Red Prada Shoes

Did you know the pope wears red Prada shoes? The things I learn from The Daily Show.

Except I just googled it, and according to the New York Daily News, the Prada part is incorrect. And it turns out the red shoes are traditional and even liturgical. Damn. Just hate facts. It also turns out that the pope's red Prada shoes have been the subject of much comment, controversy, and internet buzz. And I had no idea. I hate that even more than I hate facts. I don't want to be an Out-Of-Touch Person. I don't want to be my mother, refusing to consider a computer, furious that her grandchildren post photos on Facebook rather than presenting them, framed, at her door. I don't want to be my colleague who hauls gigantic maps into the classroom and then gets all pissed off when he discovers that the metal map clips that used to be on the top of the chalkboard have been removed. "Jim," I say, "I can show you how to get those maps online. You can project them--" He waves his arm and walks away. I really don't want to be that guy.

I do, however, have a stack of books that I really want to read. And movies I want to watch. And I'd like to learn Polish and figure out pot gardening. (Wait. That sounds strange. I mean growing herbs and flowers in pots, not cultivating marijuana. At least, not yet.) Anyway, the point is, there's so little time. Must I spend it mastering the latest technological manual, when I know very well that that technology will be out of date in a year or two? I feel proud, in fact, that I never learned how to set the time on my VCR. What would be the point, now?

But how do you figure out which things have a point and which do not? I thought the Nook had a point but now there are tablets and there's no point, is there? I spent time figuring out the Nook, time that could have been spent learning Polish. Or reading Booker Prize novels. Or growing pot. Or, I dunno, doing great good things. Or at least good things. Instead I mastered the Nook and now there's no point. And the tablet awaits. And I find myself exhausted. Scared. Resentful, really.

My mother. She's there. I have seen the Future and it is She.

The Family Thing

Facebook drama: My aunt tells my brother she doesn't argue politics with people she loves. Then she posts, "Nah nah nah nah boo boo."

Such a great aunt.

Family is so weird, you know? And social technologies make the whole Family Thing even weirder. The vagaries of Facebook--who friends me, who posts, who comments--have a huge impact on which members of my family I keep in touch with and care about. One niece doesn't post at all, no problem, except I do end up feeling so much more involved with the families of the nieces who post regular updates and pictures. I comment, they reply, I answer back; heck, it's not like meeting up for dinner every Sunday, but it IS something. And so Facebook works its weird magic, skewing relationships, shaping the emotional dynamics of this totally weird, slippy, slurpy, can't-pin-it-down thing called Family. 

But it isn't just Facebook. There's also The Phone. As in the Weird Messages Family Members Will Leave on One's Cellphone When They Should Know One Rarely Checks One's Cellphone Messages. A few days ago I listened to (God knows how long it had been there, lurking)  a slurred, incoherent, drunken message from Cousin A, expressing his concern about the drinking habits of Cousin B. Ah, the ironies abound. So much so I had to go pour a second glass of wine, just to be able to cope with the whole Family Thing.

Windows 8

I have bought a new laptop. Windows 8. Oh god. I can't figure out how to do anything with the damned machine. I am typing this on my old, clunky, prone to overheating and liable to do reallly weird things but totally comprehensible laptop.

I know. Now you're saying, "But you should have gotten a Mac!" Shut up. No, really. Just shut the fuck up. I cannot cope with you Mac people right now. I have a book manuscript due at the end of December. Clearly the only way I'll meet this deadline is by chucking the horrible new laptop under the bed and hoping the cat pees on it. Yes, yes, I'm sure my life would have been infinitely better had I opted for the road less traveled. But two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I, I took the pc one.

Was it this way with typewriters? I don't think so. I don't think my mom's generation had to cope with constantly having to learn an entirely new way of typing/visualizing/thinking/conceptualizing/communicating every other year or so. Geez louise. I am trying to be flexible and up-to-date and open to new possibilities. Really. But you know, honestly, all I want to do is to be able to check my email and write my book and put together lectures with some groovy illustrations and keep up with my nieces on Facebook. I don't need to be able to program a nuclear holocaust or plan a financial meltdown of the western world or record a Grammy-winning music video. I don't even need to Skype my sons. The phone works. I can hear them rolling their eyes perfectly well, thank you.

I don't want to be that old lady who talks about the ice box and moans about not being able to find anyone to service her hi-fi. But somehow I do believe it's inevitable.

God Bless Amazon

I have to say, I often despair about the current political affairs in the U.S. I don't think of myself as much of a patriot. I couldn't run for office; I couldn't sport an American flag lapel pin and go on and on about "America" being the best country in the world. But every once in awhile, something happens to make me love this country. Like this:
http://www.amazon.com/Avery-Durable-Binder-EZ-Turn-17032/dp/B001B0CTMU/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1350534523&sr=8-8&keywords=white+binders

You have to scroll down to the Reviews. And then enjoy.

I just think it is so amazingly creative, so utterly innovative, so golly-gosh-darned American that people chose to express themselves in this way.

God Bless America. . . or at least amazon.com.

The New Rules

So at what point does one get to check out from, well, new stuff? When does one get to say, no more, sorry, enough already, brain's tired, spirit's sapped, just can't any longer?

I had a disastrous class on Friday with a lecture I'd given with great success a couple times before--but that's never a guarantee. The students change, the class time changes, I change. And technologies change. Part of this lecture involves a film clip (from Mary Poppins--never let it be said that I do not challenge my students) and my copy is on VHS. Yes, a videocassette. But we no longer have a VCR at home so I could not cue up the scene in advance and my effort to do so in class set into motion an entire series of technological mishaps, all with the students glaring at me in obvious contempt. Because of course the scene is on Youtube and of course one can embed the scene in one's Powerpoint--if one is not me, that is. Tired old me with Mary Poppins in its gargantuan plastic rectangle, a relic of my children's childhoods.

But you know, if the problem were confined to technology, I could cope. You 're mystified, you fail, you whine and moan, and then you go find someone young who shows you how. I get that. Plus it's every generation's right to immiserate the last with new technology. I get that too.

It's the new rules that are driving me nuts.

Take the Matchy-Matchy Rule. I went home in July for a wedding and accompanied my 14-year-old niece as she hunted for shoes to wear with her silver-and-black dress. I suggested a silver-and-black pair of heels and she shot me a look somewhere between sorrow and pity: "I don't want to be Matchy-Matchy," she explained. Oh. Right. I nod like I have a clue but inside I'm asking, "Wait, when did matching become a problem? Who changed the rules? Why wasn't I notified?" And now it's a Sunday morning in August and I am wearing a new black-and-white polka-dotted sundress and I have a pair of adorable black-and-white polka-dotted earrings. . .  but Hugh says no, too Matchy-Matchy. Well, dang.

Or then there's the Trim-Your-Bush Rule. Keith and I went to see Your Sister's Sister (a terrific film, by the way) and in one hilarious scene, Rosemarie DeWitt's character reveals that her half-sister (played by Emily Blunt) once came home from a date all embarrassed because the guy had laughed at the bulge in her underwear created by her pubic hair: "She didn't know she was supposed to trim her bush!" And the Emily Blunt character is cringing and everyone in the theater is roaring and I'm laughing too but I'm also thinking, "Well, damn, so you are supposed to do that." Was this always a rule that somehow Mom forgot to inculcate? Or is it a new rule and once again, I missed the memo?

Where does one pick up these memos? When are they delivered? And really, when is it ok just to chuck them in the trash and trip along unawares, earrings matchy-matching one's sundress, bush pooching out from one's underwear, videocassette of Mary Poppins firmly in hand?

Gather round, little children

My niece sent me a link to a hilarious post about the failure of "bikini condoms." Evidently women just did not flock to use a latex G-string panty with a "condom pouch," which I gather is something like an empty hotdog skin, hanging down between your legs, awaiting the male member. (Such a strange term. Is there a female member? Does the clitoris count as a member or is there some kind of size requirement?)

I'm disturbed that I had no idea there was such a thing as a bikini condom. In my defence: As soon as Hugh's adoption was finalized, Keith ran off and got fixed, so scared was he that we would become one of those legendary legions of couples who adopt and then immediately get pregnant.** And since I'm not inclined toward adultery, that means it's been 17 years since I've had to think about birth control in any personal way. But still, I keep track of all kinds of things that have little direct impact on me personally--dissent in Syria, the strength of Springsteen's marriage, what's hot in the West End and on Broadway, the gender disparity in literary awards--I mean, you know, I 'm alive, alert, aware. . . but evidently not so much on the contraception front. I just hate that.

But I'm even more disturbed by "In Bed with Married Women" blogger's description of the bikini condom as "a pouch-like tube (oh yeah), a belt reminiscent of grandma's old-timey maxi pads, and cream-colored latex, which we all know is the very sexiest latex color." It's the "belt reminiscent of grandma's old-timey maxi pads" that arouses such discomfort. Because I wore that belt. And I do not feel like "grandma" or in the least bit "old-timey", tho' maybe the fact that I did not know about the bikini condom completely undercuts my argument here.

Ahh, the sanitary napkin and the belt. Gather round, little children, and let me tell you about long long ago, in the days before maxi and mini pad technology. (OK, yes, tampons did exist. . . but I was 10. I was just a little kid and my body suddenly transmogrified into this horrifying, alien thing sprouting hair in weird places and growing breasts and then gushing blood. Not until I was 17 and much more comfortable in my own skin did I relax enough to insert a tampon.) Fifth grade, then. A belt with little clips and a rectangle of cotton fiber with these tails on either end to stick in the clips. One size fits all, supposedly. . . which of course meant that rectangle jutted far in front and behind of my bottom. It moved. Not my bottom. The napkin. It moved. Ah, little children, remember that adhesive technology had not yet been invented, at least not in the realm of Ladies' Monthlies. The belt went around your waist, the pad was clipped on, and then, well, a 10-year-old kid did what 10-year-old kids do--swinging on swings, climbing the monkey bars, playing tether ball, rolling on the grass--and the pad traveled. I'd find it on my left hip, or all the way up my backside, poking out of the waistband of my skirt as I sat at my desk completing my spelling words.

So yes, little children, we have made progress. Despite the bikini condom.


**Factual note: couples who adopt are no more likely to have unplanned pregnancies than couples who don't. Really. There are stats and everything, except I can't find them. But you can trust me. I am a Reliable Source. Even if I am on the Internet.

Pausing in Time

So, I'm watching Doc Martin and want another glass of wine. Cool beans! I click "Pause" and off I go for a refill. Pause. PAUSE! I've paused Live TV!

God. I love living in the 21st century.

I had no idea one could pause "Live TV," as in "TV being broadcast right now." But the weekend before last, Hugh had some friends staying over. While he was passed out upstairs (ok, yes, another story), his buddies were watching tv and I came in and we started chatting and something came up so that they pulled out the remote and said, "Look, Miss Facing-50, see, just press this button with the two lines and  you can pause your show." I was stunned. "Wait. Are you serious? TV? It's not a dvd? You're pausing a TELEVISION PROGRAM?" "Yeah, sure," they said, all nonchalant, but also rather gentle, like they were talking to an inquisitive toddler or maybe an Indigenous Person in a loincloth who somehow got catapulted from the jungle into our living room. "And see, just press this button with the arrow and you can fast-forward."

And suddenly, there was This Moment. Just a second or two, I guess. But in that one or two seconds, I had this vision, this totally Doctor Who moment, the possibility of time collapsing, of fast forwarding into the future, wrinkles in time, wormholes in space. No Tardis and no David Tennant, sadly, not even Matt Smith, but still, TIME, right at my fingers via my remote control.

Until Hugh's buddies stammered, "Oh no, umm, no, Miss Facing-50, we didn't mean you could, like, you know, fast-forward in real time. Just if you pause a program, later you can, you know, fast-forward it. But you know, like, you can't like really mess with time. Not really."

They had That Look on their faces--that "Oh my God, we're dealing with an insane old person" look. And, even though Hugh was unconscious upstairs and Owen was doing whatever he does in Oregon, I could hear both of them howling, "MOM! Oh God, Mom! Really?! Are you kidding me???"

Time and space collapsing.

Right. Of course. I know you can't use your tv remote to fast-forward through time. Kind of. Except, you know, like, I've seen a hell of a lot of technological change in my time. Geez louise. We had a black and white tv, you know? A transistor radio. A friggin' hi-fi. And now, I click on my remote and I pause my tv program. I speak into my phone and it tells me where to go, then I plug it into a little box and somewhere somehow someone plays hours of music that I like, songs I've never even heard before, but yes, I like them, and somehow someone somewhere knew I would like them because I like Bruce Springsteen and the Beatles and the Clash. So, fast-forwarding through time. . . .for a second there, it seemed, well, utterly real, totally sensible, completely possible.

Just for a moment. A second. An eternity.

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."

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.

Miss Daisy Driving

OK. Now I'm really pissed off. Women of the World, Unite!

The folks at have Volkswagen rolled out the new Beetle. Gawd. My lovely funky adorable Beetle is now a bubble-lacking, stretched-out, big ol' ordinary car. And DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHYYY? Because the Beetle, the Real Beetle, my Beetle, my only beloved automobile, has been labeled a "Chick Car." Worse than that, a chick car that apparently appeals to "chicks" in their 50s and 60s.

Sigh. Guys have entire lines of macho pick-ups, massive volumes of Muscle Cars, entire lines of Corvettes and Lamborghinis and godknowswhatelse. Why do they need my Beetle? And young chicks, they have tight butts and skin that doesn't flap in the wind and an enviable lack of chin hair. Do they really need my Beetle? (Tho' frankly I think the more discerning of the younger female generation are, in fact, Beetle buyers. Based on copious scientific observation here on the streets of Baton Rouge.)

I was already feeling rather disgruntled jand put upon and discriminated against. Have you heard of Zestra--as in "Zestra Essential Arousal Oils, a blend of botanical oils and extracts that promise to enhance sexual arousal for women"? No, you probably have not, even tho', admit it, now that you have, you're really interested, aren't you? And do you know why you haven't heard about this product in which you have a strong, even passionate interest? Because major media outlets--tv networks, cable and radio stations, Facebook, and even WebMD (!) have refused to run commercials for it. Evidently it's ok for us to be forced to contemplate four-hour erections night after night, it's fine for us to see grey-haired amorous men with a certain twinkle in their eyes smiling at the camera while unbuttoning their Oxford shirts and discussing their new sexual potency, it's just hunky-dory to watch that getting-on-a-bit couple holding hands in their separate outdoor bathtubs while they watch the sunset (what is up with that? no pun intended). But the idea of women wanting, and yes, needing a wee bit of help now and then with, sexual arousal--from this we've got to be sheltered.

So, I've had it. I'm starting a Women United to Save the Old (new) Beetle Campaign and I'm instructing all members to purchase Zestra as their first campaign duty. Because I figure if we're all having really satisfying sex lives, we'll be better campaigners, constantly aroused, so to speak, to fight for justice, to demand satisfaction in all its forms.

What, you say? You don't have a partner right now? No worries. According to the New York Times, "in one online ad for Zestra, a woman says that, “It works so well, when I think about it, it even makes me want to go home and use it now.” There are no men anywhere in the picture."

But I'll bet she's driving home in a Beetle.

The Horrible Truth

So I'm watching the Rahm Emanuel Twitter impersonator on Colbert. And now I know what I've suspected for quite some time: My life is worthless. I have never and will never live up to my potential. I will never be a clever fake Twitter person. And really, then, what's the point of going on?

Thanksgiving

After all the whining, moaning, and bitching in my last post, I figure I'd better focus this one on something more positive. You wouldn't know it, but I genuinely am trying to cultivate an outlook of gratitude. No really, honestly. So here's proof: a list of Five Things For Which I Am Thankful:

1. Wimsey the Normal Kitty. She pees and poos in her litter box, and that's a fine and wondrous thing. (I'm scarred by the Peeing Kitty.) And she doesn't suddenly up and bite the nice neighbor lady, as Rowan the Neurotic Dog did just this afternoon, hence raising the specter of a huge lawsuit leading to the loss of our house and all our worldly possessions. Not that the nice neighbor lady is going to sue, she assures us she is not, but a pattern of erratic biting is emerging and sooner or later he's going to bite the wrong person and we'll end up in a trailer park having to hunt squirrel for supper. But I'm not going to talk about that. I'm being grateful and positive. Like Scarlett, "I'll think about that tomorrah." Meanwhile, I will appreciate my self-sufficient, supremely self-assured, angst-free kitty.

2. The fact that the Peeing Kitty has successfully made the transition from cossetted, clawless, indoor pet to vulnerable outdoor pet. I figured that without claws she'd be dead in a matter of days, but instead she's flourished, a poster cat for living life on the wild side. She is even beginning to look the part. Her long silky hair, designed for daily grooming and arrangement on a pillow, is shaping itself into dreadlocks: Reggae Kitty. Rastafarifeline. Marley-Miaow. (OK, I'll stop now.) I am grateful that she has lived this long because now when, as is inevitable, she is run over by a car or mauled by a stray dog, I'll feel less guilty. Life on the edge suits her. Some of us were just made for a short wild ride.

3. The iPhone. It has made Hugh happy. It's downright scary how happy he is with that thing. But he's happy. And happy Hugh means much less conflict in the household. Thank you, Apple people.

4. My Gap Body tee-shirt bras. Now, I hate bras. I hate the feel of a bra. I hate the damn straps that always drift down my upper arms and I despise that tight elastic around my chest. But several years ago I discovered Victoria's Secret simple cotton triangle bras. So light and comfy, with straps that stayed in place. And then VS stopped making my bra! Just like that! Without even thinking about my needs, absolutely no consideration whatsoever. After months of searching and much money squandered on various torture-inflicting boob-holders, then, I rejoice in the Gap Body no-wire tee-shirt bra. Not as effortlessly comfortable as the VS triangle, but close. . . and unlike the VS bra, this one contains enough fabric to hide the sight of an erect nipple. A good thing, actually, as I often do get excited when I teach--intellectually rather than sexually, mind you, but the nipple looks the same. And undergraduates are easily distracted. Gap, I am grateful--as, I am sure, are my students, who are no doubt nauseated by the thought of an aroused 50-year-old history professor.

5. My Dyson vacuum cleaner. It's difficult to admit, as I would very much like to be the sort of woman whose mood never depends on household appliances. . . but I am not that woman, not yet, so until I get there, thank you, Mr. Dyson. This vacuum cleaner rocks.

Caught in the Headlights

"Gosh, premature births are scary."

Hugh sits next to me, trawling Youtube on his iPhone.

"Eewww, I didn't know unborn babies kicked so hard. I mean, gross, you can see their feet."

I'm ignoring him. Well, not ignoring Hugh per se. I'm ignoring the fact that he has anywhere- anytime access to women birthing preemies, to in utero kicking babies.

God, I feel so old. So out of time. Like a medieval peasant plopped down on Lake Shore Drive in the middle of rush hour. Who are these people that post videos of their labor online for the viewing pleasure of my just-16-year-old son? And who is this 16-year-old male-o'-mine who chooses to watch online videos of strangers giving birth while negotiating driving time for the weekend? And who am I? I think I'm supposed to be the parent--but that can't be right. Parents are authorities. They know what they're doing. They're in charge. They Have Direction.

They don't stand in the middle of the street, horrified and confused by the oncoming traffic, panicked, staring into the headlights.

Life in iPhoneland

OK. I'll 'fess up. I've resumed drinking white wine, a week before my self-imposed "nothing until" date. I blame the iPhone.

Dweedle dweedle, beep, rrriinggg, brrrooomm, chachingchaching, nannooonannoonannoo, auyoogah auyoogah, . . . until I crack. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" "Oh, sorry, just looking for a ring tone."

"Mom, Mom, stand still." Click. Hugh's fingers twiddle across the screen and then he chortles. "Look!" A hideously fat version of my face stares from the iPhone screen.

"Hey, a Spanish translation app! I told you this would help my grades."

"Listen, this is totally cool." Hugh fidgets on the iPhone screen and his voice, sounding as if he's underwater, booms out. "Isn't that cool?"

Hugh walks around the house, the phone an inch from his ear, blaring out the Grammy Award-winning song "Fuck You." "Great," I say to Keith, "$200 for a transistor radio." Hugh overhears. "What's a transistor radio?"

"Just think, Mom. Now we'll never be lost again."

If only.

Stuck in the "way back"

We are about to enter the realm of iPhonedom. Hugh's in charge of the driving and directions on this trip. Keith, I guess, is in the passenger seat; at least he's the one with the wallet. Me? I'm the drugged dog in the pet carrier, wedged in the "way back" of the station wagon, in between the suitcases and the cooler.

I just don't get the cell phone. I know that's like saying "I just don't get chocolate" or "I just don't get the Beatles" or "I just don't get Jane Austen." I mean, there are things one cannot and should not and does not live without. But here I am, cellularly inept. Not only does it take me an uninterrupted hour to compose and send a four-word text message, not only do I not know how to take a photo or check email or go online or play music or watch videos with the thing, I have trouble using it to make a phone call, mostly because it's lost, forgotten, or uncharged. I think I could have a cellular disability; I know I'm cellphone-intolerant.

Hugh assures me, however, that all will be well, I will be well, once we're settled in iPhonedom. So what the heck. I like to travel. I even like moving. Just hope the new neighbors will cut me some slack.

Disconnected

In the wake of almost 16-year-old Hugh's disastrous report card, we've implemented a number of "Get Serious" strategies, including close supervision of all homework and confiscation of his cell phone during study time. (By the way, "his cell phone" is not exactly correct, as we pay for the damn thing.) Yesterday, when I put both mandates into effect, Hugh went ballistic. He actually threw his phone on the table and thundered, "If you touch it, I swear to God, I'll punch you in the face!" Amazing Supermom that I am, I remained calm and later informed him, in a my Total Zennish yet serious and authoritative voice, that I was confiscating his phone for a week. He cried. Sobbed, actually.

I struggled with myself, unsure if such a slight punishment fit the seriousness of the offense.

And then, later that day, I told the story to Nail Lady. She gasped, horrified, and exclaimed, "You're not really going to keep his phone for an entire week, are you?"

Generation Gap

Hugh's phone got confiscated in school yesterday. "I was just getting my gym shorts and when I pulled them out of my backpack, my phone fell out, and I picked it up but my jeans are too tight so I couldn't put it in my pocket so I was leaning over to put it in my backpack and then . . . " Sigh. So he borrowed my cell phone as obviously he couldn't survive fifteen hours without texting.

A few minutes after said phone transfer: "Geez, Mom, you've got messages in here from last winter!"

Yes, yes I do. indeed. Because I get so few messages I don't bother to delete them. Because I don't give out my cell phone number. Because although I do usually carry my phone in my purse, I rarely remember to charge it. Because I'll admit it, I'm not ashamed, I'm a cell phone slacker.

In Hugh's world, a cell phone slacker is my world's equivalent of an historian who makes up documentary evidence. No, no, that's not it. Because such historians do exist. And the thing is, in Hugh's world, cell phone slackers simply cannot exist. Because why should they? How can they? On one side of Hugh's universe: phones. On the other side: people. People who want to text. And the two sides must come together. Why should they not? How can they not?

I try to explain to Hugh that I don't find "'how r u?' 'k'" a fulfilling, friendship-sustaining form of genuine communication. He just stares at me and sighs. He brings copious and well-researched evidence to support his case for family i-Phones. And I say, "But why would I want an i-Phone? What's the point?" He stares at me and sighs. "But Mom, you could read your email anywhere." "But why?" say I, confused. And I'm not being a bitch. I really am confused. I have a computer at work. I have a laptop at home. I check my email several times, most days. Why would I need to check it while thumping canteloupes for freshness in the supermarket?

OK, if I were President Obama, there'd be a point, tho' I doubt Barack has to buy his own canteloupe these days. At least I hope not. I'd like to think he's spending his time on more important things. But me? I teach European history. I doubt there will ever be an absolute emergency that demands my immediate response. "Ohmygod. You mean you can't remember why the Austrian-Hungarian Empire decided to declare war against Serbia in 1914?!!" Nah. I try to explain this to Hugh. He stares at me and sighs.

I remember being embarrassed by my mom. But, honestly, she never seemed a completely alien life form. Not completely.

Give this woman an Oscar

Owen is spending the semester on an internship working with a homeless advocacy non-profit (guess that should be obvious--not a lot of profit in homeless advocacy) in Washington D.C. Urban lefty that he is, he's happy.

So I'm happy. This is the awful thing about parenthood. You have sex, you conceive (or, as in the case of our second child, you shell out thousands of dollars and you adopt), you have a baby--and that's it, you're like a video game, the kid controls the joy stick. "No one else is in charge of your happiness," my first therapist told me. Or was that a line from a Disney movie? Anyway, it's totally bogus, at least once you have kids.

So Owen called the other night. We chatted for a long time. And I was the Perfect Mom. First and most important, he called; I did not call him. And second, we chatted. I did not tell him I missed him. I did not break down sobbing and admit to him that I frequently dream of him as a baby; I did not reveal that sometimes I look into his bedroom and just stand there like a maternal zombie as I remember him giggling over Harry Potter; I did not confess that the sight of roller blades or Legos can reduce me to tears. Nope, I was the total "Hey-Buddy-I-Got-My-Life-to-Live" insouciant mom--you know: "you do your thing, I do my thing, and if by chance, we find each other, it's beautiful"--oh wait, that was the poster than hung on my closet door when I was 11. The point is, I was great. I should have won an Oscar or a Grammy or a Tony or whatever award given for the most astonishing dramatic performance on a telephone.

Jim who?

It's a bad sign when one finds oneself confused by tv commercials.

There's this I-Pod Nano commercial in which the camera never moves from a close-up on a woman's torso, as her hands clip her Nano here and there, while this really quite interesting song plays. Something about "I want a girl with a something something and a long, looong. . . jacket." I like the song. But what I don't know is, is it really a song? Or is it just something made up for a cool I-Pod commercial? Who's singing? Should I know this? Does everyone know this--except elderly out-of-touch folks like me? Have I become the 21st century equivalent of that person who doesn't realize that the "I can see for miles and miles and miles" on the Windex commercial is actually a Who song? or the "Our house, is a very very very fine house" on the commercial for umm, something to do with houses, is really a Crosby, Stills, and Nash song? And is the fact that I remember those commercials--which probably haven't been on for years, now that I think about it--is that fact yet one more reason for despair?

And yet--I remember returning to Chicago from six months' Ph.D. research in London. 1985. I was 25--thin, fit, sexy, definitely not elderly or out of touch. This commercial for scooters--the Vespa type, not those metal kid things--came on and there was this guy, this really horrible actor, pitching the scooter. I turned to my then-boyfriend and complained, "Geez louise, what were they thinking when they hired that guy?" And Boyfriend stared at me in amazement, shook his head, and then said in this horribly patronizing tone (which really summed up the whole relationship but let's not go there), "My dear, you have got to be the only person in this entire city who doesn't recognize Jim McMahon." "Jim who?" I replied.
[In case you, like me, are clueless: In 1985, the Chicago Bears won the Superbowl. And Jim McMahon was The Quarterback. If that explanation doesn't help, if you don't understand the significance of the Superbowl and have no idea why a quarterback is important, well, hey, let's get together and can I marry and have babies with you?]

It helps to remember that I can't remember Jim McMahon. After all, I chalk up lots of things these days to menopause and aging, and get frustrated and anxious and angry. Which is pretty dopey because a. really, there's only one alternative to growing old, and really, is that what I want? and b. actually, I've been doing or not doing most of this stuff most of my life. As Keith has frequently reminded me, if I should be afflicted with Alzheimer's, who will notice?

Mother and Son Moments

I.
Me, annoyed, with the latest Netflix dvd delivery: Hey, what's this? What's "Babe I"? Who the heck ordered "Babe I"? What kind of movie is "Babe I"? What's this rated anyway?
Owen: Mom. "Babel." It says "Babel."
II.
Owen and I are trying to find an address.
Owen: Check Google.
I start typing: www.go--
Owen: It's just so cute that you still type the www.
III.
In church.
An unfortunate liturgical attempt at up-to-dateness during the Prayer of Confession. "Imaginative God." I see Owen grin.
We confess that we've messed up Imaginative God's creation with "litter and violence." The juxtaposition makes me giggle; Owen snorts as he tries to swallow his laughter.
By the time we admit that we've turned away from God's banquet table to "Fast Food counters," the pew is shaking. We've lost it entirely.
You're a bad influence, I tell Owen. He reminds me that I'm the one who's supposed to be doing the influencing.
Right. I knew that.