Sometimes, you have to kill off the weak to make the robust ones work to their fullest potential. No, I’m not talking about offspring. I’m talking about brain cells.
Brain cells are funny. Not funny ha-ha, (nothing funny about sitting in the driveway with the car running and wondering where the hell you were going), but funny weird. Sometimes they fire on all cylinders and other times, not so much. Like the other day when I found a package of shredded cheese in the cupboard – next to the dog biscuits. Hmmm, I said, pulling the package out with two fingers as it dangled like a dead bug – one that took a left instead of a right and ended up in a pantry instead of a shrub. Of course, my husband had to be standing right there at that exact moment so I couldn’t bury the package at the bottom of the garbage can and pretend it never happened.
“Oh” I said casually, “I must have tossed this up there on accident when I was putting away groceries yesterday.” The look on his face said it all: a kind of “yeah, right” smirk. But, because he’s so good at being a husband, he kept his mouth shut and did his very best at disguising what he was thinking.
“Hee hee…silly me,” I quipped.
My theory is this: aging, half-dead brain cells are what make me get into the shower with my underwear still on and they need to be regularly and mercifully sacrificed for the greater good. If not, they draw down on the fresh, powerful brain cells that help me remember to turn off the sprinklers or locate my reading glasses. It’s all about thinning the herd. Remember, a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.
Clearly, the simplest and most enjoyable way to eliminate the almost-dead weight is through the use of a cocktail or two. Just a little nip does wonders for a brain and the results are immediate. Case in point: last night my son showed me this week’s logic problem that his math torturer, I mean, instructor gave him for homework. I read it. I read it again. I gave up and said, “Wait ‘til your father gets home,” but not like June Cleaver says it. When it comes to homework, my husband and I know our place: I get language arts and he gets math, or anything connected to math, like science, history, social studies and Spanish.
About thirty minutes after reading, and then abandoning the logic problem, I made myself a cocktail. Just a little fruity concoction I threw together with canned pineapple and mandarin orange juice leftover from the nearly fresh fruit salad I made to go with the crock pot meal that was simmering. The logic problem was a distant memory…or was it?
As I sat on the couch, sipping and staring at the kids staring at the TV, the following sentence popped into my head: “If Colonel Mustard gets six shots, and the first two add up to an even number on the bullseye chart, that leaves four shots and three of them have to be odd points or he’ll never arrive at 71 points!” I reached over and poked my son on the shoulder, rapid fire, and told him to “go get the logic problem, Q-LAB!” (Quick Like a Bunny” which is responsible parenting code for “Hurry the f*&! up!) I didn’t want my sudden burst of vodka-induced cognition to evaporate without getting it down on paper – which of course would have been the fault of those feeble brain cells slowing everything down.)
My son returned and we quickly plugged in the numbers. I was correct! My son was not convinced. He listened, nodded and then said politely, “I still want to show it to dad.”
Fine, I thought to myself, knowing I had the problem solved. Thanks to proper brain cell management, that is. If I had not kicked up my feet with a cocktail, nudging those addled cells over the cliff into grey matter oblivion…
I pondered the idea of writing a book. I’d need a doctor to collaborate, to give my theory legitimacy.
Now where did I put that phone book...
Friday, October 16, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Chatting with a twelve year-old boy, or tightrope walking on acid
Year after year, the relationship between my son and me, his loving mother, grew stronger, deeper and kinder – until he turned eleven. That’s when the previously solid, almost sublime nature of our bond began to show signs of stress fractures. It used to be I could look at him, tilt my head a fraction of an inch, adjust the appearance of my eyes by barely lowering or raising my eyebrows and know what the trouble was. Instantaneously, he would have the answer he needed to whatever dilemma he currently faced. We communicated without words. Not all the time, of course, but when it happened, it was gold.
It works a little differently now. Now, he’s twelve.
Instead of non-verbal cues, I’m barraged with not only too many words, but too many of the wrong kind: pronouns. Our exchanges are anything but silent, thanks to my son’s knack for slaughtering the English language like a blind butcher with a dull knife and a rib roast.
I pepper my responses carefully with mental cusswords before I speak, and then quickly edit out the foul language. Recently, I could not withstand the urge. I knew I was seconds from experiencing my own head popping off and rolling across the kitchen floor with its eyes still blinking, so I said it: “F-word!” No, I mean I really did say the letter “F”, followed by “WORD!”
The feeling was dually satisfying: Great not only because I “cussed”, but because I didn’t actually say the word “fuck.” Had I gone that far, a new era would have dawned. Like the old college adage, “Hold off peeing as long as you can when you’re out drinking, because once you go you’ll have to go all the time,” allowing myself to drop F’ers is a slippery slope I’m not ready to experience. Hell, I just allowed “crap” into the household lexicon, even for my three girls, ages 9, 9, and 11. “Have at it!” I cheered the first time I heard one use it correctly: “Crap! I forgot my backpack at school!” (as opposed to the incorrect use of the word: “What’s this crap on my plate?”) While they seem to have a firm hold on usage, it isn’t necessarily the case with brother.
My son can no longer answer even a yes or no question without mentally straight-jacketing me.
“Do you like this?” I asked while we recently shopped for back-to-school clothes.
“Yeah, but no, yeah, I don’t know,” was his double oxymoronic reply.
“Um, so, you like it, or you don’t. Want me to buy it for you?” I queried calmly.
“I like it,” he said. Not exactly an answer to my question, but in the ballpark. I continued.
“So, I’ll buy it for you?” I said, hopeful we were really getting somewhere.
“Well, it’s just that I don’t know if I’ll wear it,” my son said, as I heard the hiss of the air
escaping from my rainbow balloon.
“I don’t understand. If you like it, why wouldn’t you wear it?” I said, still calm and
carefully obscuring what I was feeling on the inside: utter terror at the direction we were headed, yet again. It’s always the same – I’m on bad acid, he’s on some kind of turbo crack, yielding a complete absence of common ground.
“Mom!” he spat, followed by, “I just can’t know so many things! Your holding stuff up, and I don’t have green shorts!!”
Wow, I thought to myself. I have not felt this weird in twenty-five years. I think I’ll take my lungs out of my body for a second, massage them, and put them back in so I can breathe. There we go. Much better now.
Sometimes, it’s more surreal than terrifying, other times, it’s the opposite. In either case, I remind myself to relax, and enjoy the long, strange trip it is.
It works a little differently now. Now, he’s twelve.
Instead of non-verbal cues, I’m barraged with not only too many words, but too many of the wrong kind: pronouns. Our exchanges are anything but silent, thanks to my son’s knack for slaughtering the English language like a blind butcher with a dull knife and a rib roast.
I pepper my responses carefully with mental cusswords before I speak, and then quickly edit out the foul language. Recently, I could not withstand the urge. I knew I was seconds from experiencing my own head popping off and rolling across the kitchen floor with its eyes still blinking, so I said it: “F-word!” No, I mean I really did say the letter “F”, followed by “WORD!”
The feeling was dually satisfying: Great not only because I “cussed”, but because I didn’t actually say the word “fuck.” Had I gone that far, a new era would have dawned. Like the old college adage, “Hold off peeing as long as you can when you’re out drinking, because once you go you’ll have to go all the time,” allowing myself to drop F’ers is a slippery slope I’m not ready to experience. Hell, I just allowed “crap” into the household lexicon, even for my three girls, ages 9, 9, and 11. “Have at it!” I cheered the first time I heard one use it correctly: “Crap! I forgot my backpack at school!” (as opposed to the incorrect use of the word: “What’s this crap on my plate?”) While they seem to have a firm hold on usage, it isn’t necessarily the case with brother.
My son can no longer answer even a yes or no question without mentally straight-jacketing me.
“Do you like this?” I asked while we recently shopped for back-to-school clothes.
“Yeah, but no, yeah, I don’t know,” was his double oxymoronic reply.
“Um, so, you like it, or you don’t. Want me to buy it for you?” I queried calmly.
“I like it,” he said. Not exactly an answer to my question, but in the ballpark. I continued.
“So, I’ll buy it for you?” I said, hopeful we were really getting somewhere.
“Well, it’s just that I don’t know if I’ll wear it,” my son said, as I heard the hiss of the air
escaping from my rainbow balloon.
“I don’t understand. If you like it, why wouldn’t you wear it?” I said, still calm and
carefully obscuring what I was feeling on the inside: utter terror at the direction we were headed, yet again. It’s always the same – I’m on bad acid, he’s on some kind of turbo crack, yielding a complete absence of common ground.
“Mom!” he spat, followed by, “I just can’t know so many things! Your holding stuff up, and I don’t have green shorts!!”
Wow, I thought to myself. I have not felt this weird in twenty-five years. I think I’ll take my lungs out of my body for a second, massage them, and put them back in so I can breathe. There we go. Much better now.
Sometimes, it’s more surreal than terrifying, other times, it’s the opposite. In either case, I remind myself to relax, and enjoy the long, strange trip it is.
A Fantasy of One's Own
I’m sooooo conflicted. There’s a cloud hanging over my head that makes Katrina seem like a fanciful squall. My tortured soul rebounds between moments of clarity one minute and utter confusion the next. It isn’t even a complex issue: I simply hate football, while my husband, on the other hand, thinks the word “football” actually belongs in a sentence containing the word “fantasy.”
Thankfully, he has most of the standard fantasies men have, like those involving Carol Brady, or teeter-totters, and he happily shares them with me. However, the fact remains that the fantasy he logs the most hours with on a weekly basis is Football. Hence, the problem: I just do not get it and I desperately want to. I need to understand.
As I watch my husband watch the television each Sunday, I remind myself to use the word “passion” instead of “obsession.” When I find myself growing irritated at the sound of one man clapping for a bunch of players who cannot hear him, I start mentally checking off all the considerate things my man has done that week. Let’s see, there’s the weeding, just because he likes it and knows I don’t. Then, there’s reading to the kids and helping them with homework. He even vacuums.
When listing his weekly accomplishments doesn’t do the trick, I try a little fantasizing of my own. I tell myself that a forty-two year old man changing jerseys three times in one day in support of a pretend dream team is sexy. Sometimes I follow him up to our closet between games, and he lets me watch. Yeah, baby, the blue one. No, the other blue one. Oh, that’s it, right there, next to your little league uniform. Oh, baby, these thirty-four jerseys taking up valuable real estate in our closet are hot! Yeah, that’s my fantasy.
It’s not like he doesn’t snap right out of it at the end of the evening each Sunday, because he does. Well, right after he does the stats and sends out the newsletter, complete with quippy football comments, while watching Sportscenter. Then, he snaps right back to being the guy I fell in love with, the guy who made me believe in love again, and the guy who continues to hold me after the regular hug has ended. He is this guy six days a week (save for a couple of hours Monday evening), and seven days a week for half the year. Why, then, can I not help rolling my eyes when I overhear him on the phone with one of his fantasy friends, behaving like Ari Gold trying to work a last minute trade with some maniacal producer?
Right now, you might be thinking that I am that spouse – male or female – for which nothing is ever good enough. Well, the truth is, nearly everything is always good enough, and my husband would be the first to say that I never complain. That is because my husband, ironically, is a fantasy husband. He is my best friend. He is the guy who never leaves me hanging, if you know what I mean. He brings it. He is the guy who sees a pile of clean towels in the laundry room and puts them away. Hell, this is the guy who goes into the laundry room! (I know a woman who once hired a hooker to hang out in her laundry room, just to see if her husband could find it. Three days later she sent the lonely whore home.)
Maybe it has nothing to do with my husband. Maybe it’s my dad’s fault for punishing me with the same weekly clapping and yelling for my entire childhood – back when fantasy leaguers didn’t have computers. My dad and his friends had fifteen sheets of binder paper taped together that they scribbled their points down on as they happened. I must be suffering from PTFSD – Post-traumatic Football Stress Disorder.
Perhaps what I need is something to do on Sundays that gets me out of the house and away from the mental triggers. Just so that I can fully relate to my husband, to see things from his perspective, it will be something that never gets boring, and that I won’t know the outcome of until it’s completely finished. It’ll chew up hours and hours of my time, but I’ll have a lot more to show for it at the end of the day than empty beer cans and ranch dip stains on my shirt.
Interestingly enough, it rhymes with “ball.”
Thankfully, he has most of the standard fantasies men have, like those involving Carol Brady, or teeter-totters, and he happily shares them with me. However, the fact remains that the fantasy he logs the most hours with on a weekly basis is Football. Hence, the problem: I just do not get it and I desperately want to. I need to understand.
As I watch my husband watch the television each Sunday, I remind myself to use the word “passion” instead of “obsession.” When I find myself growing irritated at the sound of one man clapping for a bunch of players who cannot hear him, I start mentally checking off all the considerate things my man has done that week. Let’s see, there’s the weeding, just because he likes it and knows I don’t. Then, there’s reading to the kids and helping them with homework. He even vacuums.
When listing his weekly accomplishments doesn’t do the trick, I try a little fantasizing of my own. I tell myself that a forty-two year old man changing jerseys three times in one day in support of a pretend dream team is sexy. Sometimes I follow him up to our closet between games, and he lets me watch. Yeah, baby, the blue one. No, the other blue one. Oh, that’s it, right there, next to your little league uniform. Oh, baby, these thirty-four jerseys taking up valuable real estate in our closet are hot! Yeah, that’s my fantasy.
It’s not like he doesn’t snap right out of it at the end of the evening each Sunday, because he does. Well, right after he does the stats and sends out the newsletter, complete with quippy football comments, while watching Sportscenter. Then, he snaps right back to being the guy I fell in love with, the guy who made me believe in love again, and the guy who continues to hold me after the regular hug has ended. He is this guy six days a week (save for a couple of hours Monday evening), and seven days a week for half the year. Why, then, can I not help rolling my eyes when I overhear him on the phone with one of his fantasy friends, behaving like Ari Gold trying to work a last minute trade with some maniacal producer?
Right now, you might be thinking that I am that spouse – male or female – for which nothing is ever good enough. Well, the truth is, nearly everything is always good enough, and my husband would be the first to say that I never complain. That is because my husband, ironically, is a fantasy husband. He is my best friend. He is the guy who never leaves me hanging, if you know what I mean. He brings it. He is the guy who sees a pile of clean towels in the laundry room and puts them away. Hell, this is the guy who goes into the laundry room! (I know a woman who once hired a hooker to hang out in her laundry room, just to see if her husband could find it. Three days later she sent the lonely whore home.)
Maybe it has nothing to do with my husband. Maybe it’s my dad’s fault for punishing me with the same weekly clapping and yelling for my entire childhood – back when fantasy leaguers didn’t have computers. My dad and his friends had fifteen sheets of binder paper taped together that they scribbled their points down on as they happened. I must be suffering from PTFSD – Post-traumatic Football Stress Disorder.
Perhaps what I need is something to do on Sundays that gets me out of the house and away from the mental triggers. Just so that I can fully relate to my husband, to see things from his perspective, it will be something that never gets boring, and that I won’t know the outcome of until it’s completely finished. It’ll chew up hours and hours of my time, but I’ll have a lot more to show for it at the end of the day than empty beer cans and ranch dip stains on my shirt.
Interestingly enough, it rhymes with “ball.”
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Stop Doing the Math
Numbers have no business in exercise. I learned that today. Instead of getting on the treadmill at 4 p.m. like I usually do, putting channel 10 on (Oprah), and walking for 45 minutes, I picked up my son's iPod. Hmm. I thought about the big hillside we have for a backyard, just sitting out there. And, that view of the Sierra from the top of it.
A narrow loop up, around the two big oaks, and back down is 110 steps. It's approximately a twelve to fourteen percent grade, I figure, based on my comparison of it to the big hill my grandparents lived at the top of when I was little. That hill was a bitch. This one is slightly less bitchy - more of a shrew. Enough with the numbers.
I set off with Radiohead playing in my ears. I had never heard Radiohead, but I've heard that Coldplay copies them, and that they copy Coldplay, and since I like Coldplay, I decided to begin my circular hike listening to them. I completed ten loops in two songs: "Just" and "Paranoid Android." Those are the only two Radiohead songs on my son's iPod. I liked them so much that I kept hiking and started the songs over again. I lost count of my laps, thank god, and then switched to White Stripes, another group I've never heard, but have heard a lot about - mainly from much younger people and people on TV who seem to know about these things.
Turns out, I like the White Stripes too. After listening to "Hello Operator" and "My Doorbell", the latter of which I really liked, "We're Going to Be Friends" started. I have the Jack Johnson version too. I love that song. I love it even more now, after exercising and discovering there's more to life than Jack Johnson. When the thumping "Blue Orchid" began, I tried to keep time with the beat. It worked on the way down, but I stopped pretty soon after the uphill leg began.
My son even thinks I'm cool. He just asked me why I still have the iPod on if I'm done hiking. I told him I liked the music he had on it. He smiled.
I'm setting a goal for the end of next week: "Blue Orchid". Not miles, or minutes, or heart rate. The next time someone asks me what I do to stay in shape, I'm going to say White Stripes.
A narrow loop up, around the two big oaks, and back down is 110 steps. It's approximately a twelve to fourteen percent grade, I figure, based on my comparison of it to the big hill my grandparents lived at the top of when I was little. That hill was a bitch. This one is slightly less bitchy - more of a shrew. Enough with the numbers.
I set off with Radiohead playing in my ears. I had never heard Radiohead, but I've heard that Coldplay copies them, and that they copy Coldplay, and since I like Coldplay, I decided to begin my circular hike listening to them. I completed ten loops in two songs: "Just" and "Paranoid Android." Those are the only two Radiohead songs on my son's iPod. I liked them so much that I kept hiking and started the songs over again. I lost count of my laps, thank god, and then switched to White Stripes, another group I've never heard, but have heard a lot about - mainly from much younger people and people on TV who seem to know about these things.
Turns out, I like the White Stripes too. After listening to "Hello Operator" and "My Doorbell", the latter of which I really liked, "We're Going to Be Friends" started. I have the Jack Johnson version too. I love that song. I love it even more now, after exercising and discovering there's more to life than Jack Johnson. When the thumping "Blue Orchid" began, I tried to keep time with the beat. It worked on the way down, but I stopped pretty soon after the uphill leg began.
My son even thinks I'm cool. He just asked me why I still have the iPod on if I'm done hiking. I told him I liked the music he had on it. He smiled.
I'm setting a goal for the end of next week: "Blue Orchid". Not miles, or minutes, or heart rate. The next time someone asks me what I do to stay in shape, I'm going to say White Stripes.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Of Yoga and Hookers
It’s probably getting really tiresome reading about my eleven year old son all the time. Unfortunately, the guy just won’t stop providing me with fodder…
Yesterday, I was helping him with an essay that he had to write summarizing what he has learned as part of the D.A.R.E. project, which helps educate kids about the evils of making bad choices regarding drugs and alcohol. In order to help him put his thoughts into words, I said, “Tell me what you have learned about making bad choices regarding drugs and alcohol?” He thought for only a split second before spitting out this little nugget of wisdom:
“Well, I know I won’t marry a hooker someday!”
“Reeeeaaallly” I replied, nodding in complete agreement. “That’s a good start. Shall we put that in the essay?” I asked. I began to type. I'm a fast typer.
“NO MOM! I just meant that, well, I don’t know what I meant! Nevermind, pretend I didn’t say that!”
“So you’re saying you WOULD consider marrying a hooker someday?” I said, laughing. I love tripping him up in his own words. Love it, love it, love it.
I hope he has lots of boy children someday (and three girls just for good measure).
Meanwhile, one of my lovely little ladies has adopted a new pet: my yoga mat. I do yoga in her bedroom because it is the only room with the perfect combo of VCR and floor space. She found the mat one day and proceeded to roll it up and carry it around the house off and on for a couple of days. I mostly ignored it, stopping occasionally to tell her and Yoga Buddy to pick up their sandals. It was her buddy. The last "buddy" she adopted was a 12-inch stick. It's name was Stick Buddy. She whittled it to such a sharp point that it really should have been called "Shank Buddy," so I confiscated it.
I didn't think too much of Yoga Mat Buddy, though it did seem a little odd. Then again, I have known my daughter for all of her almost nine years, so it really wasn't that strange. Fine, it was normal for her. Until a few nights ago. On my way to the laundry room, I walked past the bathroom at the same time the door opened. She had just emerged from the shower, clad in her robe and jammies, with the yoga mat rolled up under one arm. This one stopped me in my tracks.
"Um, you had the yoga mat in the bathroom with you?"
"Yes," she said, in the most neutral voice I've ever heard come out of her mouth. In fact, it's the only time I've ever heard Neutral Tone. I hear harsh, sassy, sad, even bored, but never neutral. I could tell by the look on her face that even she knew that this qualified as bizarre - even by her high standards.
We stared at each other for about five seconds. Then, I kept walking. I just kept walking.
Yesterday, I was helping him with an essay that he had to write summarizing what he has learned as part of the D.A.R.E. project, which helps educate kids about the evils of making bad choices regarding drugs and alcohol. In order to help him put his thoughts into words, I said, “Tell me what you have learned about making bad choices regarding drugs and alcohol?” He thought for only a split second before spitting out this little nugget of wisdom:
“Well, I know I won’t marry a hooker someday!”
“Reeeeaaallly” I replied, nodding in complete agreement. “That’s a good start. Shall we put that in the essay?” I asked. I began to type. I'm a fast typer.
“NO MOM! I just meant that, well, I don’t know what I meant! Nevermind, pretend I didn’t say that!”
“So you’re saying you WOULD consider marrying a hooker someday?” I said, laughing. I love tripping him up in his own words. Love it, love it, love it.
I hope he has lots of boy children someday (and three girls just for good measure).
Meanwhile, one of my lovely little ladies has adopted a new pet: my yoga mat. I do yoga in her bedroom because it is the only room with the perfect combo of VCR and floor space. She found the mat one day and proceeded to roll it up and carry it around the house off and on for a couple of days. I mostly ignored it, stopping occasionally to tell her and Yoga Buddy to pick up their sandals. It was her buddy. The last "buddy" she adopted was a 12-inch stick. It's name was Stick Buddy. She whittled it to such a sharp point that it really should have been called "Shank Buddy," so I confiscated it.
I didn't think too much of Yoga Mat Buddy, though it did seem a little odd. Then again, I have known my daughter for all of her almost nine years, so it really wasn't that strange. Fine, it was normal for her. Until a few nights ago. On my way to the laundry room, I walked past the bathroom at the same time the door opened. She had just emerged from the shower, clad in her robe and jammies, with the yoga mat rolled up under one arm. This one stopped me in my tracks.
"Um, you had the yoga mat in the bathroom with you?"
"Yes," she said, in the most neutral voice I've ever heard come out of her mouth. In fact, it's the only time I've ever heard Neutral Tone. I hear harsh, sassy, sad, even bored, but never neutral. I could tell by the look on her face that even she knew that this qualified as bizarre - even by her high standards.
We stared at each other for about five seconds. Then, I kept walking. I just kept walking.
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