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.

Sometimes it all works out

Ahh. Great Parenting Moments.

The other night Hugh told me to shut up. Consequence (delivered in firm, even, "there's nothing you can do that can upset me or ever stop me loving you" tone. . . yah, who's kidding who. . . picture a shrieking harridan with crazy hair and you've pretty much got it): loss of beloved iPhone for 24 hours.

Ten hours later: it's 6:30 am; Hugh's school ride is at the door; he has high-stakes testing all day; and he insists he has to have his phone. I point out that he can't use his phone at school, let alone during testing. He says, sheepishly, charmingly, self-deprecatingly, "I know, I know, it's really dumb and it sounds nuts but it's like my security blanket. If my phone's not in my pocket, I can't think about anything else. I freak out. I really need it today."

I fall for it. It's just crazy enough that I fall for it. And of course, five minutes after he's left I'm thinking, for pete's sake, what did I just do? How's he ever going to learn anything? He needs me to be consistent. etc. etc. etc.

In the midst of testing that day, Hugh's phone alarm goes off and disturbs the whole auditorium. Amazingly, his test results are not voided but his phone is confiscated. For the rest of the school year.

When he tells me, I burst out laughing. Justice.

Not intended to be a factual statement

So by now everyone has heard about Arizona Senator Jon Kyl defending his allegation that abortions account for "90% of what Planned Parenthood does" (the actual figure is 3%)by saying that his claim was "not intended to be a factual statement."

I feel so inspired. I've been incredibly anxious lately, wondering how in the world I am going to complete everything I've contracted to do, as well as my regular job. Now I know. I spend all this time making sure that what I teach my students reflects the latest and best research in modern European history. Well, shit. Now I realize I can just make it up. I mean, really, what's my ultimate aim? Is it that they accumulate a bunch of facts about European history? Of course not. That's what the internet is for. I'm endeavoring 1)to teach them how to analyze and to think critically, and 2) to foster good citzenship, to make them care about the world and their place in it. So who needs "factual statements"? Gosh, why didn't I figure this out long ago? I guess that's why we have leaders like Jon Kyl. Thank you, Senator.

On the Bike

I've bought a bike. I am Woman. Biking Woman.

Really sore Biking Woman.

Good lord. Amazing what happens to one's post-50 body when one does little to move that body (blame the foot surgery) for several months.

Still, aching thighs and sore butt and all, I'm feeling good. (Even though I meant to buy a moderately priced old lady bike and instead shelled out an astounding, horrifying, yay downright embarrassing amount of money for Le Ultra Light Totally Cool Sleekly Silver Moderny Metallic old lady bike. All our retirement funds now ride on this bike.)

You see, I used to ride a bike. A 1970s bright blue ten-speed. I worked all summer at Moy's Chinese Carry-Out to earn the money to buy that bike. I faithfully oiled and greased it. I conquered the frontage roads of west suburban Chicago on that bike. And then, in graduate school, I realized one of my deepest dreams: I became a city cyclist. All over the North Side and downtown Chicago, I dodged taxi cabs and behemoth buses, streaked through red lights, careened across sidewalks and onto the lakefront bikepath, sped through clusters of tourists and lost pods of Cubs fans, and pedaled like fury past the Juneway Jungle, a notorious gang hangout on my way home to my studio apartment in Rogers Park. I was young and life was good and Chicago was amazing and the future was wide open. I have never been so happy as I was on that bike in that city.

And now I'm middle-aged and life is complicated and Baton Rouge ain't Chicago and the future is all hemmed in by the past and the present. I have spent much of the last two decades learning to negotiate happiness in the midst of chronic headaches and bouts of clinical depression.

But I can still ride a bike.

And--pedalling in the lowest gear, at a pace barely able to keep the bike upright--I remember what it was like to feel, to feel, goddamn, to feel like me.

Expelled

I got kicked out of physical therapy yesterday. Failure to progress. My toe has refused to meet the minimum standards of joint movement. It flunked. It is doomed to a deadend job at minimum wage with no benefits.

Because I Have No Daughters

Once, I was a teenaged girl.

My teenaged sons assure me, however, that that "once upon a time, long, long ago, in a country far, far away" experience has absolutely no relevance to life as they know it today.

So I wonder, do teenaged girls today--
flush the toilet?
zip their jeans?
tie their shoelaces?
close cabinet doors?
shut dresser drawers?
toss their dirty clothes in the basket?
write down phone messages?
write down legible phone messages?
write down legible phone messages that they then remember to give to the messagee?
use a breadknife rather than the chef's knife to butter their bagle?
twist the bread bag closed?
put the mayo bottle back in the fridge?
put the cap on the mayo bottle before putting it back in the fridge?
put the empty mayo bottle in the recycling bin rather than back in the fridge?
regard the distance between the sink and the dishwasher as an unbridgeable chasm?
recognize that when the linen closet shelves yawn blankly, it is time to collect and launder the many damp, molding towels draped, strewn, clumped around their bedroom?
or do they instead raid the outside storage room for beach towels? or resort to dish cloths?

Do teenaged girls yell at their mom for waking them up?
yell at their mom for not waking them up?
yell at their mom for calling them more than once to wake them up?
yell at their mom for calling them only once to wake them up?

Do they smile cheekily and say, with utter certainty, "You know you couldn't live without me"?

With Potatos

After over 20 years of marriage, my husband still dumbfounds me.

We're joining a group of friends for dinner tomorrow. We're bringing homemade pizza. Translation: Keith is making pizza. We both went to the grocery store after work today without notifying the other; hence, we have a surfeit of red and green peppers and asparagus. So it will be a peppers and asparagus pizza. We also have an over-abundance of bananas, but one draws the line. Or so I thought.

Til Keith came out and announced that he's doing a peppers and asparagus and potato pizza, so what kind of cheese did I recommend?

Um. Excuse me. Potato? On pizza?

Yes, yes, trust me, it will be fine, so what cheese, says he.

Potato? On pizza?

I have no recommendation for the cheese. I can't get beyond the potato. Marriage. Always an adventure. Even with potatos.