightwatchers and all the ensuing self-discipline and hunger and crabbiness and worst of all, the constant self-obsessive thoughts -- oh, can't have that, oh shoot, how many points is that, no better not try that? The answer is simple: my underwear is tight and my bra, even on the loosest hook, is uncomfortable, and I bought this swimsuit two years ago that I really like but can't fit in right now ditto my favorite little black dress. Basically, I don't wanna buy new undies, I hate bra-shopping, and damn, it's such a cute suit and I do love that dress.
No, that's not true. Well, all of that is true, but there are other factors:
1. To lose weight, I have to return to exercising regularly. When I am exercising regularly, I feel sexier. So we have sex more often. This is a big deal to Keith. He's a good guy. He deserves big deals.
2.To lose weight, I have to drink less. Descended from and related to a veritable crowd of alcoholics, I think maybe this might be a good idea. Damn. And heavy sigh.
3. Keith now weighs less and is in better shape than at any time in the period I have known him. He's become Mr. Fitness. If we continue on as we are, we'll be able to illustrate a new edition of "Jack Spratt and His Wife." This is not a future I want to contemplate.
So, hey celery and carrot sticks, happy new year.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Cats and Funerals
I'm typing this on the less comfy sofa, because the kitties are happily ensconced on the comfy sofa and I don't want to disturb them. This alarms me. I can see that, if I fail to exercise due diligence, I'll become a Crazy Cat Lady.
Crazy Cat Ladies are not, in general, Good People Persons. I am not, by nature, a Good People Person. I have become one through sheer will power. But I grow old. Will power, like everything else, droops these days. I find myself less and less inclined to make the effort. Crazy Cat Ladyhood beckons.
Today, for example, I directed parking at, and attended the funeral of, one of my fellow church members. I didn't know Jack well but I respected him a great deal, and as the funeral wound on, and I learned more and more about him, I realized how much I regretted not knowing him better. I sat there and reflected on previous funerals I'd attended for church folks, and realized I had felt this way many times before--this sense of, "I had no idea" and "Gosh, I'd have loved to talk with him/her about that" and "Shoot, that is so cool--I wish I had known that before." And then the funeral ended and I zipped past the fellowship hall where the reception was being held so that I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. I drove home to my cats.
Keith is a trained Myers Briggs assessment giver and counselor--you know, the personality profile that puts you on a grid of Intuitive/Judging/Sensing/and something else that I can't recall. He's a Myers Briggs cheerleader; as an historian trained to look for the particular and the unique as opposed to the general and universal, I'm a huge skeptic. But I have learned one very valuable thing from M-B: some folks, like Keith, get energy from being with people whereas others, like me, draw energy from solitude and find other people's company to be energy-draining--and (here's the Important Bit): one way is not better than the other; it just helps a lot to know who you are and what you need.
Which is all well and good, until one day you wake up and realize it's just you and a bunch of cats.
Crazy Cat Ladies are not, in general, Good People Persons. I am not, by nature, a Good People Person. I have become one through sheer will power. But I grow old. Will power, like everything else, droops these days. I find myself less and less inclined to make the effort. Crazy Cat Ladyhood beckons.
Today, for example, I directed parking at, and attended the funeral of, one of my fellow church members. I didn't know Jack well but I respected him a great deal, and as the funeral wound on, and I learned more and more about him, I realized how much I regretted not knowing him better. I sat there and reflected on previous funerals I'd attended for church folks, and realized I had felt this way many times before--this sense of, "I had no idea" and "Gosh, I'd have loved to talk with him/her about that" and "Shoot, that is so cool--I wish I had known that before." And then the funeral ended and I zipped past the fellowship hall where the reception was being held so that I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. I drove home to my cats.
Keith is a trained Myers Briggs assessment giver and counselor--you know, the personality profile that puts you on a grid of Intuitive/Judging/Sensing/and something else that I can't recall. He's a Myers Briggs cheerleader; as an historian trained to look for the particular and the unique as opposed to the general and universal, I'm a huge skeptic. But I have learned one very valuable thing from M-B: some folks, like Keith, get energy from being with people whereas others, like me, draw energy from solitude and find other people's company to be energy-draining--and (here's the Important Bit): one way is not better than the other; it just helps a lot to know who you are and what you need.
Which is all well and good, until one day you wake up and realize it's just you and a bunch of cats.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Hostess
Normally I skip the Business section of the newspaper. Doesn't everyone? Except today, riffling through, there was this article: "Hostess Declares Bankruptcy." Hostess? Hostess?? Maker of Twinkies, Ho-Hos, Ding-Dongs, and Cupcakes?
I'm bereft. Bummed. Broken-hearted.
Hostess??? Damn.
I know it's all bad for you--Ding-Dongs etc--disgusting and sugary and chemically and saturated fatty and well, just the aesthetics--but it's childhood, you know? At least my childhood.
Think of a Ho-Ho. That beautiful perfect roll. You carefully peel off the shreddy, really thin tinfoil wrapping; you nibble,strip, lift the thin overlay of chocolate product substitute off the sorta kinda cake-like substance; you carefully unroll the kinda cake. You aim for a single, untorn, strip of kinda cakelike stuff. And then you lick off the white chemically sorta like frosting cream, and eat the cakelike stuff. It's glorious.
But nowhere near as good as a Hostess Cupcake. I love Hostess Cupcakes. The allover chocolate almost-fondant-at-least-if-fondant-were-plastic icing, the sweet cake, the not-quite-Cool-Whip-but-close cream filling. . . I know I shouldn't love it, real foodies don't love it, but I do. Totally. I remember coming home on the school bus, enduring the filth of smushed peanut butter on white bread sandwiches and stale Kit Kats and sour cream and onion potato chip crumbles and the horror of third-grade boys, thinking/dreaming/fantasing about/hoping for that Hostess cupcake that I knew was in the kitchen pantry. But it wasn't. J.C. had eaten it. And I remember the disappointment and outrage and utter loathing for my brother. It came close to the time he ate all the crunchy cheesy layer off the lasagne.
And then there are Twinkies. I know anyone with a shred of self-respect and grown-uppedness abhors Twinkies. But why? OK, maybe the ordinary Twinkie is a tad downmarket. But the chocolate Twinkie, available in select markets for a limited time only, is truly wonderful. It shouldn't be but it is.
Being a good mom, I kept Twinkies and Ho-Hos and Cupcakes from my kids. Apparently so did all the other moms. And now Hostess is bankrupt. And our grandkids will pay the price. A childhood without Ding-Dongs. Oh, the horror.
I'm bereft. Bummed. Broken-hearted.
Hostess??? Damn.
I know it's all bad for you--Ding-Dongs etc--disgusting and sugary and chemically and saturated fatty and well, just the aesthetics--but it's childhood, you know? At least my childhood.
Think of a Ho-Ho. That beautiful perfect roll. You carefully peel off the shreddy, really thin tinfoil wrapping; you nibble,strip, lift the thin overlay of chocolate product substitute off the sorta kinda cake-like substance; you carefully unroll the kinda cake. You aim for a single, untorn, strip of kinda cakelike stuff. And then you lick off the white chemically sorta like frosting cream, and eat the cakelike stuff. It's glorious.
But nowhere near as good as a Hostess Cupcake. I love Hostess Cupcakes. The allover chocolate almost-fondant-at-least-if-fondant-were-plastic icing, the sweet cake, the not-quite-Cool-Whip-but-close cream filling. . . I know I shouldn't love it, real foodies don't love it, but I do. Totally. I remember coming home on the school bus, enduring the filth of smushed peanut butter on white bread sandwiches and stale Kit Kats and sour cream and onion potato chip crumbles and the horror of third-grade boys, thinking/dreaming/fantasing about/hoping for that Hostess cupcake that I knew was in the kitchen pantry. But it wasn't. J.C. had eaten it. And I remember the disappointment and outrage and utter loathing for my brother. It came close to the time he ate all the crunchy cheesy layer off the lasagne.
And then there are Twinkies. I know anyone with a shred of self-respect and grown-uppedness abhors Twinkies. But why? OK, maybe the ordinary Twinkie is a tad downmarket. But the chocolate Twinkie, available in select markets for a limited time only, is truly wonderful. It shouldn't be but it is.
Being a good mom, I kept Twinkies and Ho-Hos and Cupcakes from my kids. Apparently so did all the other moms. And now Hostess is bankrupt. And our grandkids will pay the price. A childhood without Ding-Dongs. Oh, the horror.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Skill Set
A follow-up to my post of January 8:
Owen has a skin rash and so took himself off to the doctor and got a prescription for a medicated ointment. When he got home, however, he couldn't get the ointment tube open so he handed it to Keith. "Dad, what's up with this? I can't get this foil thing off." Keith then showed him how you have to flip the cap over and use the pointy end to break a hole in the foil seal. And then he called over to me, "See, hon? We still have important skills to pass on to the next generation."
Owen has a skin rash and so took himself off to the doctor and got a prescription for a medicated ointment. When he got home, however, he couldn't get the ointment tube open so he handed it to Keith. "Dad, what's up with this? I can't get this foil thing off." Keith then showed him how you have to flip the cap over and use the pointy end to break a hole in the foil seal. And then he called over to me, "See, hon? We still have important skills to pass on to the next generation."
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
The phone didn't ring
There was a shooting at the mall this weekend. Not the old mall in the iffy section of town, the faded one filled with short-term stores selling cheesy sequinned tops and knock-off jeans. No, the shooting was at THE mall. The big mall. The one with the big movie theater and the extensive outdoor neighborhood-y hey-look-it's-just-like-an-old-fashioned-downtown-street! add-on zone with all the ritzy shops and the surrounding circle of hotels for all the weekend shoppers who make the pilgrimage to Consumer Heaven from the bayous and small towns. Packed at 9:30 on a Saturday night, the restaurants heaving with Baton Rouge's version of yuppie singles, the area suddenly erupted with gunshots as a quarrel turned toxic, a 17-year-old drew a gun, and two 15-year-old boys, who just happened to be there on the sidewalk, fell down bleediing.
Hugh was there. Right there. Some yards away. Ten seconds earlier, and he'd have been right there. On the sidewalk. Maybe bleeding on the sidewalk.
Three families got a phone call on Saturday night. We didn't. We could have, but we didn't.
I've lived long enough to know there are no reasons for any of this. The cliches hold: Life is random. No rhyme or reason. It's all pointless. What the fuck. All I can do is hug Hugh a little tighter (how he hates that) and pray for those three families and hope. Hope that Hugh will continue being ten seconds late and that that phone call will never come.
Hugh was there. Right there. Some yards away. Ten seconds earlier, and he'd have been right there. On the sidewalk. Maybe bleeding on the sidewalk.
Three families got a phone call on Saturday night. We didn't. We could have, but we didn't.
I've lived long enough to know there are no reasons for any of this. The cliches hold: Life is random. No rhyme or reason. It's all pointless. What the fuck. All I can do is hug Hugh a little tighter (how he hates that) and pray for those three families and hope. Hope that Hugh will continue being ten seconds late and that that phone call will never come.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Excitement
My Epiphany gift is Excitement.
Explanation: Several years ago, we started what has become a tradition at my church. During the offering on Epiphany Sunday, the ushers not only collect our gifts, they also hand out stars--simple stars cut out of construction paper by the members of the Mission-and-Peacemaking Committee on a chili-and-beer-filled evening the week before. [Note to those of you outside the Christian liturgical tradition: Epiphany throughout the Christian world marks the day the Wise Men arrived bearing gifts for the Christ Child. But both the Mission and Peacemaking Committee and the beer-and-chili nights are rather peculiar to my particular church. . .] On each star is written a simple noun naming a "spiritual gift"--things like steadfastness or hospitality or charity or simplicity or generosity or discernment. Each member of the congregation receives a star, and is supposed to spend the next year thinking about, reflecting on, trying to develop, giving thanks for that gift. Most years I receive Patience. I had begun to think it was a plot: that the Peacemaking Committee members and the ushers sat there in the back of the sanctuary and stacked the deck against me, that they huddled in the back pews and cackled at the thought of me with Patience.
This year, tho', I think the Peacemaking folks downed a few too many beers, as the stars bore "spiritual gifts" not found in any version of the New Testament: gifts like "moxie," "introspection," and yes, "excitement." Keith got Creativity. He leaned over during the choir anthem and whispered, "With some creativity, we could generate a lot of excitement"--nudge, nudge, wink, wink. I ignored him. Geez louise. We were sitting in a friggin' pew, for pete's sake.
OK. For marriage, yes, excitement is clearly a good thing. But --a spiritual gift?
Trying not to reject what was given, I decided my star must be a gentle divine smack for my lack of, yes, excitement, at the fact that right now, even as I type, the LSU Tigers are playing The Most Important Game Ever against Alabama. Except that that game was actually last month, so this time around it's The Mostest Importantest Game Ever And We Really Mean It. The prestigious Catholic boys' schoool in town cancelled classes today and tomorrow morning "to maintain academic integrity." I kid you not.
In the midst of all this, ahem, excitement, I am, I hasten to assert, not entirely unmoved. I mean, push comes to shove, yeah, I do hope LSU wins. Mostly because I'm a nice person and do not want my husband, sons, and family to be depressed. Also because, in general, I am not fond of anything to do with Alabama, which ranks right up there with Mississippi as a place that Time and Good Sense and Right Thinking passed on by.
But here's the thing, normally on a night featuring yet another LSU Most Importantestest Game Ever For Sure For Sure, I'd send on my guys with a wave and a smile and then I'd smugly and snugly settle into blissful solitude with a good book. This time, however, a dopey paper star bearing "Excitement" inscribed in Magic Marker tossed me into orbit, launched me into dizzying spirals of anxiety: what'swrongwithme whycan'tI joinin otherpeopledoit justgoalong whyaren'tyou whydon'tyou whyhaven'tyou . . . And so, despite my utter lack of any real interest, the end result of my Epiphany-wrought neurosis was that I actually did intend to attend the Game Party tonight with Keith. Out of this sense that, well, given the star and all, maybe God was saying hey you dull person, you boring soul, get excited, join in, be a sport, BE SOMEONE ELSE.
And then I came home this afternoon and my heart was racing and I felt like the mere act of breathing took a certain amount of intentionality, if that makes any sense.
It probably doesn't. But neither did not breathing. So I decided to skip The Game. Watch some British tv. Drink some white wine. Watch the rain. Pet the dog. Calm the kitty.
I'm breathing just fine now. I ripped up my star. Damn Excitement anyway. Even Patience seems preferable.
Explanation: Several years ago, we started what has become a tradition at my church. During the offering on Epiphany Sunday, the ushers not only collect our gifts, they also hand out stars--simple stars cut out of construction paper by the members of the Mission-and-Peacemaking Committee on a chili-and-beer-filled evening the week before. [Note to those of you outside the Christian liturgical tradition: Epiphany throughout the Christian world marks the day the Wise Men arrived bearing gifts for the Christ Child. But both the Mission and Peacemaking Committee and the beer-and-chili nights are rather peculiar to my particular church. . .] On each star is written a simple noun naming a "spiritual gift"--things like steadfastness or hospitality or charity or simplicity or generosity or discernment. Each member of the congregation receives a star, and is supposed to spend the next year thinking about, reflecting on, trying to develop, giving thanks for that gift. Most years I receive Patience. I had begun to think it was a plot: that the Peacemaking Committee members and the ushers sat there in the back of the sanctuary and stacked the deck against me, that they huddled in the back pews and cackled at the thought of me with Patience.
This year, tho', I think the Peacemaking folks downed a few too many beers, as the stars bore "spiritual gifts" not found in any version of the New Testament: gifts like "moxie," "introspection," and yes, "excitement." Keith got Creativity. He leaned over during the choir anthem and whispered, "With some creativity, we could generate a lot of excitement"--nudge, nudge, wink, wink. I ignored him. Geez louise. We were sitting in a friggin' pew, for pete's sake.
OK. For marriage, yes, excitement is clearly a good thing. But --a spiritual gift?
Trying not to reject what was given, I decided my star must be a gentle divine smack for my lack of, yes, excitement, at the fact that right now, even as I type, the LSU Tigers are playing The Most Important Game Ever against Alabama. Except that that game was actually last month, so this time around it's The Mostest Importantest Game Ever And We Really Mean It. The prestigious Catholic boys' schoool in town cancelled classes today and tomorrow morning "to maintain academic integrity." I kid you not.
In the midst of all this, ahem, excitement, I am, I hasten to assert, not entirely unmoved. I mean, push comes to shove, yeah, I do hope LSU wins. Mostly because I'm a nice person and do not want my husband, sons, and family to be depressed. Also because, in general, I am not fond of anything to do with Alabama, which ranks right up there with Mississippi as a place that Time and Good Sense and Right Thinking passed on by.
But here's the thing, normally on a night featuring yet another LSU Most Importantestest Game Ever For Sure For Sure, I'd send on my guys with a wave and a smile and then I'd smugly and snugly settle into blissful solitude with a good book. This time, however, a dopey paper star bearing "Excitement" inscribed in Magic Marker tossed me into orbit, launched me into dizzying spirals of anxiety: what'swrongwithme whycan'tI joinin otherpeopledoit justgoalong whyaren'tyou whydon'tyou whyhaven'tyou . . . And so, despite my utter lack of any real interest, the end result of my Epiphany-wrought neurosis was that I actually did intend to attend the Game Party tonight with Keith. Out of this sense that, well, given the star and all, maybe God was saying hey you dull person, you boring soul, get excited, join in, be a sport, BE SOMEONE ELSE.
And then I came home this afternoon and my heart was racing and I felt like the mere act of breathing took a certain amount of intentionality, if that makes any sense.
It probably doesn't. But neither did not breathing. So I decided to skip The Game. Watch some British tv. Drink some white wine. Watch the rain. Pet the dog. Calm the kitty.
I'm breathing just fine now. I ripped up my star. Damn Excitement anyway. Even Patience seems preferable.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
A Phone Call--and a Good Hard Cry
I talked on the phone for quite awhile with my good friend Joanne. Her mom's mental state, ravaged by vascular dementia, has deteriorated rapidly over the last few months. It hurt, that talk. After I hung up, I cried.
I cried for Joanne. She and her mom somehow escaped all the craziness and hurt that accompanies most mother-daughter relationships. They were always just so right--close, but not in that creepy way that makes you wonder if the mother is trying to relive or somehow make up for something that she lacked; no role reversal; no shutting out or closing in. Somehow they did it--Carol remained the mom yet Joanne grew up and they both recognized and rejoiced in that and were just so damned right with each other. I've rarely seen a relationship so solid and decent, so the way it is supposed to be.
I cried for Joe, Carol's husband and Joanne's dad. One of the most loving and genuinely kind men I have ever known, Joe cared for Carol through years of debilitating arthritis, and somehow made it seem simple, just love, you know. Somehow he made you think, "Oh right. That's the way love is. That's what people who love each other do." Until you looked around and realized, no, no, most don't.
And I cried for me. Joe and Carol never knew, even Joanne never knew, but those two, their marriage, their partnership, their Joe-and-Carolness, shaped my life in such important ways.
It was during college. Our third year? Maybe our senior year. Joanne and I shared a Calvin College apartment, with four girls, er, young women. Geez. We were girls, so unbelievably utterly girls. I was visiting Joanne in New Jersey and her parents took us into Manhattan. I don't know about most New Jerseyites, but Joanne's parents were not in the least intimidated by New York City. No, Joe and Carol made Manhattan their own. They may have lived in Paterson, but they were New Yorkers in their soul. We had gone to a show, I think, or perhaps dinner. It was late but of course the streets were full and we stopped for ice cream cones. And Joe and Carol walked ahead down the sidewalk--this New York sidewalk, teeming, bustling, bursting with life--and they held hands and Joe, a tall man, bent to hear Carol's quip and then tossed his head back and roared with laughter.
I looked at them and thought, "I want that." I wanted it all. The nighttime.The city street. The laughter. But most of all, the hand-holding. I often saw my parents hugging or kissing, but I had never seen them hold hands. I had never seen any of their friends or any of my aunts and uncles hold hands. Up until that point, frankly, I had no idea people over age 40 held hands. And I think--ok, yes, I'm probably giving my 19-or-20-year-old self way too much credit here--but I think I got it. I saw that hand holding for what it was: the obvious comfort in each other's company, the affection and amusement, the companionship.
My parents loved each other but they were opposites. They sparred and sparked and tussled and tore. Their relationship was the stuff of romance and drama, so appealing and exciting that most of my siblings chose a similar sort of marriage. But sparks can so easily ignite a raging fire that shrivels the skin and leaves lasting scars. I didn't want that. I didn't know how much I didn't want that, until that night, walking behind Joe and Carol, I saw a different sort of marriage, one in which the sparks glowed steadily, like a warming fire flickering behind the grate. Without even realizing it, I made a choice that night.
We've been so lucky. Keith and I have walked on so many city streets--New York, New Orleans, Chicago, San Francisco, Houston, London, Dublin, Glasgow, Amsterdam, Orvieto--and we've walked holding hands.
So I hung up the phone and I cried. Cried in sorrow for what is gone and will be so missed, cried in thanks for all that was, and cried in wonder for the way the simplest things--an ice cream cone, a burst of laughter, a couple holding hands--can change, and make, one's world.
I cried for Joanne. She and her mom somehow escaped all the craziness and hurt that accompanies most mother-daughter relationships. They were always just so right--close, but not in that creepy way that makes you wonder if the mother is trying to relive or somehow make up for something that she lacked; no role reversal; no shutting out or closing in. Somehow they did it--Carol remained the mom yet Joanne grew up and they both recognized and rejoiced in that and were just so damned right with each other. I've rarely seen a relationship so solid and decent, so the way it is supposed to be.
I cried for Joe, Carol's husband and Joanne's dad. One of the most loving and genuinely kind men I have ever known, Joe cared for Carol through years of debilitating arthritis, and somehow made it seem simple, just love, you know. Somehow he made you think, "Oh right. That's the way love is. That's what people who love each other do." Until you looked around and realized, no, no, most don't.
And I cried for me. Joe and Carol never knew, even Joanne never knew, but those two, their marriage, their partnership, their Joe-and-Carolness, shaped my life in such important ways.
It was during college. Our third year? Maybe our senior year. Joanne and I shared a Calvin College apartment, with four girls, er, young women. Geez. We were girls, so unbelievably utterly girls. I was visiting Joanne in New Jersey and her parents took us into Manhattan. I don't know about most New Jerseyites, but Joanne's parents were not in the least intimidated by New York City. No, Joe and Carol made Manhattan their own. They may have lived in Paterson, but they were New Yorkers in their soul. We had gone to a show, I think, or perhaps dinner. It was late but of course the streets were full and we stopped for ice cream cones. And Joe and Carol walked ahead down the sidewalk--this New York sidewalk, teeming, bustling, bursting with life--and they held hands and Joe, a tall man, bent to hear Carol's quip and then tossed his head back and roared with laughter.
I looked at them and thought, "I want that." I wanted it all. The nighttime.The city street. The laughter. But most of all, the hand-holding. I often saw my parents hugging or kissing, but I had never seen them hold hands. I had never seen any of their friends or any of my aunts and uncles hold hands. Up until that point, frankly, I had no idea people over age 40 held hands. And I think--ok, yes, I'm probably giving my 19-or-20-year-old self way too much credit here--but I think I got it. I saw that hand holding for what it was: the obvious comfort in each other's company, the affection and amusement, the companionship.
My parents loved each other but they were opposites. They sparred and sparked and tussled and tore. Their relationship was the stuff of romance and drama, so appealing and exciting that most of my siblings chose a similar sort of marriage. But sparks can so easily ignite a raging fire that shrivels the skin and leaves lasting scars. I didn't want that. I didn't know how much I didn't want that, until that night, walking behind Joe and Carol, I saw a different sort of marriage, one in which the sparks glowed steadily, like a warming fire flickering behind the grate. Without even realizing it, I made a choice that night.
We've been so lucky. Keith and I have walked on so many city streets--New York, New Orleans, Chicago, San Francisco, Houston, London, Dublin, Glasgow, Amsterdam, Orvieto--and we've walked holding hands.
So I hung up the phone and I cried. Cried in sorrow for what is gone and will be so missed, cried in thanks for all that was, and cried in wonder for the way the simplest things--an ice cream cone, a burst of laughter, a couple holding hands--can change, and make, one's world.
A New TV
Today we bought a new tv. A Google tv. We can access the Internet and stream Netflix in Hi Def.
Good lord.
Me: "You should know how to do this. Why don't you know how to do this? You're a teenager. Teenagers know how to do this stuff."
Owen: "Way to stereotype, Mom. You gonna start telling racist jokes now?"
I'm traumatized. We're all traumatized. Owen, upset by all the drama, has mounted his bike and disappeared into the gloaming. Over on the sofa, Hugh is glowering and muttering, sure if we'd only left it to him, all would be well. Keith is on the phone, trying not to cuss out some poor minimum-waged peon at the Best Buy Help Desk. And me, well, I'm blogging to y'all.
I remember tvs. You bought 'em. You plugged 'em in. You watched 'em. Life was Good. Or at least ok. We didn't know any better. Life was at least simple.
Our old tv is 10 years old. Huge, in terms of space consumed, small in terms of screen, pretty basic in terms of sound. Seemed ok to me. Except lately I found myself asking, "Gosh, why are they filming in such muted colors? Why do directors want everything to look so drained?" And it took College Son, home for the holidays, to point out that, no, no, Mom You Moron, directors aren't filming that way, it's your horrible tv.
We've talked and talked about getting a new tv but the whole process always seemed so overwhelming. And the tv prices so high. But then the holidays came and both the boys showed up at home, moaning about our rotten tv. Nothing too new there, but then my mother-in-law, my friggin' mother-in-law, queen of Never Spending Anything, arrived for a visit and actually commented on how bad the tv was. Geez. But of course the clincher, the thing that made it all happen, is that the Saints have a Big Game tonight and the LSU Tigers have A Really Really Big Game on Monday. So now we have a new tv.
Sort of.
The new tv sits on the antique chest-with-drawers that has served as our tv stand since Keith cut out the back of the cabinet for all the tv and vcr wires way back before we married.. He always meant to sand and refinish said chest, and of course he never has. So now there perches upon this lovely, battered wooden chest a totally up-to-date 42" flat screen. You can tell the new tv is wondering how and why it ended up in such a downmarket environment. Well, fine. Be snooty, ye wretched rectangle. "Just plug it in and follow the instructions on screen," said the cute Best Buy salesguy. Right. The 15-minutes set-up has now consumed ten hours and counting, several phone calls to the Best Buy Geek Squad (they've hung up on us no less than four times this afternoon), two phone calls to the Direct TV Satellite people, one quick trip to Radio Shack to buy a cord with blue-green-red thingies to replace the cord with yellow-white-red thingies, the conscription of Owen's somewhat technically inclined buddy Conrad, and several rather volume-intensive discussions between and among the various inhabitants of this household. These included a number of helpful exchanges along the lines of the following:
Hugh: "Here, let me try something. Hand me the controller."
Me: "It's not a controller. It's a keypad."
Hugh (rolling his eyes): "It's a controller. It controls the tv remotely. That means it's a remote control. A COOONNNNTROOOLLLLEEEEEERRRRR."
Me (by this time determined to show my obnoxiously condescending offspring that I do in fact possess useful and up-to-date knowledge): "No, no, no, if you say "controller" to the Best Buy Guys they'll think you're talking about this (I brandish the remote control that goes with our satellite tv box) but the problem is the KEYPAD ( I hold up the Star Trekky groovy device that's come with the new tv and that looks like we now have the capability of initiating nuclear war) . It's a KEYPAD."
Hugh: "MOM. It's a controller."
Me: "No, honestly, it's an important difference I think. It's a keypad."
Hugh: "Why are you acting like you know anything about any of this? It's ridiculous. And it's a controller."
. . . .
I'm embarrassed to admit how long we continued. So I won't.
Keith is now maniacally chopping vegetables in the kitchen--never a good sign. I'm not sure our marriage will survive this purchase. Should've gotten a new bathroom sink instead. At least then we wouldn't have discovered we'd need to spend $10 more every month for high definition reception (we had no idea we were even buying a "Hi Def" tv). Water comes without definition. And I know how to turn the faucet on and off and I understand the difference between hot and cold.
I don't remember there being such a huge technological gap between me and my parents. Certainly they didn't like the music I listened to--but they didn't have to ask me for help in operating the radio and record-player. My mom didn't know the difference between "The Waltons" and "Little House on the Prairie"--but she could work the tv. They got mad about how much time we kids spent on the phone and once to my mother's horror I ran up an enormoous monthly long-distance bill talking to my boyfriend in Kalamazoo--but she knew which buttons to press to make a call. And when it came to home movies--there my mom was completely in charge, the only one in the entire extended family who knew how to use the movie camera, how to splice the little reels of film to make the big ones, how to run the projector. It does seem, in fact, that not only childhood but early adulthood followed the same pattern: my mom showed me how to do things, how to make things, how to fix things, how to run things, how to operate things, from the hi-fi to the stickshift, from the lawn mower to the Christmas lights, from checking the oil to cleaning out the dryer lint.
I don't think--oh for pete's sake I know--that my sons don't have the same sense of me as a competent person. I need help with the remote and I can't figure out my smart phone and I have to ask Hugh to take pictures because I can't seem to make the camera work and I'm a little unclear on the whole Hulu thing.
Maybe this greater equality in parent-child relations is a good thing. Maybe the fact that my kids have no doubts about my limits and utter faillibility makes it easier for them to head in new directions. Maybe. But I dunno. The sense that your parent knows all the important stuff--that's a rather powerful protective shield to wield as you face the dragons of daily adolescent life. Still, I imagine there's an app for that.
Good lord.
Me: "You should know how to do this. Why don't you know how to do this? You're a teenager. Teenagers know how to do this stuff."
Owen: "Way to stereotype, Mom. You gonna start telling racist jokes now?"
I'm traumatized. We're all traumatized. Owen, upset by all the drama, has mounted his bike and disappeared into the gloaming. Over on the sofa, Hugh is glowering and muttering, sure if we'd only left it to him, all would be well. Keith is on the phone, trying not to cuss out some poor minimum-waged peon at the Best Buy Help Desk. And me, well, I'm blogging to y'all.
I remember tvs. You bought 'em. You plugged 'em in. You watched 'em. Life was Good. Or at least ok. We didn't know any better. Life was at least simple.
Our old tv is 10 years old. Huge, in terms of space consumed, small in terms of screen, pretty basic in terms of sound. Seemed ok to me. Except lately I found myself asking, "Gosh, why are they filming in such muted colors? Why do directors want everything to look so drained?" And it took College Son, home for the holidays, to point out that, no, no, Mom You Moron, directors aren't filming that way, it's your horrible tv.
We've talked and talked about getting a new tv but the whole process always seemed so overwhelming. And the tv prices so high. But then the holidays came and both the boys showed up at home, moaning about our rotten tv. Nothing too new there, but then my mother-in-law, my friggin' mother-in-law, queen of Never Spending Anything, arrived for a visit and actually commented on how bad the tv was. Geez. But of course the clincher, the thing that made it all happen, is that the Saints have a Big Game tonight and the LSU Tigers have A Really Really Big Game on Monday. So now we have a new tv.
Sort of.
The new tv sits on the antique chest-with-drawers that has served as our tv stand since Keith cut out the back of the cabinet for all the tv and vcr wires way back before we married.. He always meant to sand and refinish said chest, and of course he never has. So now there perches upon this lovely, battered wooden chest a totally up-to-date 42" flat screen. You can tell the new tv is wondering how and why it ended up in such a downmarket environment. Well, fine. Be snooty, ye wretched rectangle. "Just plug it in and follow the instructions on screen," said the cute Best Buy salesguy. Right. The 15-minutes set-up has now consumed ten hours and counting, several phone calls to the Best Buy Geek Squad (they've hung up on us no less than four times this afternoon), two phone calls to the Direct TV Satellite people, one quick trip to Radio Shack to buy a cord with blue-green-red thingies to replace the cord with yellow-white-red thingies, the conscription of Owen's somewhat technically inclined buddy Conrad, and several rather volume-intensive discussions between and among the various inhabitants of this household. These included a number of helpful exchanges along the lines of the following:
Hugh: "Here, let me try something. Hand me the controller."
Me: "It's not a controller. It's a keypad."
Hugh (rolling his eyes): "It's a controller. It controls the tv remotely. That means it's a remote control. A COOONNNNTROOOLLLLEEEEEERRRRR."
Me (by this time determined to show my obnoxiously condescending offspring that I do in fact possess useful and up-to-date knowledge): "No, no, no, if you say "controller" to the Best Buy Guys they'll think you're talking about this (I brandish the remote control that goes with our satellite tv box) but the problem is the KEYPAD ( I hold up the Star Trekky groovy device that's come with the new tv and that looks like we now have the capability of initiating nuclear war) . It's a KEYPAD."
Hugh: "MOM. It's a controller."
Me: "No, honestly, it's an important difference I think. It's a keypad."
Hugh: "Why are you acting like you know anything about any of this? It's ridiculous. And it's a controller."
. . . .
I'm embarrassed to admit how long we continued. So I won't.
Keith is now maniacally chopping vegetables in the kitchen--never a good sign. I'm not sure our marriage will survive this purchase. Should've gotten a new bathroom sink instead. At least then we wouldn't have discovered we'd need to spend $10 more every month for high definition reception (we had no idea we were even buying a "Hi Def" tv). Water comes without definition. And I know how to turn the faucet on and off and I understand the difference between hot and cold.
I don't remember there being such a huge technological gap between me and my parents. Certainly they didn't like the music I listened to--but they didn't have to ask me for help in operating the radio and record-player. My mom didn't know the difference between "The Waltons" and "Little House on the Prairie"--but she could work the tv. They got mad about how much time we kids spent on the phone and once to my mother's horror I ran up an enormoous monthly long-distance bill talking to my boyfriend in Kalamazoo--but she knew which buttons to press to make a call. And when it came to home movies--there my mom was completely in charge, the only one in the entire extended family who knew how to use the movie camera, how to splice the little reels of film to make the big ones, how to run the projector. It does seem, in fact, that not only childhood but early adulthood followed the same pattern: my mom showed me how to do things, how to make things, how to fix things, how to run things, how to operate things, from the hi-fi to the stickshift, from the lawn mower to the Christmas lights, from checking the oil to cleaning out the dryer lint.
I don't think--oh for pete's sake I know--that my sons don't have the same sense of me as a competent person. I need help with the remote and I can't figure out my smart phone and I have to ask Hugh to take pictures because I can't seem to make the camera work and I'm a little unclear on the whole Hulu thing.
Maybe this greater equality in parent-child relations is a good thing. Maybe the fact that my kids have no doubts about my limits and utter faillibility makes it easier for them to head in new directions. Maybe. But I dunno. The sense that your parent knows all the important stuff--that's a rather powerful protective shield to wield as you face the dragons of daily adolescent life. Still, I imagine there's an app for that.
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