I don’t know when it happened, but I just discovered my cool is
dead. I mean dead dead. Not mostly
dead. Not just curled up in the fetal
position, awaiting cardiopulmonary resuscitation, seeing the light and waiting
to come back dead. I’m talking just
sprinkle its ashes over the Ganges like it’s Jerry F*N Garcia. Jimmy Hoffa, not found, f*g dead.
Several months ago, my sister sent me a text and asked me if
I wanted a ticket to Soundgarden—which is equal to asking a junkie if they’d
like some pure smack. You know that song
“she’s still stuck in 1985?” Dude, I’m
still stuck in 1994. The dred locks are
gone, and I don’t think I’ve worn a pair of Birkenstocks with wool socks since
about 2004, but I can still totally rock a pair of Doc Martens and some killer
flannel.
In case you didn’t get it, I’m a 90s chick. For me, Grunge
was the best thing to happen to rock and roll since Woodstock or the Dead at
the Fillmore. Well, and there was that Floyd thing…ok, maybe not the BEST thing
since then, but close. Really close.
Anyway. Yes. I am
perfectly aware that it was 20 years ago.
My 16-year old daughter reminds me every day. My 16 year old DAUGHTER is older than I was
when I started listening to Grunge, and she is full of eye rolls and “MOM!”
sayings, and just down right letting me know that I am the most uncool thing to
walk the face of this earth since my own mother thought the band Bread was cool.
The only people that think I’m cool, anymore, are old fat
guys in bars impressed I know the Melvins and Mudhoney. So, we play the Pixies
and talk about Garage memories and how we’re pretty sure we were at the same
concerts.
But, when
Soundgarden’s new album (their first in 15 years) came out, I sat here for
hours drinking wine and waiting to click “purchase.” Back in the day, I would have been standing
in line outside the music store, most likely with really bloodshot eyes and a
BAD case of cotton mouth. Now, I was
just sitting at the table with a laptop and a glass of wine in a tie dyed shirt
lamenting the death of my youth. And by
lamenting, I mean totally oblivious to the fact I’m almost 40 and as uncool as
Barry Manilow’s polyester.
This girl LIVED in obscure band t-shirts, and it dawned on me
that most of my shirts are now a cotton-poly blend and labeled “wrinkle
resistant.” I wear pearls…and
“slacks.” I own heels. I go
to the school and help with art projects.
I know how to make soufflé. I
care about dust on the ceiling fan. I SERIOUSLY contemplate plants at the
nursery that give the best color factor while requiring the least amount of
water. I have the BEST fed clematis vine in town. I quit smoking reefer over 10 years ago. I go to fucking CHURCH! WTF has happened to
me? *big gulp of wine and swallow a sob*
I got a text from my brother a while back that asked me when
I went from fighting the establishment, to BEING the establishment—which as
close as my bro will ever get to letting me know I’ve done alright for myself. That happened when I learned it helps to get
paid, so your kids have food…as much as it sucks to say you finally CARE about
money.
So, I went to Soundgarden with my sister. I spotted the security guy with his wrist
bands and told my sister to hit him up and get us on the floor. She refused.
Her words: “I’m not asking
him! He gets asked that every concert
from chicks way hotter than us?”
My respsonse: “Are
you kidding me? He’s 21…25 tops. He’s a walking f*G hormone, and you’re
cute! GET US ON THE FLOOR!”
She refused, and he finally came by and asked us if we
wanted on the floor. “You look fun,” he
said.
I smacked her on the back of the head, said “I told you so!”
And, he wrapped the bands around our arms, told us we were good to go, and just
as I was thinking I still had my mojo, he looked at my 24-year old sister and
said, “Have fun with your mom.”
I was shocked. Being
13 years older than my sister, I should be used to it by now, but I haven’t been
accused of being her mother since I was about 16. I gave him double birds, and a hearty “I
loved you at first, but F*K YOU! I’m her
sister. I hope you need rogaine, you mohawk little shit!”
Then I marched my sister as close to stage as I could get, right behind
the biggest blunts outside of a Snoop Dogg show.
For a few hours, I said, “F*K you 40. F*K you responsibility.” And I proceeded to have a wake for the death
of my cool.
Most days, the greatest comfort for the soul sucking grief I
feel about the dead of my cool, is found by reminding myself that at least I
don’t drive a minivan…or have a stick figure family. But really, it’s the minivan. Somehow, the death of my coolness seems less
harsh when I remind myself that not only was my vagina saved the trauma of
birthing enough children to actually NEED a minivan, but I’m also spared having
to scream at my children “Don’t make me come back there!” because in my VW,
they’re always within arm’s reach.
And, despite it all, this old mama still knows how to trip
at a concert. That girl writing for the
Denver Post, that I told to jump the rail and run?…”You want A Hunter S. Thompson version of an article,” I
told her. She missed out. I give her two years before she has the
dreaded minivan.
My cool might be dead, but I helped pave the way for you
little ungrateful bastards, and I might be the mom—but you wouldn’t have an
ever loving clue how to work the system, without wrinkle-resistant, past-groupie,
uncool, MOMs, like me.
That sign on the
door as you walked into SOUNDGARDEN, the one that said “Moshing can result in
injuries, please refrain?” , so you did?
Yeah, it was us old fuckers getting hurt that saved your ass. You can thank me tomorrow for being part of
the generation that said Nirvana and PJ and Alice in Chains and Soundgarden
were WAY cooler than New Kids or Ace of Base.
Thank GAWD us old
people with dead cool, saved the
90s.
I called Brian. He
was mad. “You DO realize you’re almost
40 and have kids, right?”
Yep. Never forgot it. Responsible enough to know my limit, still push it. Fuck you almost 40. I own this shit. Take the cool, I got confidence. You took the cool and left me with experience. Experience enough to know I don’t want a minivan…or cats…or to be today’s definition of “cool.” I want to remember having a good time. Laughter. Spontaneity. And my daughters to know it’s ok to be free. Live. Live strong. Live hard. Live happy. Let your hair down, and by God, please, have fun. Cool dies. Fun is universal.
Pretty sure, right now, no matter what, to my kids, my cool has never existed. Which, in cool mom language means, "I can't go wrong." So, here's to one good mother effing good time. Here's to fun...and my mid-life.
