Get With The Times

Thanksgiving is coming up, and the delicious feast is on my mind. It’s on my little nephew’s mind too, who told the doctor at his last wellness check-up that his mother only makes him dinner twice a year, on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

My sister, stunned by her son’s comment, tried to defend herself, explaining that dinner is casual because she drives four kids around to their activities all afternoon and evening. The doctor is used to kids saying crazy shit, and seeing that my nephew is well-fed, moved on.

My nephew may grow up to be someone who sets the table every night and has meals in courses. Life is too busy for that at this moment. I only cook dinner when my kids are home; otherwise, I eat miscellaneous nonsense until I’m full. When my kids are home, my favorite recipes are from the Children’s Quick and Easy Cookbook, which my daughter got for Christmas five years ago. This is the most basic level of cooking, but I still have to follow the steps like I’m making a bomb.

My miscellaneous snacking dinners were seriously shameful after Halloween. My kids said I could have all their Milk Duds. I told them the secret to eating Milk Duds is cradling them in your palm right before melting, so the inside gets soft; otherwise, you’ll pull out a tooth. They said Milk Duds were for old people, and I told them they’re wrong; old people like butterscotch hard candies. My kids have no fucking clue what a butterscotch hard candy is.

Similarly, when my older sister was at work, she was complaining that her kids’ Halloween candy lacked the variety of years past. She told her coworker, “There wasn’t any Baby Ruth, Paydays, or 100 Grands.”

Her coworker looked her dead in the eyes and asked, “How old are you?”

After my sister told me, I figured we're riding our next wave away from youth. Sometimes my kids explain to me their jargon, and it makes sense, like chopped, but other times the definition does not compute, like when my daughter tried to explain ship to me. I asked them, “Does anyone still say Badonkadonk?”

It was a definite no, and they asked what it meant, and I said, “Big ol’ butt.”

My daughter said, “Oh, we call that big back now.”

I had to correct her, “Badonkadonk was a compliment, big back doesn’t sound nice.”

Later that week, came more proof I was slipping out of the loop. My daughter and I were walking through Barnes and Noble’s, and I saw a Sabrina Carpenter album where she is on all fours and being pulled by her long blonde hair by a man in a business suit. I pointed to it and exclaimed, “What the hell kind of shit is this?”

My daughter explained there’s a second version of the album because this one caused such a stir. I said, “Why is she acting like it's the caveman times, or the early 2000s. This is shameful.”

My daughter just shrugged her shoulders. More of an indication of my pulling away from my youth, in a steamship, waving goodbye to it, as it stands on the shore, and I move further and further away. 

But I return to the kitchen and flip open the pages of the Children’s Quick and Easy Cookbook to prepare dinner.

Tuesday Side Hustle

On Tuesdays, I don’t go to campus to teach, so I sub in my local school district. It didn’t take long to figure out that some jobs are better than others. The pay is lowest at elementary schools because being around young children is so enjoyable, and they use that as leverage. Middle school needs to be avoided at all costs. High schools are really the best places to go, especially if it is a teacher who only teaches juniors and seniors. 

On high school days, after I take attendance, I read them the brief email from their teacher informing them of the work they have to do, then they do it, or they don’t. They don’t make a scene about sitting on their phone or chatting with their friends. They exist without feeling any need to exert control over the situation.

Then, I spend the entire day doing all the prep work I have for the week, grading quizzes and tests, and writing lecture notes. I only have to look up to allow students to go to the bathroom.

A couple of Tuesdays ago, I saw a high school and accepted the job. When I showed up, it was the music class. I can’t even snap to a beat, so I just assumed the lesson plan would be, let them do whatever they want. 

It was not, but an amazing student made himself available from the start. He must have been Mormon because he was wearing a BYU sweatshirt; I’m assuming the college he’d attend the next year. The kid took over the class and conducted the marching band practice for their upcoming competition. I couldn’t find a desk for the teacher, so I sat in a plastic chair behind him, pulled out my work, and did it on my lap. I didn’t even have to look up to let the kids go to the bathroom, as this kid took care of that for me, too.

I sent my sister an audio text because I was on the front lines of a 50-piece band, blasting their instruments. It was four hours of horns, drums, and other instruments coming right at me. I can’t really put this sound into words, but my closest attempt is, “BWWWWAAAAAA. WRRRRRRRAAAA, BRRRAAAAA.”

The next week, I saw a position at a high school, so I clicked accept, and when I showed up, I realized it was special ed. I don’t mind subbing special ed; those jobs are paid the highest rate, and there are almost as many aides in the classroom as there are students, but I can’t get any of my work done. It is very busy, yet incredibly slow, like sitting with a toddler. The moment I go from vigilant to relaxed, there could be a catastrophe, like a student suddenly bolting from the classroom.

I had only subbed in elementary school special ed before, and seeing these kids as almost adults was new. All of the boys were bigger than me, huge, and they were happy and loved having a hug, but their strength was clocked. It made me almost nervous. 

The aides in these classrooms are some of the nicest people I have ever met. When a diaper needs to be changed, I tend to make myself invisible, shrinking behind whatever kid I’m sitting next to, but they don’t mind. When a kid gets one inch from their face, and stares deep into their eyes, they don’t have a moment of thought, like What the hell does this kid see in me right now? They gently push the kid back and say, “Respect my space.”

After eight hours, I am completely exhausted and need to have a shower and a nap. When the parents picked up the kids at the end of the day, I thought of the lifetime they have had of this exhaustion. It makes me wonder what they think when regular people go around announcing they are autistic. Their kids won’t ever have a job, or an apartment, or a sweatshirt announcing their future college. They probably can’t ever go on vacation; they’d go to bed worried sick that their kid will wander off in the middle of the night and get in a fatal accident.

When I go to bed, I recite a prayer I’ve said since middle school, with additions tacked on over the years. It’s become a running list. The latest additions: for my kids to be good students, for us to win the lotto, and for my daughter to be nice to me. They sound ridiculous, but they fit the times.

This morning, when I woke up my daughter, before her usual snarl, I said, “I am just a girl, standing in front of her daughter, asking her to love her.”

She actually smiled. It was a small victory, but a major one in setting the tone of our daily race to leave the house on time.

Later, while watching Real Housewives of Salt Lake City, a clip of Angie’s teenage daughter being an asshole came on. In her confessional, Angie said, “Having a teenager is hard. I dedicated my life to this person, and now they are mean to me. I can’t take it personally, though. I won’t let it hurt my ego.” 

Anyone who watches Real Housewives knows nothing can damage these women’s egos, but I still felt comforted by her words. The comfort deepened later in the week when I listened to an old Louie Theroux podcast with Sharon Stone. 

She was candid as she spoke about her life and career, and I loved her honest perspective. When she talked about raising three sons, she nailed it, “They want you there, but not there. I was stapled to the couch, but I couldn’t say anything. They need me there, like a scratching post.”

I’m getting great parenting advice from beautiful women, so in their honor, I decided to revisit Sharon Stone’s films. I love Total Recall, it’s one of the best movies ever made, but I hadn’t seen much else. I started with Basic Instinct, a great psychological thriller. My biggest takeaway, story aside, was: Oh yeah… sex is a thing.

The reminder didn’t trigger a prayer. My prayer these days is kind of the opposite of St. Augustine's famous request for delayed chastity. I guess I could tack on, “Lord make me promiscuous… but not yet.”

I have a really important role right now as a silent whipping girl. I’m taking it seriously, and I’m grateful for it. 

I’ll tack that gratitude onto my prayer list, right before “win the lotto.”

Chronic Bad Breath

During every commercial break on Paramount Plus, there’s an advertisement for HIV medication. My kids asked me, “Would you go out with someone who had HIV?”

Without even thinking about it, I replied, “Hell no.”

They love hypotheticals, and tacked on the condition, “What if he was the love of your life?”

I said, “I’ve wanted to break up with someone for having chronic bad breath; HIV is way worse.” I added, “Someone with HIV should go out with someone else who has HIV. Based on this commercial, there must be millions of them.”

We are watching Paramount Plus for South Park, but I also watch it for Drag Race. This last season stood out to me. The cast was much younger than usual, and almost all of them were well-adjusted musical theater kids.

Usually, every season, there is an ex-crack head prostitute contestant or someone approaching fifty who is referred to as the crusty old grandma and has a drag style that hails back to the eighties. This season, though, there was one character who had to take on all these roles, and they were 32 years old. 

It was a tame season, a bit of a bore really. By the end, you could tell that this cast of drag queens was a few years out from being the stars of their high school drama departments, and their families all loved them, encouraging them to pursue their dreams of being on Drag Race. The height of drama in the confessionals was when a contestant revealed they used to be fat. The follow up question missing, "Were you sucking dick for Twinkies?"

This season was far less entertaining than a cast made up entirely of ex-junkies trying to quit smoking and stay rail-thin.

This is likely the hardest thing a person can do: stay skinny after quitting smoking. Mary Karr suggested knitting every time you crave a cigarette. In Whoopi Goldberg’s latest book, when she quit cocaine, she told herself, “You are going to gain twenty pounds, and you have to be okay with that.” 

I don’t know why I used quotes there; I am definitely summing up a sentiment from a book I read last year. That is not a direct quote from Whoopi’s book.

I have to lose ten (more like 15) from quitting vaping. I still try on my jeans, sometimes they go over my butt, and I can yank the zipper up, but sometimes I can't get them much farther above my knees. I have to be nice to myself, like these kids on Drag Race’s supportive families. So what, I have to lose ten (maybe 15) pounds; it could be a lot worse. 

I could have chronic bad breath.

Bra in Purse

 

A week ago, one of the kids I tutor didn’t show up for her appointment, and when I texted her grandma, she told me they tested positive covid. I saw them the day before, so she added, “You will get Covid. I will pray for you.”

I thought that was really nice of her. I prepared for the oncoming sickness, I vacuumed, caught up on laundry, and filled the fridge with groceries. I didn’t want to have to deal with these things with covid, which always makes me feel like my joints are broken. Plus, I had a lot of things going on that week; G had a book report, they both had a math test, and I had a job interview.

Not to toot my horn, but my cover letter was five stars. The day of the interview, I still felt unaffected and showed up looking like a professional anything-you-want-me-to-be. Midway through the interview, it dawned on me that I had zero experience with the would-be job. 

Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t rocket science, but I’d be Chat GPTing the shit out of my daily responsibilities. After four months, I’d realize it’s not a lack of talent but a lack of passion limiting my love of the position.

My motivation was slightly off. It was an administrative role at an elite private school, so I figured the lateral salary move would be offset by a significant tuition reduction for my kids attending, a stipulation I’d make after they offered me the job.

I think they figured out, too, that they should hire someone who has a solid knowledge base instead of a person who just has confidence. I had a lovely time talking with the hiring committee, but I forgot to send a thank-you email afterwards. My subconscious was helping me out.

After the interview, I picked up the kids and we came home to work on this book report and study for math tests. Midway through, it was discovered my son didn’t have his antibiotics, and we needed to go pick them up from his dad’s. I had been pajama’d since we walked in the front door and wasn’t about to change. I threw a bra in my purse in case of an emergency, and we went and picked them up.

Back at home, I thought about another looming responsibility: I needed to tell my kids that my parents’ dog had passed away. It was hard on my parents, and I knew my son would take it just as badly. The dog started as ours nine years ago, but when my plate was overflowing, my parents came in and scooped up this dog, who they quickly fell in love with.

I put off telling him for almost two weeks because he always has so much homework to do, and then he has soccer on the weekend. I knew once he heard the news, he’d need the rest of the day off. I told them on a Saturday after his soccer game. G acted as I expected. He was totally wrecked, and I sat next to him for an hour. Kiki acted as expected; she’d poke her head around the door and mouth, “Where is my iPad?”

I mouthed, “No iPad!” And waved her away, noticing a slight pain in my elbow.

My daughter and I went to a musical the next day. We got all gussied up and had a great time. As we were walking from the theater to the car, my daughter fanned out her sundress, and a young man slowed down in moving traffic and, out the window, said, “You look great in that dress.”

She looked at me, confused, and asked, “Is he talking to you?”

I confirmed I had a bra on and said, “No, babe. He’s talking to you.” She smiled and said that was nice of him, totally oblivious to stopping traffic with her ethereal glide up the sidewalk.

Today, as I packed up after teaching a class, the next group of students came in. They’re mostly young men heading towards a career in engineering, a field much closer to rocket science, and probably at risk of being Chat GPT’d the shit out of as well.

I eavesdropped as this kid was talking. He said he always wanted to work on cars and got certified as a mechanic, not knowing it was unnecessary when he was hired at a dealership. He said, “The guy who trained me at work is the dumbest person I've ever met in my life.”

I turned around to erase the chalkboard and laughed. This kid’s anger was coming across as hilarious. As I erased the chalkboard, my elbow joint hurt even worse. It might be psychosomatic, but I can’t get covid in only one joint. I’m probably developing tennis elbow from erasing chalkboards because I teach like an old-fashioned lady.

An entire week passed, and I’m confident I did not get covid or a new job. I think anyone could probably do any job out there, especially with some help from the computer gods. If thats the bar, though, it’s pretty boring. There really has to be a desire to learn everything, to notice things that can’t be bullet-pointed and iterated. There is so much information to glean from the obliviousness. Really, it's all the good stuff, the stuff that makes you smile, or gives you tennis elbow.

Toohey'd

 

I'm coming up on six years sober, two years single, and one day since I finished reading The Fountainhead. I bought the book ages ago, but only got around to reading it a couple of weeks ago.

It’s a great read with key takeaways. First: anyone held in good public standing is a spineless bitch with no real identity. Second, altruistic pursuits are ultimately selfish; create for yourself, not for anyone else. Lastly, don’t care what other people think, because other people don’t think.

The rape thing with Dominique is strange. Her psychotic obsession reminded me of the intersection of my married, drinking, and motherhood nights when I took to cyberstalking an old boyfriend. I think there were moments in those nights when I felt convinced I was reading his mind too. I’m glad it worked out for ol’ Dominique. 

Not so much for me, in that department. I can admit I’ve been unlucky in love. My relationships haven’t exactly been success stories, but that does not define my self-worth. I’m the sum of all my experiences, and when the right person comes along, I’ll know without doubt. These past two years have been pretty fucking amazing, and cliché as it sounds, I’ve been in a relationship with myself, one I never had the space to enjoy before.

Something strange happened while reading the book: Dax Shepard referenced it twice in recent episodes of Armchair Expert. It made me wonder if I’ve been Ellsworth Toohey’d. The book offers a compelling look at how public opinion can be manipulated. I won’t say it’s more relevant now than ever; public persuasion has always been a part of the human experience.

When the kids watch South Park, I cringe and point out that the jokes are offensive, as if they’re stupid. They think the obviousness of my commentary is what’s stupid. The show is on Paramount Plus, the streamer with abusively long commercial breaks. I can make a snack, change the laundry, and wash my face during one string of advertisements. 

The other night, I was tired, so I just let the ads come at me. The first commercial was about suicide. Is their pursuit of suicide prevention really a suggestion of suicide to anyone who hadn’t thought about it? The next two commercials were for pharmaceuticals; pills promising to dissolve suffering. The final one was for KY jelly. I turned to the kids and said, “I don’t think South Park is the problem anymore. It's the damn commercials.”

Society’s fixation with mental health often feels like a distraction from a deeper issue: people living without purpose. That seems clear to me, but I’m a mother, so I worry anyway. Some days when I pick up my kids from school, I am subject to a full-blown manifesto about the injustice of having no control over life as a middle schooler.

My favorite quote is, “This is one moment, but know that another shall pierce you with a sudden painful joy.” I want my kids to hold on to what makes them unique. I don’t want the Howard Roark spirit beaten out of them. Sobriety has helped me get off the roller coaster of highs and lows, but as a mom, I have to jump in that open seat next to my kids and make sure they pull the safety bar down. I want to show them: buckle up, this ride won’t last forever, but it can throw you off course if you don’t accept it and settle in for the damn ride.

Anyway, who’s to say whether these opinions are truly mine, or if I’ve just been Ellsworth Toohey’d into thinking them? I’ll move on to a new book, and with it, a fresh set of ideas. Ones I can attribute to individualism or collectivism. In the end, I guess it’s really about how selfish I am.

Flying

 

Two nights ago, I had one of those dreams where you wake up, but you’re still asleep. I tried to fully wake by attempting to fling over on my side. But I stayed in the dream and just rolled off the side of the bed. I got up and saw Kiki in the doorway. She wore her pink pajama set, which she often wears, and it looked like she was waiting for me.

We walked through the house to the back door and excitedly opened the sliding door to go outside. The backyard looked different. There were little white lights strung around everywhere, and a huge deck with fire pits and TVs hung up. I sat in a chair in front of a fire pit and said to her, “I’m so happy we're in this dream together.”

She replied, “This isn’t a dream.”

I jumped from the chair I was sitting in and flew high into the sky, to show her it was a dream. I flew over the yard and then hovered above the house, looking back at her. Then she flew up into the sky, too.

Then I woke up. The next morning, I told my daughter about the dream, and I asked her, “Did you have the same dream?”

It felt right. The dream left me feeling so amazing. She told me no, and added something about how ridiculous the question is.

I’ve had the kids for most of this month, and it’s been lovely to have them all the time. The only extracurricular is G's soccer. He is new to the game, and he’s picking it up. I get antsy watching. My body reacts when I see the ball being kicked around as if I could pull some puppet strings attached to the players. 

When I played soccer in middle school, I was, without question, the worst player on the team. The only person who was thrilled to have me on the team was the second-to-worst person. Everyone else was indifferent because I never could mess a game up in a critical moment, since I’d be watching from the bench. It didn’t faze me, and I had fun hanging out with my friends.

G’s soccer games can be intense because the kids are damn good at soccer. They're juggling that ball, and bouncing it off their heads, and I’m at the sidelines doing the dog pound chant from Arsenio Hall. Some of the parents are cut from a different cloth. I smell their militant self-discipline. 

I was once reading my book while the team warmed up, and listened to this dad talk about his son to some other parents. He said, “He is reaching a limit. He has continued to be top of his class academically, and he has two hours of practice every night and four games a weekend.”

This explains why they're all so good, playing in multiple leagues each season. Whatever they did to their kids early on to make them get in line, I commend. I start screaming at my kids to put their shoes on thirty minutes before we actually leave, otherwise we will be late. One hour of homework has to be rewarded with two hours of TV. We are finally at a point where I can believe them when they tell me they don't have homework, after two years of parent-teacher conferences, where one time my daughter said to the teacher, in front of me, that I am too trusting. My jaw dropped.

I get it, though. When I get home, I don't want to work. The minute I walk in the door, I change into pajamas. My daughter does the same, usually the pink set. If I didn’t have to worry about one day finding a man because my kids will move out in five years, I'd probably only eat ice cream sandwiches and have a full wardrobe of matching sweatsuits. I don’t think I will find one at a soccer game, even though it is the height of my social life these days.

The kids are going to their dad’s this weekend, so I can say goodbye to these dishpan hands at the same time as I say goodbye to them in the morning, but I already miss them. Tonight, when I walked into Kiki's room to say goodnight, I said, “That was my favorite dream. I think one day you’ll have that dream too. From your perspective. Why would we have to have it at the same time?”

She said, "I don't think we're that connected. Maybe it would happen with my dad."

Then I hit her over the head with a pillow, and she started laughing.