I am so happy to learn there is a Facebook page called "Intelligent, Classy, Well-Educated Women Who Say Fuck A Lot."
It is nice to have company.
I never used to say "fuck." Never. I am of Dutch Reformed stock. We are a reserved people. We don't even say "golly" or "heck" very often.
But then I had children. And you know, there are just so many maternal moments when only a good curse word or a string of profanity will do.
But even so, I held the fucking in check. (I mean, the saying, not the doing, not that there was a whole helluva lot of doing either, once the kids came along.)
Until menopause. Motherhood may have breached the levees but menopause swept them away entirely. These days, profanity and curse words gush forth from my lips without plan or permission. I don't think this development is good or admirable but it's rather like the sagging of my boobs or the thinning of my hair--I hate it but it just keeps happening.
So, it's nice to know there's a Facebook group that I can join. And I may be way off-base here, but I'll bet that many in the sisterhood of intelligent, classy, well-educated women who say fuck a lot also find that their boobs have lost their bounce and their hair suffers from anorexia.
Just a hunch.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Sunday, March 17, 2013
St. Patrick's Day Parade
So, this weekend brought another in what I think of as my own personal series of Really Lousy Parenting Moments.
Yesterday was the Baton Rouge St. Patrick's Day Parade. Baton Rouge doesn't really have much of an Irish community or any kind of Irish heritage. But we have a tv weatherman who's been broadcasting forever; I guess you'd call him a "television personality" round here. And he has some Irish roots, I gather, tho' not an Irish last name. He does have an Irish first name: Pat. Ol' Pat is a canny character. He's the one who started the St. Patrick's Day Parade more than two decades ago--and it just so happens that the parade ends right at the front door of a bar that he owns. Anyway, it doesn't matter that few folks are Irish. What matters is that this is south Louisiana, where every parade, be it Christmas or Halloween or Memorial Day or 4th of July or St. Pat's Day, resembles Mardi Gras. First, there are floats, and the float riders throw stuff--beads, mostly, but also stuffed animals, candy, plastic cups, toys, flowers, panties, condoms, and (only on St. Pat's) cabbages. Second, there are parties--everyone on or near the parade route throws a party. And third, there is alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol, even tho' the parade rolls at 10 am. The drinking begins on Friday night and doesn't let up in some areas--e.g. around LSU--til the wee hours of Monday morning.
As it happens, we live right on the parade route. So, as required, we have a party every year. It's not hard--I make Bailey's Irish Crème brownies and Keith makes an eggy, cheesy casseroley thing and Irish soda bread; we make coffee; we fill up coolers with ice, orange juice, and champagne; we line up patio and lawn chairs, and voila', a party.
Except it gets harder when you have teenagers. Because teenagers have friends. Who are also teenagers. And these friends have friends. Who are also teenagers. And before you know it, hordes of drunken teenagers have descended on your house and infested your attic and overrun your back yard. But that, dear reader, was last year. This year, I was vigilant. I was prepared.
And I was also pissed off. Really, really pissed off. We have had a hard week with Hugh. A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week. I am angry, so angry that when he walks into the room I want to spit on him. Truly. But beneath the raging, pulsing, shrieking anger is fear, fear and sorrow and guilt beyond measure. All these emotions burning their way through my very core, eating and corroding my soul. It's like I've swallowed Voldemort.
Perhaps it wasn't the best of times to host a parade party.
But St. Patrick's Day waits for no woman.
It was a beautiful day, as early spring so often is in Baton Rouge. Friends gathered; the brownies beckoned; the mimosas sparkled. The teenagers came. I sternly sent them on their way. All was well.
Then, it happened. I was standing at the kitchen sink, grabbing a quick glass of water. I looked out through the window to the deck that sits on our side yard along the street that runs perpendicular to the parade street. (This is a significant detail. On this side street the cops assigned to parade duty tend to gather.) I looked out the window and saw, on the deck, a group of Hugh's friends laughing and talking. . . and passing a joint around. (Hugh was not with them. Minor detail, but I thought I'd point it out.)
Now, personally, I think marijuana should be legal. But it is not. And there were those kids and there was my deck and there were the cops. Now, of course, a good parent would have walked out and pointed out the problems with their actions to the kids. Perhaps a good parent would have engaged them in a discussion of the possible consequences of their actions, maybe turned that situation into one of those learning/bonding moments that later, as adults, the kids would have looked back upon as a transformative time.
But I'm too goddamned angry and afraid and sad and guilty to be that good parent. Nope. It took less than a second to transform me from Cheery Parade Party Hostess to the Incredible Crazy Woman. I ran out, stormed onto the deck, thrust my finger in their faces, and screamed (sadly, this is an exact quotation): "GET OUT! Holy fuck! What the hell do you think you are doing?!"
They left. Looking back, I realize I should have confiscated the weed and smoked it.
I always thought I'd be a Cool Mom. The mom my boys' friends would confide in. Instead I'm That Mom. The insane one.
Yesterday was the Baton Rouge St. Patrick's Day Parade. Baton Rouge doesn't really have much of an Irish community or any kind of Irish heritage. But we have a tv weatherman who's been broadcasting forever; I guess you'd call him a "television personality" round here. And he has some Irish roots, I gather, tho' not an Irish last name. He does have an Irish first name: Pat. Ol' Pat is a canny character. He's the one who started the St. Patrick's Day Parade more than two decades ago--and it just so happens that the parade ends right at the front door of a bar that he owns. Anyway, it doesn't matter that few folks are Irish. What matters is that this is south Louisiana, where every parade, be it Christmas or Halloween or Memorial Day or 4th of July or St. Pat's Day, resembles Mardi Gras. First, there are floats, and the float riders throw stuff--beads, mostly, but also stuffed animals, candy, plastic cups, toys, flowers, panties, condoms, and (only on St. Pat's) cabbages. Second, there are parties--everyone on or near the parade route throws a party. And third, there is alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol, even tho' the parade rolls at 10 am. The drinking begins on Friday night and doesn't let up in some areas--e.g. around LSU--til the wee hours of Monday morning.
As it happens, we live right on the parade route. So, as required, we have a party every year. It's not hard--I make Bailey's Irish Crème brownies and Keith makes an eggy, cheesy casseroley thing and Irish soda bread; we make coffee; we fill up coolers with ice, orange juice, and champagne; we line up patio and lawn chairs, and voila', a party.
Except it gets harder when you have teenagers. Because teenagers have friends. Who are also teenagers. And these friends have friends. Who are also teenagers. And before you know it, hordes of drunken teenagers have descended on your house and infested your attic and overrun your back yard. But that, dear reader, was last year. This year, I was vigilant. I was prepared.
And I was also pissed off. Really, really pissed off. We have had a hard week with Hugh. A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week. I am angry, so angry that when he walks into the room I want to spit on him. Truly. But beneath the raging, pulsing, shrieking anger is fear, fear and sorrow and guilt beyond measure. All these emotions burning their way through my very core, eating and corroding my soul. It's like I've swallowed Voldemort.
Perhaps it wasn't the best of times to host a parade party.
But St. Patrick's Day waits for no woman.
It was a beautiful day, as early spring so often is in Baton Rouge. Friends gathered; the brownies beckoned; the mimosas sparkled. The teenagers came. I sternly sent them on their way. All was well.
Then, it happened. I was standing at the kitchen sink, grabbing a quick glass of water. I looked out through the window to the deck that sits on our side yard along the street that runs perpendicular to the parade street. (This is a significant detail. On this side street the cops assigned to parade duty tend to gather.) I looked out the window and saw, on the deck, a group of Hugh's friends laughing and talking. . . and passing a joint around. (Hugh was not with them. Minor detail, but I thought I'd point it out.)
Now, personally, I think marijuana should be legal. But it is not. And there were those kids and there was my deck and there were the cops. Now, of course, a good parent would have walked out and pointed out the problems with their actions to the kids. Perhaps a good parent would have engaged them in a discussion of the possible consequences of their actions, maybe turned that situation into one of those learning/bonding moments that later, as adults, the kids would have looked back upon as a transformative time.
But I'm too goddamned angry and afraid and sad and guilty to be that good parent. Nope. It took less than a second to transform me from Cheery Parade Party Hostess to the Incredible Crazy Woman. I ran out, stormed onto the deck, thrust my finger in their faces, and screamed (sadly, this is an exact quotation): "GET OUT! Holy fuck! What the hell do you think you are doing?!"
They left. Looking back, I realize I should have confiscated the weed and smoked it.
I always thought I'd be a Cool Mom. The mom my boys' friends would confide in. Instead I'm That Mom. The insane one.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Crazy Cat Lady
I love my cats.
That scares the shit out of me. I'm not a totally stable person; I fear becoming a Crazy Cat Lady. But I imagine that by the time one is a fully fledged Crazy Cat Lady, one would not be aware of that fact. That's comforting, really. (And why, pray tell, do people not talk about Crazy Dog Ladies? Or Crazy Cat Guys? Definitely some specie-ism and sexism at play here.)
Still, there's something about craziness and cats. Maybe it's that oh-so-old connection between cats and witchcraft. Or maybe it's the weird eyes. Or the whole pouncing thing. I dunno. But I do fear for my sanity when I find myself engaging my cats in conversation and occasionally--just occasionally, mind you--listening to their replies.
Not that I believe a word they say. I'm not crazy, you know.
That scares the shit out of me. I'm not a totally stable person; I fear becoming a Crazy Cat Lady. But I imagine that by the time one is a fully fledged Crazy Cat Lady, one would not be aware of that fact. That's comforting, really. (And why, pray tell, do people not talk about Crazy Dog Ladies? Or Crazy Cat Guys? Definitely some specie-ism and sexism at play here.)
Still, there's something about craziness and cats. Maybe it's that oh-so-old connection between cats and witchcraft. Or maybe it's the weird eyes. Or the whole pouncing thing. I dunno. But I do fear for my sanity when I find myself engaging my cats in conversation and occasionally--just occasionally, mind you--listening to their replies.
Not that I believe a word they say. I'm not crazy, you know.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Doctor Who Goes to the Oscars
It's Oscar night. All America is watching the Oscars. I am watching Doctor Who Revisited on BBC-America. Dear God, thank you for the BBC.
I'm supposed to be at an Oscars-viewing party but I am home nursing two sick cats and an incipient case of massive depression. I'm the depressed one; the kitties just have a rather disgusting pooping problem.
I'd rather have a pooping problem. Tho' actually, to be perfectly honest, pooping problems are somewhat intrinsic to depression. You get depressed; your tummy gets its own version; you have pooping problems. But I am totally not blogging about that.
Depression. I am blogging about depression. (You thought it was the Oscars, didn't you? Bwah hah hah!) Here's the thing: I fight constantly against depression. Tonight, tho', depression gets a victory. Just a minor one, mind you [she types confidently]. I am staging a tactical retreat. My reserves are exhausted; I await reinforcements; I flee back to the ramparts.
In other words, I empty the house (sick kitties don't count) and I watch Doctor Who. Tomorrow I resume the fight. I will claim happiness. I will be fun and funny; I will have the energy for my fellow human beings. Tonight. . . tonight, I need Time Lords and aliens.
Is it bad to prefer the company of Daleks and Cybermen to actual friends and family members? Perhaps a wee bit insane? OK, yes, I do realize the correct answer is "yes." Choosing fantasy aliens is probably not high on the list of acceptable responses to depression. But you know, this is the great thing about facing down 50: The boundaries of "acceptable" prove to be more and more elastic.
At this rate, by the time I hit 60 I'll no longer leave the house and I'll talk only to my cats. Still, cats are Doctor Who fans (I mean, it's obvious). So, all will be well. Maybe in a bizarre, slightly twisted, not exactly normal way, but I no longer aspire toward normalcy. Just being well. And if wellness involves time travel and incredibly sexy aliens and huge doses of fantasy (as well as incontinent kitties), so what?
Geez louise. Go see Silver Linings Playbook (it's up for the Oscar for Best Picture). Then explain to me how to define "normal."
I'm supposed to be at an Oscars-viewing party but I am home nursing two sick cats and an incipient case of massive depression. I'm the depressed one; the kitties just have a rather disgusting pooping problem.
I'd rather have a pooping problem. Tho' actually, to be perfectly honest, pooping problems are somewhat intrinsic to depression. You get depressed; your tummy gets its own version; you have pooping problems. But I am totally not blogging about that.
Depression. I am blogging about depression. (You thought it was the Oscars, didn't you? Bwah hah hah!) Here's the thing: I fight constantly against depression. Tonight, tho', depression gets a victory. Just a minor one, mind you [she types confidently]. I am staging a tactical retreat. My reserves are exhausted; I await reinforcements; I flee back to the ramparts.
In other words, I empty the house (sick kitties don't count) and I watch Doctor Who. Tomorrow I resume the fight. I will claim happiness. I will be fun and funny; I will have the energy for my fellow human beings. Tonight. . . tonight, I need Time Lords and aliens.
Is it bad to prefer the company of Daleks and Cybermen to actual friends and family members? Perhaps a wee bit insane? OK, yes, I do realize the correct answer is "yes." Choosing fantasy aliens is probably not high on the list of acceptable responses to depression. But you know, this is the great thing about facing down 50: The boundaries of "acceptable" prove to be more and more elastic.
At this rate, by the time I hit 60 I'll no longer leave the house and I'll talk only to my cats. Still, cats are Doctor Who fans (I mean, it's obvious). So, all will be well. Maybe in a bizarre, slightly twisted, not exactly normal way, but I no longer aspire toward normalcy. Just being well. And if wellness involves time travel and incredibly sexy aliens and huge doses of fantasy (as well as incontinent kitties), so what?
Geez louise. Go see Silver Linings Playbook (it's up for the Oscar for Best Picture). Then explain to me how to define "normal."
Friday, February 22, 2013
Cashmere
Home from work on a Friday. I kick off my boots, take off my belt, pour a glass of wine. It's chilly in the house so I reach up in my closet for my 15-year-old shabby sweatshirt. . . but then I pause; my hand hovers--and I pull down my cashmere shawl. Or scarf. It works both ways. It's richly colored and feather-light and miraculously warm and threaded with the love of the friend who carried it all the way from India to England and across the Atlantic to me.
In the sweatshirt, I schlepp. In the shawl, I swan.
In the sweatshirt, I collapse on the couch in a heap, suck down my wine, and look around wildly for potato chips. In the shawl, I lounge elegantly on the sofa. I sip. I bite delicately into the occasional stuffed olive.
But then, swanning from living room back to kitchen (need more olives), I am suddenly overcome with ambition. I aspire not simply to swan but to float regally and beneficently, to. . . to. . .to waft, dammit! I want to be one of those wafting women whose shoes always finish off their outfits, who remember everyone's names, who never burst out into shrieking laughter at inappropriate moments.
Oh hell.
I will never waft.
I see that. I accept that.
But for far too long I have squandered my days in schlepping. And I now possess a kick-ass, genuine-article, love-laden cashmere scarf. With said scarf artfully draped about me, I will swan through my second half-century. It's a promise.
In the sweatshirt, I schlepp. In the shawl, I swan.
In the sweatshirt, I collapse on the couch in a heap, suck down my wine, and look around wildly for potato chips. In the shawl, I lounge elegantly on the sofa. I sip. I bite delicately into the occasional stuffed olive.
But then, swanning from living room back to kitchen (need more olives), I am suddenly overcome with ambition. I aspire not simply to swan but to float regally and beneficently, to. . . to. . .to waft, dammit! I want to be one of those wafting women whose shoes always finish off their outfits, who remember everyone's names, who never burst out into shrieking laughter at inappropriate moments.
Oh hell.
I will never waft.
I see that. I accept that.
But for far too long I have squandered my days in schlepping. And I now possess a kick-ass, genuine-article, love-laden cashmere scarf. With said scarf artfully draped about me, I will swan through my second half-century. It's a promise.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Zoe smiled at me!
Over two decades ago, shortly after I gave birth to Owen, a friend sent us a marvelous baby gift--what must have been the first book of collected Baby Blues comic strips (I believe there are dozens now). Nothing else quite captured the confusion, exhaustion, bewilderment, the sheer "what-the-fuck-have-we-gotten-ourselves-into" of those initial weeks of parenthood. In the strip, Darryl and Wanda's first month with colicky baby Zoe are just hellish (but hilarious), and then comes The Day: The first three frames show Darryl going through his normal routine but he's walking on air, he's floating, and he has this permanent goofy grin.The final frame includes the text balloon: "Zoe smiled at me!"
I thought of that comic strip yesterday. I got my haircut in the morning and then had a hectic but totally unproductive and unsatisfying day. I came home feeling cranky and stupid, and then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror with my short, short hair, and I thought, "Oh god, I've turned into one of those haggard academics with the what-the-hell hair." I turned around and there was Hugh. I'll be honest: despite my cheery "Hi honey! How are you?", inside I was cringing. Hugh is 17 and therefore brutal. "You're not wearing that, are you?" "Don't you think it's time you updated your shoes to at least the 1990s?" "No offense, but you look really fat in that." "No offense, but your gray roots are totally showing." "No offense, but those leggings are for someone wayyyyy younger, you know."
I waited for the put-down.
But then, well, Zoe smiled at me:
Hugh: "You got your hair cut!"
Me: "Ye-e-e-s."
Hugh: "You look really good!"
Stunned silence.
Hugh: "You look just like Anne!"
Anne. My fiercely fit, uber-urban, totally trendy, gobsmackingly gorgeous 30-something niece.
I walked on air, I floated, all evening long.
I thought of that comic strip yesterday. I got my haircut in the morning and then had a hectic but totally unproductive and unsatisfying day. I came home feeling cranky and stupid, and then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror with my short, short hair, and I thought, "Oh god, I've turned into one of those haggard academics with the what-the-hell hair." I turned around and there was Hugh. I'll be honest: despite my cheery "Hi honey! How are you?", inside I was cringing. Hugh is 17 and therefore brutal. "You're not wearing that, are you?" "Don't you think it's time you updated your shoes to at least the 1990s?" "No offense, but you look really fat in that." "No offense, but your gray roots are totally showing." "No offense, but those leggings are for someone wayyyyy younger, you know."
I waited for the put-down.
But then, well, Zoe smiled at me:
Hugh: "You got your hair cut!"
Me: "Ye-e-e-s."
Hugh: "You look really good!"
Stunned silence.
Hugh: "You look just like Anne!"
Anne. My fiercely fit, uber-urban, totally trendy, gobsmackingly gorgeous 30-something niece.
I walked on air, I floated, all evening long.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Being a Mom on Mardi Gras
We went to New Orleans for Mardi Gras and didn't see a single parade.
How pitiful is that?
Now mind you, we've seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of parades over the years. By some standards, we are Mardi Gras experts Moreover, there doesn't seem to be much hope that we'll be living anywhere else anytime soon, so we have many, many more Mardi Gras opportunities ahead. Still, why trek out to New Orleans, why pay for a hotel room, why shove our way through the crowds--if not to join in the celebration?
Because, dear reader, we were, once again. tricked. Duped. Manipulated. Hoodwinked. Fooled and flummoxed. Yet again teenaged Hugh pulled our strings and made us dance to his music.
Supposedly we were enjoying our last Mardi Gras with Hugh before he grows up and heads off to college. Supposedly we were introducing his classmate to the Mardi Gras experience--parades costumes and beads and masks and marching bands and "throw me something, mister!" In actuality, we were paying ridiculous sums of money to allow two horny teenaged boys to hook up with a crowd of nubile young things who attend the girls' school across the street. No parades, no interest in parades, just lots of masterful twisting and turning, flipping and flopping, obscuring and obfuscating, until we're left, a couple of confused, middle-aged, well-meaning souls, wondering why we're sitting in this ridiculously priced hotel room at 11 pm and where is our son and how in the hell did we let this happen again? Goldangit and goddammit. Why are we still so friggin' bad at this?
How pitiful is that?
Now mind you, we've seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of parades over the years. By some standards, we are Mardi Gras experts Moreover, there doesn't seem to be much hope that we'll be living anywhere else anytime soon, so we have many, many more Mardi Gras opportunities ahead. Still, why trek out to New Orleans, why pay for a hotel room, why shove our way through the crowds--if not to join in the celebration?
Because, dear reader, we were, once again. tricked. Duped. Manipulated. Hoodwinked. Fooled and flummoxed. Yet again teenaged Hugh pulled our strings and made us dance to his music.
Supposedly we were enjoying our last Mardi Gras with Hugh before he grows up and heads off to college. Supposedly we were introducing his classmate to the Mardi Gras experience--parades costumes and beads and masks and marching bands and "throw me something, mister!" In actuality, we were paying ridiculous sums of money to allow two horny teenaged boys to hook up with a crowd of nubile young things who attend the girls' school across the street. No parades, no interest in parades, just lots of masterful twisting and turning, flipping and flopping, obscuring and obfuscating, until we're left, a couple of confused, middle-aged, well-meaning souls, wondering why we're sitting in this ridiculously priced hotel room at 11 pm and where is our son and how in the hell did we let this happen again? Goldangit and goddammit. Why are we still so friggin' bad at this?
Monday, February 11, 2013
Earth Tones
I'm a primary-colors sort of person, drawn to kitchens done in black and white with splashes of red or bright blue. We, however, have a Craftsman-style old house, complete with original wall stencils, and so decided to stick with earth tones to reinforce the "in harmony with nature" feel of the building. Somewhat to my surprise, then, I'm comfortably ensconced in muted olives and forest greens, rich browns, dusky oranges. It's all good, except for one eensy-teensy detail:
Cat poo comes in earth tones.
Cat poo, therefore, blends in perfectly--is, in fact, indistinguishable, even invisible, when resting on our rugs and even wood floors.
This has become A Problem.
Our once shy but affectionate and completely litter-box oriented kitty has taken to pooping all over the house. Because we can't figure out what's wrong, I now call her Menopausal Kitty--I figure I blame everything weird about my physical, mental, and emotional states on menopause, so why not the kitty, too?
Meanwhile, I'm adapting. Evolving, really. I now step with such lightness, such tentativity (there is no such word, but there should be), that my foot can hit poo and rebound so quickly that not a speck of poo adheres to my sock. Perhaps over eons I could pass this adaptation on to my offspring, and womankind and pooing kittykind could live in ecological harmony.
But I don't have eons and the males in the household remain their primitive stomping selves. Oblivious to the squish and stink, they track kitty poo around the entire house and are utterly amazed when I point out the fecal footprints. Do men never look down? Is there something in testosterone that prevents the neck from bending? Given this male intransigence and my own growing impatience with scraping cat poop out of the rugs, Menopausal Kitty's future as an indoor cat looks limited.
Which makes me a bit nervous. Now granted, I have yet to poop in odd places but I do find myself and my body doing the strangest things. How long, then, before I'm mewing pitifully on the back porch, wondering why no one will open the door and let me inside?
And suddenly I get the point of male obliviousness--this wonderful evolutionary adaptation, this remarkable means of ensuring ecological harmony between the male species and menopausal womankind.
Cat poo comes in earth tones.
Cat poo, therefore, blends in perfectly--is, in fact, indistinguishable, even invisible, when resting on our rugs and even wood floors.
This has become A Problem.
Our once shy but affectionate and completely litter-box oriented kitty has taken to pooping all over the house. Because we can't figure out what's wrong, I now call her Menopausal Kitty--I figure I blame everything weird about my physical, mental, and emotional states on menopause, so why not the kitty, too?
Meanwhile, I'm adapting. Evolving, really. I now step with such lightness, such tentativity (there is no such word, but there should be), that my foot can hit poo and rebound so quickly that not a speck of poo adheres to my sock. Perhaps over eons I could pass this adaptation on to my offspring, and womankind and pooing kittykind could live in ecological harmony.
But I don't have eons and the males in the household remain their primitive stomping selves. Oblivious to the squish and stink, they track kitty poo around the entire house and are utterly amazed when I point out the fecal footprints. Do men never look down? Is there something in testosterone that prevents the neck from bending? Given this male intransigence and my own growing impatience with scraping cat poop out of the rugs, Menopausal Kitty's future as an indoor cat looks limited.
Which makes me a bit nervous. Now granted, I have yet to poop in odd places but I do find myself and my body doing the strangest things. How long, then, before I'm mewing pitifully on the back porch, wondering why no one will open the door and let me inside?
And suddenly I get the point of male obliviousness--this wonderful evolutionary adaptation, this remarkable means of ensuring ecological harmony between the male species and menopausal womankind.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
A Full Plate
Oh hell. I am such a Bad Blogger. I meant to be regular. I really did. But I've just been too exhausted even to think about typing a coherent, let alone interesting or God forbid I aspire to such a thing, meaningful sentence when I return home in the evenings. Which gets me to wondering, why am I so friggin' tired all the friggin' time? Here are the answers that spring to mind:
1. I've loaded way too much work on my plate.
This obvious answer, however, begs the question: Why did I do this? I actually used to be extremely good at time management, at realistically assessing my schedule, at saying no. So why have I, in my second half-century, suddenly lost those useful skills?
Which brings me to
2. I have this sense of "if not now, then never," this new urgency, this fear that the sand is plummeting through the hour glass at an ever-escalating rate, and there's just so much I want to do, to finish, to start, to try. I have no delusions about myself. I'm not one of those scholars whose work will change the way people think. But there are courses I'd like to devise and techniques I'd like to try and curricular reforms I'd like to help make happen and yes, books I'd like to write. There are questions I'd like to answer. Shoot, there are questions I'd like to ask.
But I don't have time to ask those questions because I've loaded so much on my plate that all I can do is keep cutting and biting and chewing and swallowing, no time to savor any textures or flavors, no pause for digestion, just keep forking it in in hopes that eventually the plate will be bare. Except instead it gets ever more crowded, gravy seeping onto salad, bread rolls piled high atop the grilled tofu, as I keep on taking more and more helpings, ever more anxious that if I refuse, I'll never ever have the chance to try that particular pasta or taste that sort of chocolate mousse and I will die, encumbered by pasta regret and dreams of deferred mousse.
1. I've loaded way too much work on my plate.
This obvious answer, however, begs the question: Why did I do this? I actually used to be extremely good at time management, at realistically assessing my schedule, at saying no. So why have I, in my second half-century, suddenly lost those useful skills?
Which brings me to
2. I have this sense of "if not now, then never," this new urgency, this fear that the sand is plummeting through the hour glass at an ever-escalating rate, and there's just so much I want to do, to finish, to start, to try. I have no delusions about myself. I'm not one of those scholars whose work will change the way people think. But there are courses I'd like to devise and techniques I'd like to try and curricular reforms I'd like to help make happen and yes, books I'd like to write. There are questions I'd like to answer. Shoot, there are questions I'd like to ask.
But I don't have time to ask those questions because I've loaded so much on my plate that all I can do is keep cutting and biting and chewing and swallowing, no time to savor any textures or flavors, no pause for digestion, just keep forking it in in hopes that eventually the plate will be bare. Except instead it gets ever more crowded, gravy seeping onto salad, bread rolls piled high atop the grilled tofu, as I keep on taking more and more helpings, ever more anxious that if I refuse, I'll never ever have the chance to try that particular pasta or taste that sort of chocolate mousse and I will die, encumbered by pasta regret and dreams of deferred mousse.
Friday, January 18, 2013
A Miracle for 2013
So here's The Question: Do we trust Dr. Oz?
I ask, because Dr. Oz has identified the Keranique Hair Regrowth System for Women as one of his "13 Miracles for 2013."
The thing is, I'm not actually sure who Dr. Oz is. But my hair is definitely thinning, so I clicked on this ad alongside my Facebook messages today, and voila, it tells me that Dr. Oz says, here's a miracle.
I'd like a miracle. Science is so boring. I'd like some whipped cream-like substance that I can rub around my scalp and then squirt on top of my ice cream and a few days later (I don't need instant gratification; I can wait a bit), yes! I'm back to my normal head of thick, frizzy, unruly curls.
Normal, of course, is the key word here. It is normal for me to have lots of hair. This thinning hair stuff, this horrendous skin-like substance now peeking through, this is not normal. Dammit. This is Not Allowed. I signed no permission slip, no invoice, no receipt. I am not asking for Julia Roberts' hair. I just want my hair. Normal hair.
Oh dear God. When did I become abnormal?
Still, there's always Joan Rivers. Yes, indeed: The Joan Rivers Great Hair Day Fill-In Powder. Evidently, on those days when you need "Great Hair" (aka Normal Hair), you just dust on this powder. And hope it's not a windy day, I imagine. Or wet. I would think the powder would just clump up, which wouldn't be great or normal. But I guess if you're Joan Rivers, you don't have to think about rain or wind.
But I don't know. Can Joan Rivers really guarantee Normalcy?
I ask, because Dr. Oz has identified the Keranique Hair Regrowth System for Women as one of his "13 Miracles for 2013."
The thing is, I'm not actually sure who Dr. Oz is. But my hair is definitely thinning, so I clicked on this ad alongside my Facebook messages today, and voila, it tells me that Dr. Oz says, here's a miracle.
I'd like a miracle. Science is so boring. I'd like some whipped cream-like substance that I can rub around my scalp and then squirt on top of my ice cream and a few days later (I don't need instant gratification; I can wait a bit), yes! I'm back to my normal head of thick, frizzy, unruly curls.
Normal, of course, is the key word here. It is normal for me to have lots of hair. This thinning hair stuff, this horrendous skin-like substance now peeking through, this is not normal. Dammit. This is Not Allowed. I signed no permission slip, no invoice, no receipt. I am not asking for Julia Roberts' hair. I just want my hair. Normal hair.
Oh dear God. When did I become abnormal?
Still, there's always Joan Rivers. Yes, indeed: The Joan Rivers Great Hair Day Fill-In Powder. Evidently, on those days when you need "Great Hair" (aka Normal Hair), you just dust on this powder. And hope it's not a windy day, I imagine. Or wet. I would think the powder would just clump up, which wouldn't be great or normal. But I guess if you're Joan Rivers, you don't have to think about rain or wind.
But I don't know. Can Joan Rivers really guarantee Normalcy?
Thursday, January 17, 2013
One of the Wonders of the World
Hugh is due back home in 24 hours. Hugh is 17. I am girding up my emotional loins.
Oh wait. Does "girding up one's loins" means preparing to run away?
As good as an idea as that may be, that's not what I'm doing. Forget the girding.
I Am Preparing.
I will be Zen Mom. I will be Gandhi, except with clothes. And without the hunger strikes. Maybe forget the Gandhi.
I will be a fat, laughing Buddha, implacable in my joy, unmovable in my serenity, a pudgy pyramid of calm assurance. Birds can shit on my head, dogs can piss on my lap, adolescent boys can scream in my face, but I will smile resolutely on. I am going to be one of the Wonders of the World. Parents will whisper my name in awe-struck tones; mothers of teenagers will light incense before my photograph; high schoolers will bow before me.
It's going to be a great weekend.
Oh wait. Does "girding up one's loins" means preparing to run away?
As good as an idea as that may be, that's not what I'm doing. Forget the girding.
I Am Preparing.
I will be Zen Mom. I will be Gandhi, except with clothes. And without the hunger strikes. Maybe forget the Gandhi.
I will be a fat, laughing Buddha, implacable in my joy, unmovable in my serenity, a pudgy pyramid of calm assurance. Birds can shit on my head, dogs can piss on my lap, adolescent boys can scream in my face, but I will smile resolutely on. I am going to be one of the Wonders of the World. Parents will whisper my name in awe-struck tones; mothers of teenagers will light incense before my photograph; high schoolers will bow before me.
It's going to be a great weekend.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Holding
It's early Sunday evening, Hugh has returned to boarding school for the week, and I am consoling myself with a too-large tumbler of Jameson's. Not because he's gone. Because the two days he was home were just so truly awful.
Oh GAWD. It's all so mundane. Fights with the teenager. I'm not sure if it's the fights themselves that are so soul-destroying or the realization that your life is playing out according to some clichéd script that's been acted out on countless stages so very very many times before.
Somehow it seemed so different when I was watching in the stalls rather than acting on the stage.
And yet-- I remember watching my cousin and her parents. Sue was something of a terror; she dared things I didn't even dream of and she drove her parents around the bend, over the mountain, into the deep. There was shouting. Now decades later my Auntie Jean is dying, and Sue faces the loss of not only her mother but her best friend, the person she talks to every day, the buddy she shops with and giggles alongside and trusts absolutely. And I watch her grief and remember what that relationship once was, and I am in awe at what time and just holding on can do.
I don't aspire to be Hugh's best friend but I have to believe we'll be better than what we are right now. And I'm good at holding on. I am, in fact, a bit of a maniac when it comes to holding on. So, please God, give us time. I'll hold. There will be (more) shouting. But I'll hold.
Oh GAWD. It's all so mundane. Fights with the teenager. I'm not sure if it's the fights themselves that are so soul-destroying or the realization that your life is playing out according to some clichéd script that's been acted out on countless stages so very very many times before.
Somehow it seemed so different when I was watching in the stalls rather than acting on the stage.
And yet-- I remember watching my cousin and her parents. Sue was something of a terror; she dared things I didn't even dream of and she drove her parents around the bend, over the mountain, into the deep. There was shouting. Now decades later my Auntie Jean is dying, and Sue faces the loss of not only her mother but her best friend, the person she talks to every day, the buddy she shops with and giggles alongside and trusts absolutely. And I watch her grief and remember what that relationship once was, and I am in awe at what time and just holding on can do.
I don't aspire to be Hugh's best friend but I have to believe we'll be better than what we are right now. And I'm good at holding on. I am, in fact, a bit of a maniac when it comes to holding on. So, please God, give us time. I'll hold. There will be (more) shouting. But I'll hold.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Fergus
I've written before about the geological processes of aging--the shifting of tectonic plates, the cutting of new valleys and the pushing out of hillocks where all used to be flat and smooth. And of course, as part of this process of formation and erosion, soil shifts, rocks tumble, cliff sides suddenly give way. This last month has seen lots of shifting and tumbling. Take my teeth: a typical morning; I'm chewing on my usual peanut butter-and-whole wheat breakfast waffle and CRACK, my tooth falls onto my tongue. Much choking and spitting ensues. Or take my skin: suddenly white bits shower down like stones and sticks cascading down a hill. For the first time in my life I have eczema patches because, well, why not? there's all this other weird shit going on, so why not massive skin flaking?
And then there's Fergus.
About a week before Christmas I notice this large black thing in my left eye. Kind of like a fly, with a circular body and a squiggly tail. I figure it's eye strain, shrug it off. But the fly won't leave. And then comes a 24-hour massive bout of pain in that eye. Scary. So off I toddle to the eye doctor. Turns out the pain was coincidental--sinuses? psychosomaticism? who knows? But the fly--the fly, the doctor tells me, is permanent: my eye cavity is deteriorating; bits and pieces are detaching. The fly will always be with me. "But it will only be really obvious if you're looking at, say, a white page." Umm, you mean like a book page or a computer screen? "Yes, exactly." Right. I'm a historian. Book pages and computer screens. There's my life. Hello, permanent fly.
So, I decided to make the best of it. I've named him Fergus. He's my new pet. Like many of my pets, he's incredibly annoying and won't let me alone. But he's mine.
And then there's Fergus.
About a week before Christmas I notice this large black thing in my left eye. Kind of like a fly, with a circular body and a squiggly tail. I figure it's eye strain, shrug it off. But the fly won't leave. And then comes a 24-hour massive bout of pain in that eye. Scary. So off I toddle to the eye doctor. Turns out the pain was coincidental--sinuses? psychosomaticism? who knows? But the fly--the fly, the doctor tells me, is permanent: my eye cavity is deteriorating; bits and pieces are detaching. The fly will always be with me. "But it will only be really obvious if you're looking at, say, a white page." Umm, you mean like a book page or a computer screen? "Yes, exactly." Right. I'm a historian. Book pages and computer screens. There's my life. Hello, permanent fly.
So, I decided to make the best of it. I've named him Fergus. He's my new pet. Like many of my pets, he's incredibly annoying and won't let me alone. But he's mine.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
New Year's Resolutions
2013. What kind of year is that? What good can come in a year named 2013?
I resolve not to make any New Year's resolutions. I'm still scarred by my experience from a few years back, when I wrote up my resolutions and ended up with a list of 31 Do's and Don'ts, ending with "Be less hard on myself." And it took me several days before I saw the irony.
So, this year, in this badly named year of 2013, I resolve not to resolve. I Resolve Simply To Be. Just to be. To be: to breathe and to enjoy breathing. To be: to see the divine in the daily. To be: to recognize and even to rejoice in the fact that the highlights of my year will be the new seasons of Downton Abbey and Doctor Who. To be: to invite friends over on the spur of the moment and not to worry about the state of the house or whether there's any dessert. To be: to be as anal about responding to social emails as I am to work emails. To be: to allow myself more time to cook and to bake. To be: to remember friends' birthdays. To be: to go for long walks and to find a yoga class that doesn't drive me nuts. To be: to call my mom more often and to enjoy the calls. To be: to. . . to . . . .
Oh fuck.
I resolve not to make any New Year's resolutions. I'm still scarred by my experience from a few years back, when I wrote up my resolutions and ended up with a list of 31 Do's and Don'ts, ending with "Be less hard on myself." And it took me several days before I saw the irony.
So, this year, in this badly named year of 2013, I resolve not to resolve. I Resolve Simply To Be. Just to be. To be: to breathe and to enjoy breathing. To be: to see the divine in the daily. To be: to recognize and even to rejoice in the fact that the highlights of my year will be the new seasons of Downton Abbey and Doctor Who. To be: to invite friends over on the spur of the moment and not to worry about the state of the house or whether there's any dessert. To be: to be as anal about responding to social emails as I am to work emails. To be: to allow myself more time to cook and to bake. To be: to remember friends' birthdays. To be: to go for long walks and to find a yoga class that doesn't drive me nuts. To be: to call my mom more often and to enjoy the calls. To be: to. . . to . . . .
Oh fuck.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
My Towels
I apologize, oh blog people, for my absence. I have been frozen in a state of teenager-induced psychosis.
Why is it that parenting a teenager so rapidly reduces one to teenagerdom?
Hugh was heading back to school. The bus was waiting. We'd had a horrid weekend, a horrid week, a horrid month. As I handed him his various bags (it is amazing what this child needs for 5 days; every weekend it's like moving day), I realized he had packed my towels. The good ones. Not the ones I bought him for school but my towels. "Wait," I say. "What are these? Why do you have these towels?" He shrugs. "I don't have any towels. I don't know what happened to mine."
I'm immediately pitched into a state of outrage. "Well, FIND THEM! And you can't have these towels. These are my towels."
He shifts seamlessly into fighting mode. "I just told you, I DON'T KNOW WHERE THEY ARE. Are you deaf? And these aren't your towels; they're MY towels."
We're in a parking lot. People are watching. People are waiting. People are judging.
"What do you mean, they're YOUR towels? These aren't YOUR towels!"
"Yes, they are! They were in MY linen closet."
"YOUR linen closet? Don't you mean MY linen closet, in MY house, paid for with MY salary?"
And on and one we go.
Needless to say, when the bus pulls away, Hugh is on it and so are my towels. And my self-respect. And the last few bits of my sanity.
God, he was such a cute baby.
Why is it that parenting a teenager so rapidly reduces one to teenagerdom?
Hugh was heading back to school. The bus was waiting. We'd had a horrid weekend, a horrid week, a horrid month. As I handed him his various bags (it is amazing what this child needs for 5 days; every weekend it's like moving day), I realized he had packed my towels. The good ones. Not the ones I bought him for school but my towels. "Wait," I say. "What are these? Why do you have these towels?" He shrugs. "I don't have any towels. I don't know what happened to mine."
I'm immediately pitched into a state of outrage. "Well, FIND THEM! And you can't have these towels. These are my towels."
He shifts seamlessly into fighting mode. "I just told you, I DON'T KNOW WHERE THEY ARE. Are you deaf? And these aren't your towels; they're MY towels."
We're in a parking lot. People are watching. People are waiting. People are judging.
"What do you mean, they're YOUR towels? These aren't YOUR towels!"
"Yes, they are! They were in MY linen closet."
"YOUR linen closet? Don't you mean MY linen closet, in MY house, paid for with MY salary?"
And on and one we go.
Needless to say, when the bus pulls away, Hugh is on it and so are my towels. And my self-respect. And the last few bits of my sanity.
God, he was such a cute baby.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Child-free Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving approaches and I am depressed. Also relieved. But mostly depressed.
For the first time in 21 years, I face a Thanksgiving without at least one son. Son #1 is staying in Oregon to focus on his senior thesis. (This is not my fault; I did not give him this work ethic.) Son #2 is in, of all places, Sri Lanka. (Can I just say, this is not normal; we are not the sort of family who holiday in Sri Lanka; I, for one, have never been to Sri Lanka or anywhere in the vicinity of Sri Lanka.)
So I face this child-free Thanksgiving and I am depressed. I'm astonished how depressed I am.
And here's where the relief comes in. I've wondered-- fairly frequently in the last few years-- if I lack some essential Mom Gene, if I'm deficient in fundamental maternal, uh, stuff. Because many of my friends and acquaintances have kids about the same age as mine, which means many of my friends and acquaintances are sending off their youngest child to college or university, which means many of my friends and acquaintances have been slogging around in various stages of grief as they confront the absence of young Taylor or Tyler or Madison or Morgan. And I nod, and hold hands, and say, "Oh, I know," --but I don't. I don't. Hugh went off to boarding school last year, and with Owen off in Oregon, that left us with an empty nest, and well, frankly, in our childless house, Keith and I look at each other and go, "Cool!"
Except now it's Thanksgiving, almost, and my boys aren't here and damn. Damndamndamndamn. I am sad. I miss my guys. And suddenly I realize this is it, they won't be here much any more, hardly ever really, and the ache in my gut and heart really really hurts. Which is kind of a relief. It's good to know I'm not some sort of deficient Un-Mom.
Except it hurts. It really really hurts.
Damn. I need someone to nod and hold my hand and say, "Oh, I know."
Shit. I need my boys.
For the first time in 21 years, I face a Thanksgiving without at least one son. Son #1 is staying in Oregon to focus on his senior thesis. (This is not my fault; I did not give him this work ethic.) Son #2 is in, of all places, Sri Lanka. (Can I just say, this is not normal; we are not the sort of family who holiday in Sri Lanka; I, for one, have never been to Sri Lanka or anywhere in the vicinity of Sri Lanka.)
So I face this child-free Thanksgiving and I am depressed. I'm astonished how depressed I am.
And here's where the relief comes in. I've wondered-- fairly frequently in the last few years-- if I lack some essential Mom Gene, if I'm deficient in fundamental maternal, uh, stuff. Because many of my friends and acquaintances have kids about the same age as mine, which means many of my friends and acquaintances are sending off their youngest child to college or university, which means many of my friends and acquaintances have been slogging around in various stages of grief as they confront the absence of young Taylor or Tyler or Madison or Morgan. And I nod, and hold hands, and say, "Oh, I know," --but I don't. I don't. Hugh went off to boarding school last year, and with Owen off in Oregon, that left us with an empty nest, and well, frankly, in our childless house, Keith and I look at each other and go, "Cool!"
Except now it's Thanksgiving, almost, and my boys aren't here and damn. Damndamndamndamn. I am sad. I miss my guys. And suddenly I realize this is it, they won't be here much any more, hardly ever really, and the ache in my gut and heart really really hurts. Which is kind of a relief. It's good to know I'm not some sort of deficient Un-Mom.
Except it hurts. It really really hurts.
Damn. I need someone to nod and hold my hand and say, "Oh, I know."
Shit. I need my boys.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Sick Day
Stayed at home from work today with a massive headache. In between putting my head on ice and ransacking the cupboard for more drugs, I watched a bit of daytime tv. I do love What Not to Wear--it's like "Hints from Heloise" for people who leave their kitchens occasionally. So cheery and affirming. Today's subject was a young woman on the heavier side of plump--or, in Clint and Stacey's eyes, an "hourglass figure" and "great boobs" and "wonderful curves." A shorter skirt here, a splash of color there, the right little jacket. . . and golly gosh darn, she was ready to take on the world.
But the best part were the commercials. Did you know that every household needs a Martha Stewart craft scoring board? So that you can make your own envelopes and paper party centerpieces resembling gigantic disco balls? The mind boggles. I try to imagine a life in which I would make my own envelopes. I fail.
My favorite commercial today, tho', was for one of those law firms that sues drug companies:
Have you ever taken XXX?
If you have ever taken XXX and your answer is YES to any of the following, you may qualify for compensation!
Do you now or have you ever suffered from
But the best part were the commercials. Did you know that every household needs a Martha Stewart craft scoring board? So that you can make your own envelopes and paper party centerpieces resembling gigantic disco balls? The mind boggles. I try to imagine a life in which I would make my own envelopes. I fail.
My favorite commercial today, tho', was for one of those law firms that sues drug companies:
Have you ever taken XXX?
If you have ever taken XXX and your answer is YES to any of the following, you may qualify for compensation!
Do you now or have you ever suffered from
- heart palpitations or irregularities?
- shortness of breath?
- heart attack?
- death?
Saturday, November 10, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Cursing Doris
Oh lord, Doris Kearns Goodwin on The Colbert Report. I hate seeing historians on Colbert and Jon Stewart. Overcome with longing, I watch in sorrow and think, "why not me me me?!" Obviously I don't think this when the guest is a rock star or a movie actor or the president. But an historian?? Damn damn damn. I coulda been a contender! Instead, I had children. Sigh.
Not that I'd trade the kids for fame and fortune or a chance to chat with Jon Stewart. Except sometimes.
Such as last Sunday morning, for example, when Keith and I were driving up and down and around every single friggin' parking lot on the LSU campus. It's a big campus: 35,000 students, God knows how many administrators, a few faculty, and lots of cars. Lots and lots and lots of cars. Amidst which we were hunting ours. Just one nondescript black Honda Civic, lost by our horrifyingly non-penitent teenaged son during a drunken tailgating session the day before.
Sorry, what? You say you don't know "tailgating"? Ahh, guess you're not from the American South, eh? "Tailgating" = 24-hour party that precedes all Southern university football games. Picture massive encampments of those temporary pavilions, Weber grills and smokers, gargantuan generators fueling large-screen tvs and stereo speakers mounted on pickup truck beds, coolers the size of industrial refrigerators, people of all ages painted in purple and gold, vats of gumbo and jambalaya, platters of fried chicken, barbecued ribs and boiled crawfish, and miles and miles of red Solo cups filled with cheap beer. And now picture my extremely sociable, not-very-consequences-minded teenaged son in the midst of all that.
We trusted him. Dumb, eh? Sure seemed so as we forsook our usual leisurely peruse of the Sunday papers and instead toured acres and acres of concrete expanses strewn with grimy plastic red cups and broken beer bottles and chicken bones and crawfish shells.
Eventually we found the car. Son has lost the right to drive. Son thinks we are unfair. Mom is staring at the television and cursing Doris Kearns Goodwin. Sorry, Doris.
Not that I'd trade the kids for fame and fortune or a chance to chat with Jon Stewart. Except sometimes.
Such as last Sunday morning, for example, when Keith and I were driving up and down and around every single friggin' parking lot on the LSU campus. It's a big campus: 35,000 students, God knows how many administrators, a few faculty, and lots of cars. Lots and lots and lots of cars. Amidst which we were hunting ours. Just one nondescript black Honda Civic, lost by our horrifyingly non-penitent teenaged son during a drunken tailgating session the day before.
Sorry, what? You say you don't know "tailgating"? Ahh, guess you're not from the American South, eh? "Tailgating" = 24-hour party that precedes all Southern university football games. Picture massive encampments of those temporary pavilions, Weber grills and smokers, gargantuan generators fueling large-screen tvs and stereo speakers mounted on pickup truck beds, coolers the size of industrial refrigerators, people of all ages painted in purple and gold, vats of gumbo and jambalaya, platters of fried chicken, barbecued ribs and boiled crawfish, and miles and miles of red Solo cups filled with cheap beer. And now picture my extremely sociable, not-very-consequences-minded teenaged son in the midst of all that.
We trusted him. Dumb, eh? Sure seemed so as we forsook our usual leisurely peruse of the Sunday papers and instead toured acres and acres of concrete expanses strewn with grimy plastic red cups and broken beer bottles and chicken bones and crawfish shells.
Eventually we found the car. Son has lost the right to drive. Son thinks we are unfair. Mom is staring at the television and cursing Doris Kearns Goodwin. Sorry, Doris.
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