What’s Complicated times Infinity?
You act like it’s no big deal. You act like it doesn’t really matter but I know you’re dying to ask. Let me break it down for you.
In reverse order: there’s me. Because I’m the author, I come first. When someone else does the legwork, he/she may take credit.
Next, there are my parents, Frank (“Dad”) and Paula (“Mom”). I adore them. They love me. They love me in the most extreme of polar opposite ways. The details of these loves are reserved for future posts. *insert grinning author*
Wait, though. They aren’t the only ones.
Also, there is my step-dad, Chris (“Papa”, if you’re family). He’s kept his end of the deal for the past 32 years. Thick, thin, and puberty (mine, not his), the man and the Mom (mine, not his) toughed it out. Believe me, I was no help in their endeavour. It’s entirely possible that an outsider may see me as the Gargamel to the Smurfs of their relationship. Papa taught me that choosing one’s family isn’t a one-time action. Every day, no matter what I did or didn’t do, he chose me. It took me way too long to realize how monumental this was.
Also, thanks to Papa, I can break another person’s will with a handful of words. If you’ve never learned this skill, I recommend you do so immediately, especially if you are female and measure less than 5’2″ in height.
There is my first (and only “real”) step-mom, Suzanne. She officially un-became my step-mom about 28 years ago but, as far as I’m concerned, she’s still golden. She has been kind, gracious, and loving from the first time I met her to this very day. She and I have maintained contact thanks to the fact that no one ever behaved as if it was not allowed (Thank you, Mom).
Now, we skip forward. Not forward as in “the future” but forward as in “between what happened a long time ago and right now”.
After the whole parents/step-parents situation, Frank and Suzanne used their collective Powers of Good to create Garth. Garth is my little brother by 9 years. Yes, technically, he’s my half-brother. Whatever. He’s my brother. I often refer to him as “my practice baby” because he’s the first person who helped me to understand full-on unconditional love.
Relation-shit hit the fan so Frank and Suzanne broke the rental lease (and my wee heart). No worries, dear Reader. I’m a tough nut.
Next, we have Frank and Pammy. There was no marriage, no procreation, no rental lease. There was, however, an intense fascination on my part with the Rock Star that was Pammy. Here is someone (a mere 9 years older than myself) with a shaved head, a pierced nose, a well-worn set of roller skates, and an artfully scissored collection of Punk Rock band t-shirts the likes of which I had never seen.
Thanks to my not-step-mom Pammy, I went late night Urban Animal skating in Houston, Texas. I learned how to graffiti a Federal government building without getting caught. I saw a real mosh pit, blood and studded collars included, at The Island. And, I had my confidence boosted by knowing that I was loved by the coolest badass girl on the planet.
Isn’t this complicated?
No?
The advent of Reality shows and sordid celebrity tell-all’s has you aching for “better, faster, more”?
I suppose it’s fortunate, then, that the story continues………….
Is There An Ass For That?
I was raised by a family which not only loved to engage in conversation but to do it well (topically AND grammatically speaking). A statement that started with, “Me and my friend….” was promptly corrected. It wasn’t only about transposing the position of the noun and pronoun. It was also about the proper use of “me” vs. “I”.
If I’ve already alienated you with the exceedingly dry world of English grammar, come on back. A bit of background information was necessary. I’ll try not to digress into technicalities too often (with a silent “t”).
Somehow, I was born with an unexplained ability to spell well: not bragging, it’s just true. Mom can’t do it. Dad can’t do it. Step-dad, so-so but definitely not Spelling Bee material. (Incomplete sentence)
Numbers and anything having to do with Arithmetic send me reeling. I just don’t go that way. Combine the spelling skill with the in-home grammar tutorial and you have a bona fide word freak on your hands. (Yes, in this context, “bona fide” is actually two words, not hyphenated.)
Spell Check as a useful tool is wasted on me. On occasion, I have discovered an extra letter or 10 due to my atrocious lack of keying skill. Classes on the topic of keying are now required beginning in Middle School. Back in the mid-80′s, it was just an easy elective. An easy elective so boring that I couldn’t fathom spending 40 minutes in front of a typewriter (TYPEWRITER, people) for an “A”. (and another incomplete sentence)
In 2010, most people under 30 can key like an Administrative Assistant on meth. (For those of you over 60 or unfamiliar with the Corporate world, using the term “secretary” is NOT okay. Some men employed in this profession find the word a bit gender biased. Imagine that.)
Thanks to this lightning-fast skill with a keyboard, Spell Check has become necessary for some people. For me, it’s a perfect example of modern civilization preferring to let someone else do the thinking. Often (silent “t”), the suggestions that Spell Check makes are ridiculous.
Take my last post, for example. When I used the word “gussy” in relation to dressing up, Spell Check suggested that my word choice was incorrect. Spell Check found that I might have intended to use the word “pussy”.
Ummmmmm, no. I do not generally “pussy up” before I go out with friends. Maybe if I were a stripping contortionist…….
I would like to make a trade-in for another writing tool. This new tool could resolve so many senseless misunderstandings and poor communications. No longer would I have to suffer through explaining “I didn’t mean it that way” in regards to a text or e-mail.
I call it Asshole Check.
Worry not, fair friends. There will not be a proctologist involved. This is all about letting our computers help us to convey our true tone and meaning. Imagine the uncomfortable situations which could have been avoided had your computer not been so concerned with “i” before “e” except after “c” but, instead, had helped you out with “This sentence makes you seem like a prick” or “Your tone comes off a tad pissy”.
Conversely, I could have avoided the text-imposed stress of lamenting over my ex’s seemingly flippant, “Did you pay the lunch balance at school?” I mean, that’s clearly an incendiary comment, right? You don’t…..think….so? Well, okay. Bad example then.
Regardless, (FYI, irregardless isn’t a word) I need this technology, desperately. What I now understand, after re-reading this post, is that I’m almost certain that Asshole Check would never have allowed me to publish this post. It makes me come off like such a bitch.
My “Girl” Card Has Been Revoked
My twenties were a decade full of fullness, both productive and wasteful. I’m more often a “glass half full” kinda gal but I remember being relieved when I finally reached my 30th birthday. Although I had three children and a job which cared for our family quite well, the pangs of not being taken seriously lingered still in small ways. The ability to state “I am 30″ seemed like the perfect remedy.
And, it was. This may have been a self-fulfilling occurrence but I felt it. What is it about being 20-whatever that causes women to accept struggle and obstacles, especially when presented by another person? I’m not sure. As far as I was concerned, all that silliness was over for me. 30 was my armor and badge of honor to be worn proudly.
I continue to love this decade. I like what I’m learning. I like having a clearer vision of my worth. I like the occasional pity-card by the bouncer when I’m out with friends but I certainly don’t get pissed if it doesn’t happen. I mean, come on. There are several mirrors in my house.
There is no discouragement to my rosy outlook as I approach 40. My world is filled with a plethora of women who NATURALLY maintain a state of fabulous-ness. Reality recently decided to deliver a quick little swat to my mildly sagging backside, however. Funny thing is that it happened shortly after one of those sweet little pity-cards.
Saturday night was deemed “Girls’ Dance Night” and I was in. I have a few pieces of clothing which spend a great deal of time making my closet look tres chic. Lest these pieces fall into an overwhelming sadness due my disregard, I welcome the chance to gussy up and take them out into the world. Even peep toe shoes like a little time on the dance floor, no?
After meeting up with my lovely lady friends and toasting to our night, we make our way to the designated den of music and booty-shaking. Immediately, the majority of the group was shakin “what your mama gave ya’”. Two others and I made the rounds to find a home base and get settled. I have found that a little warm-up time is required before the need to move hits me.
After a round of assessing the evening attire of complete strangers, my two companions were off. Voyeurism is a favorite pastime so I sat contentedly observing my surroundings: not necessarily making eye contact or feeling any sense of awkwardness to be a singular Vodka sipper. Who needs conversation when Grey Goose L’orange is mingling so nicely with ice?!
Suddenly, there is a man (loosely used term) standing to my side. The poor tipsy fool begins what he thought was a conversation. It seems that he missed the day in Comm Arts 101 when the instructor explained the need for two participants. Judging by his age, it may have been the day prior.
Man-type continues to attempt engagement while I continue to not. I notice another young un’ approaching. This is my out as the two are clearly friends. I shoot my best “please take care of your drunk buddy” look. Imagine my relief when Man-type 2 quickly moves in and gives his comrade a very masculine back pat. “Yes!”, I think. “I’m saved.” Au contraire, wise one.
Man-type two gives me a huge alligator grin and promptly explains, “We’re Cougar hunters.”
Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
In three small words are contained a bigger dose of reality than I have swallowed in ages, or maybe ever. Knowing I have exhibited no behavior which would lead these embryos to think that I am prowling, I am left to ponder how such an assessment could be made. I am drowning in visions of Housewives of the O.C. and Liza Minelli.
My response was merely “I’m not a Cougar.” Dumbfoundedness had struck. Later, my thoughts turned to witty, immasculating phrases that I shoulda, woulda, coulda. Next time (please, God, no), I will be viciously well-prepared. This time, not so much.
So, what have I learned? “Girl” means not me. Guess what. Yay! Another layer has fallen away to reveal a new understanding. Of course I don’t look like a 25-year-old. I’m not 25. Do I look like a 38-year-old? It seems that I do. Why would this be a problem for me? I am privileged to know things that I couldn’t have possibly known before this very day.
What about “Girls Night”? A new term is in order. I turn for guidance to the words of one of my favorite women, Lena Horne. She once said, “You have to be taught to be second class; you’re not born that way.” From this day forward, I will be a willing participant of “First Class Night”. 
The Dog Ate My SIM Card
When it comes to technology, I’m an idiot savant (minus the savant). My lack of knowledge is borne from a very special mix of “this is complicated” and “I don’t give a shit”. Gen X slackers unite!
My apathetic attitude toward all things computer became apparent in 5th grade. I was placed in a learning program which mimicked something similar to a college environment. Students were able to choose a “major” and a “minor” while also attending required courses. My major was “The Brain” and my minor was “Computers”. Somewhat clever but not at all intentional, I promise.
Brain class was endlessly fascinating to me. We created models. We discussed electricity. We explored ESP. We took a field trip to a local hospital to meet a Neurologist. He had a brain in a jar of Formaldehyde. We held it. It stunk but it was the coolest thing I had ever done.
In computer class, we learned binary code. We designed programs. It was 1982. It sucked. That was the end of my life as a geek.
As an adult, cell phone ownership didn’t enter my life until 2001. It was required for my job. Setting up a personal e-mail account (in 2002) was solely motivated by the entertainment value that my coworkers and I found in reading profiles on dating websites. Yes, we were on the clock and no, I never received any offers.
Fast forward to present-day. I own a Blackberry on which I text, e-mail, update Facebook, Google restaurants, and check my blog stats. Sometimes, I actually have a verbal conversation but not often.
I own an iBook (second-hand) and two desktops, one Mac and one Dell. I rarely use either of the desktops but the kids do. My two oldest, who are 15 and 12, have cell phones and iPods. Last fall, the 15-year-old dropped his cell in a glass of water. He took the battery and SIM card out to let the device dry. Guess what the dog did.
Each of the 9-year-old’s have their own handheld gaming system. There is one Wii system that belongs to everyone and the 15 year old has an XBox 360, which he bought with his summer job income.
This inventory of perfect technology is overwhelming to me for several reasons. How does it all “work”? How do I fix it when it stops working? What gives my laptop the right to question me with “Are you sure you want to do that”? Why can’t someone create a universal USB, for crying out loud? I can’t keep all these cords straight.
What bothers me most is the idea of constant distraction. We are seven people in one home and we could all be simultaneously “plugged in” while totally disconnecting from each other. Sometimes, it happens. Confession – I have sent a text (while in the kitchen) to my son (in his bedroom) announcing dinner. Gross.
Drumroll for the caveat, please………we do have dinner together, in the same room, at the same table, eating the same meal. We don’t talk on the phone. We don’t watch TV. We don’t eat with our faces in our plates to avoid eye contact.
Once every week, on Monday night, we go Old School: no computer, no cell phone, no iPod, no electronic games. I know. Old School is a subjective concept. I’m trying to relate to people who think CD players are useless. Give me a break.
The 15 and 12 year old’s prepare dinner for everyone, while I supervise, wine in hand. Each of us takes a turn in choosing the music for the evening. Have you ever enjoyed an evening meal while listening to German death metal? Watching a teenage boy at the table who is engaging in conversation with his family is worth every mind-numbing, ear-bleeding minute of it.
Dinner completed and music library expanded, we move on to games. Charades is the easiest for everyone but the 4 year old has a tendancy to monopolize the stage. Pictionary is okay, when we throw the rules out the window. Monopoly just doesn’t work because no one really cares about the game after the arguement over who gets to be the shoe.
The people that I love most in the world are gathered in one place for one night every week. We still have moments of pouting, fighting, discipline, aggrevation. We leave the table with problems unresolved. Almost always, at least one person at the table hates one of the foods we have. We are an imperfect bunch.
What works, though, is the connection. No USB required.
Savage is as Savage does
sav*age [sav-ij]
-adjective
- fierce, ferocious, or cruel; untamed
- enraged or furiously angry
- unpolished; rude
-verb
- to assault and maul by biting, rending, goring, etc.; tear at or mutilate
- to attack or criticize thoroughly or remorselessly; excoriate
What’s a nice girl like me doing with a word like this?
I’m embracing it. I’m adoring it. I’m choosing it as the linguistic representation of my experience in suburban America.
There exists a peculiar challenge in moving through the landscape of Suburbia. The challenge is not blatant. It’s not something so straight-forward as solving a crossword or installing a new faucet.
The challenge is something similar to the idea of Dorothy’s red shoes. Remember how glorious those glittering heels were when they first appeared on Dorothy’s feet? My first thought upon seeing the shoes was, “Dorothy is SO lucky.”
Wrong-o, little munchkin. Dorothy had just involuntarily stepped into a shiny pile of trouble. Trapped in a sparkly foreign land where all the inhabitants sang and danced but they were really just heartless and lacking brains and courage, our heroine fought to return to her home. (That may have been a bit harsh but you get the idea.)
Of course, in the end, it is revealed that the path home was with Dorothy all along. According to Glenda, the Good Witch of the North, our dear Dot was the mistress of her own destiny. The challenge had nothing to do with frolicking about with brainless, heartless cowards. It had nothing to do with manicures and facials in a neat green town. It was all about realizing one’s true nature. It was about empowerment of self.
Here I find myself, sixteen years into parenthood, eleven years into volunteering at various public schools, and six solid years into hardcore suburban living. The neighborhood pool is sparkly. The lawns are neat and green. There is even a neighborhood association President with puffy white hair who seems able to fix anything. It would be awfully easy to just acquiesce.
But, I don’t. I savage. I hang on for dear life to my liberal ideals. I go toe to toe with the middle school Principal who claims my son’s purple dye job is a “distraction”. I listen calmly while the driver next to me yells profanity about me and my Obama bumper sticker. Then, I shoot him the peace sign. (That may not seem very savage, but it REALLY pissed him off.)
The challenge of Suburbia is about choosing to be the one who savages, not the one who is savaged. The comfort level here is beguiling. It’s very easy to smile and say, “Oh, me too!” or, “Gosh. I don’t really care. Whatever you think.”. And that, my friend, is the ultimate savagery: compromising one’s true nature.
I don’t claim to be a trail blazer or some goddess of individuality. I’m 38 years old. This understanding didn’t come quickly or easily. I spent a great deal of time admiring my pretty new shoes without realizing all the trouble they got me into.
Now, I get it. Dorothy isn’t the real star. She wasn’t lucky.
Glenda is who I truly admire. She knew the answers all along. She never forced her opinion or made anyone feel stupid. She just sat back and observed, only stepping in when no one else could make sense of the chaos. Savage.
If it was that easy, everyone would do it. Oh. Wait……….
Maybe that’s why I haven’t blogged sooner. Or, maybe this schedule of family, home, work, etc is the reason. There are selfless tasks with which I can fill my days. Surely, the closets should be tended. The dog should be taken on a hike. The van should be detailed. The school needs more volunteers. My glutes could be tighter.
The possible excuses are neverending. Of the very few things I know for certain, that is one. I am an encyclopedia of excuses. I’d even accept the title of “Queen of Excuses” if not for the fact that I find it a bit too Mary Engelbreit for my R. Crumb sensibilities.
Excuses fail because they are, after all, just lies dressed up in pretty frocks. Sounds somewhat like a familiar fable, no? There’s a thought! Perhaps I should be the “Empress of Excuses”. Catchy but still not quite edgy enough. “Mistress of Excuses”? I’ll have to keep working on that one.
Anyway, fear is the reason. Just common, everyday, boring insecurity. Fear has been the motivator…or de-motivator, in this case. What if my writing is boring? What if I run out of ideas? What if readers don’t “get” me? What if there are no readers? Of course, I’ll always have at least one reader. ( Mom – While your opinion is eternally valuable, it’s love-stained; therefore, it would be nice to have a wider, less
-biased audience.)
This blog is my attempt to shrug off the cloak of What If. It has been a warm, cozy, readily available accessory. I wore it well and it fits like a glove; however, the What If cloak needs a new home. I have the perfect spot, right next to those Levis of the ex-boyfriend who will never be as great as my memory insists.
So, life and it’s excuses wait as I write. The closets are wrecked. The dog gazes longingly out the window. The van is coated in the by-products of snow and salt. PTA expects my participation. My ass is slightly gelatinous. But I write……..
