Seems like an odd title for someone staring 43 in the face. And yet as "Baba O'Reilly" blasts through the speakers it's like I'm 13 all over again, under the covers covertly listening to WDIZ out of Orlando dreaming of bigger and better things than this rural trailer park and the tiny little life I'm stuck in. Parents drinking and fighting, fucking telling me what to do. That's the amazing power of music; it's like a time machine at your fingertips. Just plug in the tune and there you are all over again at whatever age and stage of misery or joy you were at when that particular song got embedded in your brain. I'm finding a lot of comfort these days listening to my "oldies". My "oldies" consisting not only of The Who and The Stones, but Circle Jerks, Dead Kennedys, Black Flag, Fear, Stiff Little Fingers (gotta love SLF) - all of the great punk bands of the 80s. Although I admit to being painfully startled when I dusted off the Circle Jerk's "Live Fast, Die Young" and realized I had aged past two chorus' of the friggin' song. But hey, better that than actually dead I guess. The other weird thing is that the world has turned on it's edge again and all the shit these bands screamed about back in the day are happening all over again. Just different countries, different names, but the shit is all the same. Power mongers, corporate greed, manufactured wars, scary fuckin' presidents. Fuck, it's like 1981 all over again.
No point to this I guess except some sort of inarticulate ode to the power of music and its continuing role in my life. It seems like most people my age have kind of left music behind or graduated to "grown-up" music. We were at dinner at someone's house and I swear the hostess put on friggin' smooth jazz lite or something - completely took my appetite away. (note to self: investigate smooth lite jazz as diet aid). But I'm thinking, is this really what my people listen to now? I mean, I know I'm old and shit, but I still drive around with the music blasting so loud the side mirrors shake and I'm screaming along to the music. Just like when I was 12, 15, 17, 21, 35 etc. I hope I NEVER get too old (or deaf) for that.
No eulogies at my funeral, please. Just turn that shit up loud, especially "Gotta Get Away", by SLF. What a send-off...
Friday, December 22, 2006
Friday, December 08, 2006
Dear Britney:
I know you're "country", but Victoria's Secret has been making underwear for a VERY long time. Please buy some. Or if you do choose to go commando, just:
A. Wear a longer skirt, or
B. Learn how to keep your legs closed.
I vote for B as the best choice for mankind in general. There are too many mini-K-Feds running around as it is.
Sincerely,
The World
A. Wear a longer skirt, or
B. Learn how to keep your legs closed.
I vote for B as the best choice for mankind in general. There are too many mini-K-Feds running around as it is.
Sincerely,
The World
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
you know it's time to quit your job when....
you work in elementary education (I'm not a teacher) and all you want to say is "if you don't shut your mouth NOW, I'm going to cut out your tongue and staple it to your desk". And that's the highly edited version of my thoughts.
I don't like kids. Never have. In fact, it's not hyperbole to say that I loathe kids. Ok, ok, I used to loathe kids, now I just dislike them. My kid is fine; I've raised him to be tolerable. A small number of his friends are fine in small doses. But by and large I'm not one of those women who "just looooves" kids. I think anyone who "just looooves" kids is either medicated, a pedophile or clinically insane. Seriously. So how the HELL did I end up working with kids? It plagues me, this question. The simple answer is schedule. Nothing beats being off when your kid is off so you don't have to worry if your daycare provider "just looovvees" kids in all the wrong ways, if you get my drift. So, I work around children in a school setting. To say I self medicate regularly is putting it lightly. I call it my "pretty box": I get paid pretty good for part-time work that's not, let's face it, terribly hard. I get holidays off, two weeks at Christmas, summers. And my day is over by 3:30 p.m. So in that sense, it's perfect. However, there could be no other profession more poorly matched for my personality than working with kids. Butcher, maybe.
Honestly, most days are ok, but there are those like today where I feel like I've been run over by a train and I only work with these kids two hours a day. They are "LD": learning disabled, which mostly means ADD/ADHD/dyslexia and many of them have learned a set of unattractive behaviors or have learned to use their diagnoses as their fallback excuse for not being able to..... whatever it is you are asking them to do. And I'm sure their disabilities play a role. I'm just not sure that's the complete picture. I think a lot of them learned to manipulate their world and get everyone around them to absolve them of personal responsibility because of their "problem". One child in our class is particularly manipulative. You can tell just by how she changes gears/tactics when you put the screws to her regarding her behavior.
I've worked in a school setting for nearly three years now in various capacities. Frankly, I want to go back to criminal law. At least criminals were polite and treated me with a modicum of respect and dignity. I never wanted to shoot myself in the head after spending time with one of our clients/defendants. Which is more than I can say for many a child and parent these days....
I don't like kids. Never have. In fact, it's not hyperbole to say that I loathe kids. Ok, ok, I used to loathe kids, now I just dislike them. My kid is fine; I've raised him to be tolerable. A small number of his friends are fine in small doses. But by and large I'm not one of those women who "just looooves" kids. I think anyone who "just looooves" kids is either medicated, a pedophile or clinically insane. Seriously. So how the HELL did I end up working with kids? It plagues me, this question. The simple answer is schedule. Nothing beats being off when your kid is off so you don't have to worry if your daycare provider "just looovvees" kids in all the wrong ways, if you get my drift. So, I work around children in a school setting. To say I self medicate regularly is putting it lightly. I call it my "pretty box": I get paid pretty good for part-time work that's not, let's face it, terribly hard. I get holidays off, two weeks at Christmas, summers. And my day is over by 3:30 p.m. So in that sense, it's perfect. However, there could be no other profession more poorly matched for my personality than working with kids. Butcher, maybe.
Honestly, most days are ok, but there are those like today where I feel like I've been run over by a train and I only work with these kids two hours a day. They are "LD": learning disabled, which mostly means ADD/ADHD/dyslexia and many of them have learned a set of unattractive behaviors or have learned to use their diagnoses as their fallback excuse for not being able to..... whatever it is you are asking them to do. And I'm sure their disabilities play a role. I'm just not sure that's the complete picture. I think a lot of them learned to manipulate their world and get everyone around them to absolve them of personal responsibility because of their "problem". One child in our class is particularly manipulative. You can tell just by how she changes gears/tactics when you put the screws to her regarding her behavior.
I've worked in a school setting for nearly three years now in various capacities. Frankly, I want to go back to criminal law. At least criminals were polite and treated me with a modicum of respect and dignity. I never wanted to shoot myself in the head after spending time with one of our clients/defendants. Which is more than I can say for many a child and parent these days....
Monday, September 11, 2006
Five Years....
I remember thinking on that day, five years ago, wondering what this would feel like in one year? Five years? Ten? What would things be like? Would we be under siege the way it felt like we were on that day? Or would we somehow find peace?
Everyone has a story about where they were and what they were doing when this all began. I always feel ashamed talking about my story. After all, I was safe in Texas, far from the epicenters; I knew no one who died that day. I've never even been to New York. But I think a little something in all of us died that day. Innocence, maybe. Even for those of us who didn't think we had any innocence left in us. We discovered that we did and that moment of discovery was followed immediately by it's merciless death. Even now, five years later, the idea that four airplanes could be hijacked simultaneously and crashed into buildings still has an air of the surreal. Surely that didn't really happen. But it did, as I witnessed again this morning as I watched real-time replays of that day's events.
My son was three-years old at the time, almost four. He had begun preschool in August and Tuesday was a "school day" for him. His day started as always, with Clifford the Big Red Dog on PBS. I couldn't help but notice all the networks were tuned to the same story so I went to the second television to watch and see what the news was. At that time, everyone was still speculating - we were still innocent. Perhaps a private plane had strayed; perhaps the pilot had collapsed with a heart attack. All speculation centered on a tragic accident. In another 18 minutes, when the second plane crashed right there before our eyes, innocence died and we knew there was no accident. I was shaken and called my husband at work. He was difficult to find because he works for an airline. Not one that was involved on that day, but still, they were going crazy. I think they were a little ahead of the general public in terms of knowing that there were hijackings going on and that all those planes in the air were potential weapons searching out targets. My husband told me to take our son to school as usual. On the drive over, I heard about the Pentagon. My God, the Pentagon. I feared we were truly at war - not with terrorists, but another country. I took my son to school, kissed him goodbye and stopped in the school lobby to watch televion coverage with the other parents. The first tower fell. I went home and spent the rest of the day watching helplessly.
I didn't cry until about midnight that night. Watching the crawl under the news program and it mentioned how many children were on board one of the planes. And I thought of the sheer terror those children and their parents must have felt. What do you tell a child when you know and they know that death is imminent? How do you comfort anyone in those circumstances? I wept and continued weeping off and on for weeks. I thought my tears would never end. I cannot imagine the pain felt by those who actually lost friends and family. Who lived through that terror of not knowing up close. I wept everytime I saw the scar on the New York City skyline. Those two buildings, a testament to what greatness humans can achieve, brought down in a few hours. Gone forever. A scar, an amputation on the world's greatest city.
So every year, I bear witness so I won't forget that day, those feelings. I watch the news coverage; I watch my DVDs and cable documentaries. I look back and remember what it was to feel "American" for the first time. I've always taken my country for granted and never gave much thought to my national identity. I did then and I do now. But I was so proud (oddly) in those days following. We were all Americans; we exemplified, at least for a moment, what this country is really supposed to be. But that's gone now, too. Vaguely remembered like the New York skyline before 9/11.
Everyone has a story about where they were and what they were doing when this all began. I always feel ashamed talking about my story. After all, I was safe in Texas, far from the epicenters; I knew no one who died that day. I've never even been to New York. But I think a little something in all of us died that day. Innocence, maybe. Even for those of us who didn't think we had any innocence left in us. We discovered that we did and that moment of discovery was followed immediately by it's merciless death. Even now, five years later, the idea that four airplanes could be hijacked simultaneously and crashed into buildings still has an air of the surreal. Surely that didn't really happen. But it did, as I witnessed again this morning as I watched real-time replays of that day's events.
My son was three-years old at the time, almost four. He had begun preschool in August and Tuesday was a "school day" for him. His day started as always, with Clifford the Big Red Dog on PBS. I couldn't help but notice all the networks were tuned to the same story so I went to the second television to watch and see what the news was. At that time, everyone was still speculating - we were still innocent. Perhaps a private plane had strayed; perhaps the pilot had collapsed with a heart attack. All speculation centered on a tragic accident. In another 18 minutes, when the second plane crashed right there before our eyes, innocence died and we knew there was no accident. I was shaken and called my husband at work. He was difficult to find because he works for an airline. Not one that was involved on that day, but still, they were going crazy. I think they were a little ahead of the general public in terms of knowing that there were hijackings going on and that all those planes in the air were potential weapons searching out targets. My husband told me to take our son to school as usual. On the drive over, I heard about the Pentagon. My God, the Pentagon. I feared we were truly at war - not with terrorists, but another country. I took my son to school, kissed him goodbye and stopped in the school lobby to watch televion coverage with the other parents. The first tower fell. I went home and spent the rest of the day watching helplessly.
I didn't cry until about midnight that night. Watching the crawl under the news program and it mentioned how many children were on board one of the planes. And I thought of the sheer terror those children and their parents must have felt. What do you tell a child when you know and they know that death is imminent? How do you comfort anyone in those circumstances? I wept and continued weeping off and on for weeks. I thought my tears would never end. I cannot imagine the pain felt by those who actually lost friends and family. Who lived through that terror of not knowing up close. I wept everytime I saw the scar on the New York City skyline. Those two buildings, a testament to what greatness humans can achieve, brought down in a few hours. Gone forever. A scar, an amputation on the world's greatest city.
So every year, I bear witness so I won't forget that day, those feelings. I watch the news coverage; I watch my DVDs and cable documentaries. I look back and remember what it was to feel "American" for the first time. I've always taken my country for granted and never gave much thought to my national identity. I did then and I do now. But I was so proud (oddly) in those days following. We were all Americans; we exemplified, at least for a moment, what this country is really supposed to be. But that's gone now, too. Vaguely remembered like the New York skyline before 9/11.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Attack of the massive mammaries...
I'm no prude, really. I watch Real Sex on HBO and porn with the spouse from time to time. If I weren't so cheap I'd order Skin-a-Max just for the daily soft-core porn. I don't believe that a woman's sexuality ends at a certain age or with the arrival of motherhood. And believe me, I giggled mightily while consulting the thesaurus for synonyms for "breast" and "boob". But I have to say the way women dress when attending elementary school functions baffles me. Why, oh, why must third-graders be subjected to your massive (fake) chest? Your cavernous cleavage? I realize you spent a lot of money on them - well, your future next-ex did anyway -and so you want to show 'em off, take 'em out for a spin. I get it. But aren't there other places better suited than a second grade party to take the girls out for a ride? Who is the target audience, exactly? The teacher? The dads? Erections are wildly inappropriate at grade school functions and could lead to erroneous incarceration and felony charges. So let's cut the dads a break, huh? If the other mothers are your intended quarry then perhaps you could arrange a private showing for those that might be interested. As for me, I don't want to see your titty-crack, ok? It's distracting. At the third-grade ice cream party the stripper, er, mom who was serving had such a spectactular set on display that I didn't know whether to thank her or stuff a fiver down her cleavage. Hell, I could have swiped my credit card through there. Furthermore, I'm certain it confuses the children. The breastfed ones begin to regress and want to nurse again; the bottle-fed ones recall the scent of silicone and begin calling out longingly for their "binkie". It's too much!
It's also demoralizing. One would hope that the post-feminist, 40-something woman would have a definition of sexy that didn't look like amateur pole night at Scores. One would hope that with age came at least a little wisdom and a realization that beauty isn't so narrowly defined as blonde, busty and bronze. Yeah, strippers are universally the three b's; but real women shouldn't have to be. What's worse and that so many of these woman are mothers.....to DAUGHTERS. I can only wonder what sort of sick role modeling is going on there. Hell, even for the sons. The idea that a young boy's idea of womanhood is being molded by his mother this way is depressing. Isn't that what Playboy is for? I mean isn't a mother's job to set the bar high and then watch while the culture slowly chips away at it? These moms seem to concede from the outset that, yes, women are merely hair, tits and a vagina.
Don't get me started on the moms with the low riders so low that I can read the washing instructions on their thong....
It's also demoralizing. One would hope that the post-feminist, 40-something woman would have a definition of sexy that didn't look like amateur pole night at Scores. One would hope that with age came at least a little wisdom and a realization that beauty isn't so narrowly defined as blonde, busty and bronze. Yeah, strippers are universally the three b's; but real women shouldn't have to be. What's worse and that so many of these woman are mothers.....to DAUGHTERS. I can only wonder what sort of sick role modeling is going on there. Hell, even for the sons. The idea that a young boy's idea of womanhood is being molded by his mother this way is depressing. Isn't that what Playboy is for? I mean isn't a mother's job to set the bar high and then watch while the culture slowly chips away at it? These moms seem to concede from the outset that, yes, women are merely hair, tits and a vagina.
Don't get me started on the moms with the low riders so low that I can read the washing instructions on their thong....
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
It's the MWPs, stupid
Forget WMDs, that's soo 2003. Out here in suburbia I'm always on the lookout for MWPs. And they always seem to be looking for me. Why? I'm a slacker. I was a slacker before the word "slacker" came along to describe me. And I'm still slacking now that the term has become passe'. Slacking is not allowed in the modern 'burbs. No. No way, no how. "Productive" and "competitive", those are the buzzwords of the modern suburbanite. Especially the modern suburban mom. Double especially the modern suburban mom who doesn't work (except at the gym and on her tan) and has made child-rearing her "job". I used to think that was a good thing, the "job" approach, that is. But everything in moderation. "Moderation" being another profanity in the land of tract housing. Mothering these days, especially in certain socio-economic strata, has become a competitive sport. No one wins, mind you, most especially the children of the competitors. But that's irrelevant. What matters is the competition.
So what exactly is a MWP you ask? It is a Mother With Plans and there is no other demon in heaven or hell that I avoid more assiduously. In fact, my diligent avoidance of said species is almost strenuous enough to strip me of my slacker creds. But they are out there, even in summer. Maybe most especially in summer. These are women who are not practiced in the art of spending downtime with their kids. "Downtime" being another sacrilege out here. Downtime with the kids being downright unthinkable. How will I tan? How will I work out? How will I get my mani/pedi/massage? My ME time? So they make plans. With you. They want to schedule. They want commitments. They want activities, destinations, itineraries, recreation, PLANS, something to count on. All things I DON'T want, ever, most especially during my summer. MY downtime; my reprieve. All I want to do is pull the drapes and watch "Trainspotting" over and over.
See, I work in a school so I'm around their kids for the entire school year. I sympathize with the mom who doesn't want to spend time with their kid; frankly, if some of those kids were mine, I wouldn't want to spend time with them either. I don't want to spend time with them now. But those kids couldn't be mine because they would never have been allowed to live being as obnoxious as they are. I have an extremely low tolerance for obnoxious children (and their parents, the two being quite closely related) which means I can't be around 98% of the population under the age of 18. How I ended up working at a school is another post - not to mention six months of therapy sessions.
So the MWPs. I've been reduced to hiding, scanning phone messages, not returning calls. We just returned from 11 days of vacation, which was great. But we just got back late yesterday evening after traveling all day long via plane. All that stripping and re-dressing at the security checkpoints is exhausting! I just figure normal people need at least one day to recover from travel. I need 5-10. Especially when I return from places as beautiful and culturally rich as Hawai'i and Seattle, WA. I mean, I'm returning to DALLAS, TX, fer crissakes. Ain't shit here; I need a little time to ease back into the vapidity of life here. To accept that I'll never live in Waikiki. But there it was, at precisely 11 a.m. this morning (I had barely been up, being that I crossed several time zones in the past few days) the Mother of all MWPs calling me up to "welcome" me home. Thank god I didn't answer the friggin' phone. I'm pretty sure she had some "plans" to discuss with me.
So they are looking for me and I'm avoiding them. Such is my life. Can't tell them to fuck off completely because my kid does need a social life. I just wish his social life didn't involve me. At all. One day. He's young yet. But that means more years with the MWPs. At least until I go back to full time work. The MWPs don't usually socialize with the "others". "Others" being those with a LIFE.....
So what exactly is a MWP you ask? It is a Mother With Plans and there is no other demon in heaven or hell that I avoid more assiduously. In fact, my diligent avoidance of said species is almost strenuous enough to strip me of my slacker creds. But they are out there, even in summer. Maybe most especially in summer. These are women who are not practiced in the art of spending downtime with their kids. "Downtime" being another sacrilege out here. Downtime with the kids being downright unthinkable. How will I tan? How will I work out? How will I get my mani/pedi/massage? My ME time? So they make plans. With you. They want to schedule. They want commitments. They want activities, destinations, itineraries, recreation, PLANS, something to count on. All things I DON'T want, ever, most especially during my summer. MY downtime; my reprieve. All I want to do is pull the drapes and watch "Trainspotting" over and over.
See, I work in a school so I'm around their kids for the entire school year. I sympathize with the mom who doesn't want to spend time with their kid; frankly, if some of those kids were mine, I wouldn't want to spend time with them either. I don't want to spend time with them now. But those kids couldn't be mine because they would never have been allowed to live being as obnoxious as they are. I have an extremely low tolerance for obnoxious children (and their parents, the two being quite closely related) which means I can't be around 98% of the population under the age of 18. How I ended up working at a school is another post - not to mention six months of therapy sessions.
So the MWPs. I've been reduced to hiding, scanning phone messages, not returning calls. We just returned from 11 days of vacation, which was great. But we just got back late yesterday evening after traveling all day long via plane. All that stripping and re-dressing at the security checkpoints is exhausting! I just figure normal people need at least one day to recover from travel. I need 5-10. Especially when I return from places as beautiful and culturally rich as Hawai'i and Seattle, WA. I mean, I'm returning to DALLAS, TX, fer crissakes. Ain't shit here; I need a little time to ease back into the vapidity of life here. To accept that I'll never live in Waikiki. But there it was, at precisely 11 a.m. this morning (I had barely been up, being that I crossed several time zones in the past few days) the Mother of all MWPs calling me up to "welcome" me home. Thank god I didn't answer the friggin' phone. I'm pretty sure she had some "plans" to discuss with me.
So they are looking for me and I'm avoiding them. Such is my life. Can't tell them to fuck off completely because my kid does need a social life. I just wish his social life didn't involve me. At all. One day. He's young yet. But that means more years with the MWPs. At least until I go back to full time work. The MWPs don't usually socialize with the "others". "Others" being those with a LIFE.....
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