Car Line

This blog is brought to you by the week from Fuckedupville.  First, I was an hour late for work on Monday, had court on Tuesday, the kid was sick on Wednesday. I got some extra time at the office Thursday, and was going to go in today.  Honestly.  I was.  

Then I woke up this morning, made myself a pumpkin spice latte, and decided I was in a really good mood and wasn’t going to ruin it by going to work. Plus, Fridays are my day to get the Schmoo to school, which is normally a total disaster.

I should probably tell you that Schmoo is kind of like Rain Man.  She has her routine, and God help anyone who deviates from it.

“I don’t have my toothpicks.  The maple syrup has to come before the pancakes.  If the maple syrup comes after the pancakes, it’ll definitely be too late…I don’t have my toothpicks….I get my boxer shorts at Kmart in Cincinatti.” 

Anyway, THIS is how school mornings go, because this is what the Dad does: wake up to Phineas and Ferb.  Give her five minutes to stretch.  Get her a bowl of Marshmallow Matey’s, or toast with jelly.  Put the day’s clothes in the dryer so she has “hot clothes” to put on.  Ask if she is done with breakfast and ready for “hot clothes.” Let her get dressed.  Do hair.  We are now ready to brush teeth and go to school.

But I always mess this up.  1. I almost always sleep too late on Fridays, and we run late.  2. When running late I like to say, "Fuck this routine bullshit, HURRY!”

I made the mistake last week of trying to do Schmoo’s hair BEFORE she put on “hot clothes.” The only thing missing from the ensuing tirade was that it didn’t involve an airline named Quantus, and she didn’t start hitting herself in the head.

Before I go any further, I would like to stress how imperfect of a mother I am.  I am only responsible for getting my child to school one single day a week, and if she is ever tardy, it’s always on my day (and I thought today was going to be that day).  Plus, I NEVER get the routine just right. 

I don’t do homework.  I don’t have the patience for homework, and we both end up in tears, so this falls to someone else as well.  Other mom’s think this is unacceptable.  Trust me on this.  Homework isn’t my thing…unless it involves making volcanoes, 3-D cell models, the implications of imperial colonialism on traditional cultures (or something else that allows me to wax philosophical), or blowing shit up. Then I rock; otherwise, get your dad.

I buy cheap cupcakes on treat day, and I loathe holiday parties at school.  I go, but I’m never particularly thrilled about going. And, we all know how I feel about picture day.

BUT, there is one thing that makes me feel like a totally superior mother.  As in, all you room moms with your scrapbooks and food storage and healthy snacks can kiss my ass.  I’m totally judging you for it every Friday, too.  This is it.  Ready?

You fucking SUCK at car line!!  As in, EVERY Friday, I want to go crazy like Bill Murray in “Groundhog Day” when he steals Phil and keeps saying, "Don't drive angry."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uBpw1sdFu2w

I actually KNOW how to do car line in the mornings and afternoon. I know how to use my blinker when turning off of Lee Street.  I know how to NOT block all three lanes.  I know to WAIT until the parking attendant tells me to pull forward, without cutting anyone else off and running over 13 small children. I know that drop off is not the place to have a 30-minute conversation with my child.  

There’s an unspoken rule here for those of us in the know, and we know this is like being in the pit in NASCAR.  Get in, get out, you’re being timed.  Anything more than a 5 second stop is unprofessional.  Honestly, if you’ve trained your crew, it’s more of a rolling stop. Jumping off of a spinning merry-go-round is the perfect training equipment.

Quick.  Like a bunny. I've got hours to myself, and you're treading on it.

And, here’s the one that makes the rest of the parents and grandparents in the parking lot want to pull you out of your car and beat you with your cell phone: despite what your busy-body mother taught you about being a good mother, they do not give out prizes for being the first in line at pick up after school. No ma’am. Especially if your kid is HABITUALLY the one exiting the building 20 minutes after the bell rang. That means you green Subaru, gray Tahoe, and little man with the jacked-up white pickup.

You pull over on Lee Street and let the kids that actually have their shit together get in the car.  You don’t get first in all three lines. Or even one for that matter, and shoot the shit with each other while the line is backed up around the block to South Boulevard.

This is NOT tea at the PTA.  This is serious business. Get it together already.

Picture Day

I got up late this morning...as in 6:15, which is exactly an hour and 15 minutes late.  Considering the drive and the possibility of a train, this meant I had 15 minutes to get ready for work.  AND, I had a fairly important meeting this afternoon, so  jeans and a sweatshirt were a little below the little bit showing on my give-a-shit-o-meter.  Plus, it totally meant a hat and the Chacos were a definite "NO."

Of course, this didn't stop me from walking into the kitchen and taking the normal 15 minutes to become coherent enough to brew a pot of coffee.  Then I decided the 'stache is a little out of control (think Gallagher) and that I should probably shave the normally shaved parts of my body that have been left to Mother Nature like the mightiest of old growth forests in the Pacific Northwest. The shaving of the legs is no small task when you are the owner of a 36" inseam, not to mention the normal contortion associated with getting those not so easy places.

Probably TMI, but I basically had one leg wrapped behind my head when there was a knock on the door reminding me that it was picture day at school and "I know you're late and probably forgot, but you have to do Schmoo's hair."

Of course, this gave me a legitimate excuse for tardiness, but let's be honest here.  Half the week, I work in the middle of nowhere...which is hippie granola girl speak for "I don't really give a shit," and I don't even do my OWN hair.  People that run into me in town, when I actually have to get dressed in the morning, usually ask if I had an interview.

Anyway, Ive ALWAYS hated picture day.

1) It meant my mother was going to torture me with a luffa, as if Okra isn't bad enough, we have to throw in the bones of the Chinese version.

2) It meant my mother was going to send me to bed, late, with wet hair she spent hours wrapping in barbed wire. 

3) It meant I was going to have wear THAT dress, purchased by my Italian Grandmother for $900,000 that had 75,000,000 layers of lace that made that Randy kid from "A Christmas Story" look like a total loser for even questioning the ability to be able to put your arms down.  To top it off, that motherfucker had bells sewn into the seams, so I jingled when I walked...until I was 13.

4) It reminds me of second grade when I threw a fit about afore mentioned frew-frew girlie shit, and fell down the stairs....the WHOLE way--scratching my nose and leaving my ankle the size of a Hagerman Watermelon.  To which my mother answered in her typical manner, "Serves ya right.  Walk your ass to school, and smile REAL pretty!"

Ms. Solemn had pity on me and actually called my mother to take me for x-rays...after she patched my scratched nose with some foundation from her purse and hobbled me to the picture stool in the library to get my picture taken....looking like every other second grade girl--a pasty white version of Dr. J, because the barbed wire you were sure Jesus had in all those Sunday School pictures was what you had slept on all night just wasn't enough.  You had to look like someone did something time consuming to your hair...as in with an egg beater.

Well, like so many things I have failed at as a mother, I totally forgot the curlers last night.  Be easy on me, this whole shutdown bullshit is taking a toll.  So, I did what all good mothers do in this day and age (I assume).  I went to Pinterest.

It took me a good hour and three re-tries to master a crown of a "waterfall" braid, followed by another good 45 minutes of curling tiny strands of hair into ringlets after totally destroying the ozone layer hairspraying that shit to stay.

I had enough time to throw on the church clothes in the closet and do my best rendition of that Jenna Marbles Youtube video where she shows you how to put on makeup after daydrinking--all damn day (look it up, I'm tired of doing ALL the work around here ;-)).

I still made it to work only 30-minutes late and the kid was on time, but lets be honest.  My kid looks like that, lets say...oh....NEVER.

Probably needless to say to all the moms out there, but by the time I got to pick up the Schmoo at 5:30, there wasn't a curl on her head, and she looked more like a drowned rat than Dr. J.

She swears her hair was still curled when they had pictures, but to be honest, after this morning and my mom guilt and anxiety, I'm just glad she made it to pictures, and I didn't have to make a trip to the emergency room.

If she looks like a drowned rat in those pictures, its not that Mom doesn't care.  Mom is tired.  Mom thinks she's beautiful covered in mud and spaghetti sauce. 

Mom hates picture day.

Unhinged at a Crossroad

First things first, because there’s a little tension in the air—a lot actually.  There’s a few people royally pissed off at me being totally unhinged, so I’m going to clear the air.  I.don’t.give.a.shit. At all.

In case you’re new to Jen going off the edge of appropriate, let me fill you on a few things:  1.) You obviously think too much of how I value your opinion.  2.) I’ve written WAY worse about my childhood—bad enough the phone started ringing and my mother was in a snit the likes of which are portrayed in “The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood,” and my father blew up the phone lines asking how much he owed me in therapy, so save me your pathetic drivel.  I’m now reminded at every family dinner by the parentals about how much I think my childhood sucked (it didn’t, BTW, it was actually pretty awesome with a few fucked up things in the middle).  But, you’ll get told where to pack it and how. 3.) I’ve had stuff published that has resulted in people close enough to be family refusing to speak to me for years.  So, in the old clichéd nutshell, as politely as I can, I’m telling you, you can fuck right off. I write what I want; I write what I feel.

And I get it that can be scary.  It’s scary because feelings are just that.  Feelings.  And, I own them and no one can change them.  It’s scary because sometimes it’s ugly and sad and truly pathetic.  It’s a trip deep into the ugly side on occasion.  Maybe it’s that I just spent too much time in silence.

I’m not a talker.  I communicate and I make sense of my world when I write.  It’s how I figure shit out.  Spare me and everyone else you’re snide remarks you think are so tactful and obscure. You know who you are, with your less than perfect life, and no, I don’t mean my mother-in-law, because she had the balls, like my own mother, to tell me what she thought—and rightfully so. She deserves a voice too. 

You, however, not at all. You can just sit there in all of your judginess, in your judgy chair, and judge away.

Now that is out of the way, here goes.

I’m unhinged and at a crossroads.  People I trust, have known this for a while.  And by unhinged, I mean my thoughts are coming out exactly as they are.  I’m not ashamed of them, and I have no reason to be.  If people don’t want to be written about in a negative light, they should behave better.  And, just so you know, yes.  My husband read the last “tirade.”

I’m not perfect, and I admit that…if you don’t think so, you totally missed the macaroni salad thing.

I write about everything.  I’m kinda like those assholes from South Park—nothing is sacred.

Anyway, I’ve never been to Red Lodge without a lump in my throat. The first time I made it here, I stumbled on the place in a snow storm.  I came over the Bighorns from Sheridan, stopped in Tensleep for a beer, and decided I could make it to Cody.  I was really hoping to make it to Silver Gate, but the road was closed.

It was after my grandmother died, and I just wanted to sit in Silver Gate and stare at the mountains and think.  Just go into my head and find whatever it was the universe had to say. I should have known the road would be closed, but there was a part of me that really said I had to try.  I had to get there.

I was always supposed to meet Treasure in Red Lodge, being it was halfway for both of us, so when I came down the hill from Washoe, the lump just kind of re-emerged.  Sitting in my throat, stinging my eyes.

Every hotel was full, and driving back to Cody in the snow seemed insane.  So we snagged a room at the Pollard and walked across the street to the Bull and Bear.  Long Islands were on special for $3.50, and I drank several with a lady who sat next to me at the bar.  Sometime into the night, I discovered she taught Treasure’s brother in elementary school.

I didn’t realize it at the time.  But, it was what I needed.

I don’t much remember the second time, except that I waited three hours in the snow for a store on Main to open, so I could buy a clock…and a ravioli form (that I have yet to use)... pondering if I was ready for a major career and geographic change.

Anyway, I’ve always found myself here at a crossroad in my life.  Some grand decision is always in the works.

Maybe it’s because most of my 20’s were spent wandering Yellowstone and the outskirts, hugging trees, crunching granola, and trying to find myself.  The best part was I got paid to do it.  So, I was always able to bury myself in the mountains, and the views, and the awe.  I grew up in the mountains, but I’ll never forget the day at the Yellowstone Institute I watched a grizzly bear take down an elk calf.  It was like Mutual of Omaha…live.

I once sat with my kids at Slough Creek and watched baby wolves play…just us.  All alone and that only happens when you’ve spent enough time there showing rich people around that you know where to actually go to find the cool shit without people.

My 20’s were an utter mess that made it pretty easy to throw myself into the middle of the wild to see what it has to say. 

Brian would lecture me for venturing off into Bechler, alone.  “I got bear spray,” I’d say.  But in reality, I’d have a damn heart attack if I ever had to use it.  I’d be dead before a mama bear could even charge.  But it was in those places I could retreat from the world for a few seconds or a few hours, or if I was lucky, a few days, and figure out what I needed to do.  

I could stare at the mountains, or the carnage, and realize I’m alright.  Come to the conclusion that I was exactly where I need to be to learn what life had to give me.  

Sometimes, it was just a trip to Bozeman to sit in Franz’s kitchen and let him make me French martini’s while I listened to him tell his stories about trying to become a CIA agent.

Other times it was sitting in the Moose after a long day of powder.

On normal occasions, when I don’t feel right, I head into the desert.  To walk the places my dad would take me…the places I could get lost and find arrowheads.  Sit in the sagebrush and watch the sun set behind the Pioneer Mountains.  Perfect ribbons of orange light streaming out from the sun…glinting off the silver leaves of sagebrush.  Smelling moist dirt and sage.

But when shit gets heavy, really heavy, when I find myself at a crossroad…I go to Yellowstone, or somewhere close to it.  I bury myself there, and I don’t leave until I know.  Until I know what it takes to not blow.  To just rattle and shake, and let the steam out in a slow, steady stream of hot steam.

So, we came here to Red Lodge, this time with not just a lump in my throat, but a knot deep in my stomach ready to make me vomit, to make a plan.  Which road to follow.  To unhinge it all and let it out, and let it flow…and decide which way to go. Figure shit out.

I’ve decided happy endings aren’t clean and pure.  A lot of the time, they’re messy and dirty and you have to hurt a lot first.  There’s a lot of lonely in a lot of happy endings.

Someone said to me the other day I don’t sound happy.  It’s not quite an accurate assumption.  I’m pretty happy with a lot of things in my life.  

I don’t yet know which fork in the road life will lead me down.  It’s all pretty heavy, but I do know I’m ready to unload.  

What I do know, more than anything… anything… watching the sunset and the clouds swirl over the Beartooth Mountains, is that it will be a happy ending.  No matter what the road is, or where I end up, it ends happy.  

Happy and free. Unhinged and unloaded.

So, I married an asshole or

Just so we’re in the clear up front…because writing is all about being honest, and people can sense a lie for miles when you write.  The whole point of writing is a dirty, disgusting, romp through the inner workings of the mind to find the ugly, naked truth…so, here goes:  

I married an asshole.  

Two of them actually.

And, so did you.  Ok.  Maybe not two.  

If you aren’t married, you’ll end up with one, most likely.  Or a really weird cat addiction, which is better in my not-so-humble-opinion, or you might have been stupid enough to have had more than two.  Me, I prefer to fold when I don’t have shit going into the river card.  Yeah, fold and hit the dollar blackjack table…cheap and a guaranteed score if you play third base right.

Yeah, yeah, a few of you out there are clutching your pearls like I just called the pope Lucifer and spat on the Dalai Lama.  It’s all fun and games as long as I’m threatening to sell the girls to the gypsies.  For some reason, bitching about your spouse is like you walked passed Jesus and called him a dick.

Trust me on this one, gals.  You’re single friends are going to tell you to leave his sorry ass.  They have a point.  You’re taken for granted, and he doesn’t know SHIT you do until you don’t do it. BUT, they’re also telling you to say sayonara to your credit and financial stability, and they don’t have a fucking clue what marriage is like—trust me on this, they’re still in the honeymoon phase and they haven’t even had one.

The newly engaged or the newlyweds, they’re always *and this is in my nasally, best whine* “We NEVER fight!”  Really?  Good for you.  Hold on to your g-string, because shit is about to get as real as the grandma panties you’re five years away from buying for pregnancy.

You know what is better than saying, “We never fight!” or “He would NEVER do that!”?  Taking off your shoes, then walking across legos ( the little ones) to grab a cinder block to drop on your big toe.  THAT is how smart you sound to a marriage veteran.

I’m just trying to break it down real. Marriage is hard.  I’m not saying it doesn’t have its benefits, but for REALZ, you might not have to go to the movies by yourself, but you’re seriously gonna spend 35 minutes seeing who can “I don’t care” the most until one of you gets pissed and says “FINE!” and picks the shittiest movie ever to come out in three years, just to compromise…AND you’re both still pissed because neither had the balls to start a “real” fight by picking the movie they wanted to see anyway.  BTW—you’ll rent it after it wins umpteen awards.

See, marriage is kinda, well, totally, fucked up.  You promise to put up with someone else’s bullshit…FOREVER.  For better and for worse, and most of the time, it’s the goddamn worst.  It really is.

That vow?  TOTALLY, totally fucked up.  I’d be more supportive if someone actually had to swear before God and 500 witnesses not to EVER, ever be an asshole.  Now, THERE is a vow worthy of praise.  That way, I could go to Father Raul, say “He never EVEN TRIED not to be a dickhead. I washed pee off the bathroom wall every, single, day, and he never once took my bitchy advice to SIT DOWN If he can’t aim!”  

And he would say, “You don’t EVEN know about her going ALL Sicilian about the macaroni salad!”

Annulment  granted. Marriage? Never existed.

See, I’m even more bitter because, even knowing full well I wasn’t getting shit, I’m upset I didn’t get a fucking thing for my tenth anniversary.  Not. Even. A. Card. 

My boss says, “Jen, get used to it!” This from the guy who shuts down meetings to answer his wife’s phone calls.  I said I am, I just kinda figured ten was a big deal…even though I KNEW. See, I’ve NEVER gotten an anniversary gift…EVER.

So, I bought me a dozen yellow roses, a bottle of chardonnay, a bag of Totino’s pizza bites, and a legal consultation.

Anyway…Tammy Gammy called on my way to the Law Office...and we found the Piper. It was all too much Frosh Women’s Studies.  

There’s a tribe in Africa where the women have their very own language. They ONLY use it to complain about their husbands.  Seems strange here, yet our old ladies, grandmas and aunts, often tell us, if we listen, in our own language, to be aware.  We don’t understand, and it’s not even in a different tongue.

My grandmother told me, being the only woman I went to at the time of my first divorce, that I was just trading one set of problems for another.

 What I’ve learned in the 18 years since I first made that promise to put up with all the shit, is that the friendship we expect to find in marriage, is rarely there.  And, most often, the one we seek, the one we truly trust, is our sister.  Maybe not our blood sister, but that one fellow woman who understands us and gets us, and keeps our secrets as close as we keep our babies.

Even our babies won’t get us…but we all need that one sister…loyal and true…who REALLY understands.  That one friend who knows by the look on our face what we really, really need.  That one bitch, speaking our own language.  And she’s laughing, saying “Remember?”

THAT is who gets you through the worse.  THAT is who gets you through marriage.  THAT is who you run to and cry to and scream to...and she just laughs and says, "Oh, Jesus, I know."

 

Dead Cool

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.

Trying to Find My Rope-A-Dope

Kurt Vonnegut once said, "True terror is waking up one morning to discover that your high school class is running the country."  I had this quote on my fridge for about ten years, because, I'm a Gen-Xer.

 Let's face it, I don't do delayed gratification.  Thanks to Sesame Street, the Electric Company, and Schoolhouse Rock, I'm a visual learner. Lots of us come from "broken" homes. We were labeled materialistic, disengaged, and slackers.  We survived the Cold War, Ronald Reagan, the Challenger Disaster, the AIDS terror, Black Monday, and Chernobyl.  We watched the Berlin Wall come crashing down.  We watched "Red Dawn" then had to cower under our desks on Monday because of the Red Scare.

But really, I think we're the change generation.  We're more accepting of social diversity...races, religions, sexual orientation.  We hold the highest education levels when comparing age groups.  Compared with other generations, we have the highest volunteer rates.  We strive for long-term institutional changes, rather than the revolution our parents' generation tried to achieve. We're labeled the MTV generation that was more interested in philosophizing than settling for a white picket fence, yet study after study shows us as highly family oriented.  We change jobs more than our parents rearranged the furniture.

I look back, and I'm really not that worried about my generation running the country.  In fact, I'm convinced we'd be better, because there is a part of us that has never, and will never, put down our boots and say, "To hell with it.  If you can't beat 'em, join 'em."  We're good movers and shakers; we organize.  We believe in a better world.

I'm not worried about my generation, because, see, back in my day (yeah, I'm old enough I can say that now), you didn't really get to be a slacker and sing "I'm a loser baby," like Beck did, unless you were also successful.  It was only cool to say you never cracked a book if you still got straight-As.  It was only cool to get drunk in a hot tub the night before the state scholastic competition if you could wake up with your head feeling like it was the size of Manhattan (why did you have to say "Manhattan" *gag*) and your mouth tasting like a dumpster smells, have a latte, and still kick some ass.  It was only cool to skip two weeks of Organic Chemistry in college to hang out in your dorm room with a towel under the door listening to Ravi Shankar if you could show up for the test and still blow the curve.  We made nerds cool.

I'm now the mother of a 16-year old.  THIS I find terrifying.  Terror is waking up to Justin Beiber wailing down the hall and coming face to face with his mug every time you are knocking on the door to tell her to turn it down.  I had Pearl Jam, The Lovemongers, and The Screaming Trees for God's sake.  My dad would sit on the stairs outside my bedroom, tell me to turn it up, and ask, over and over "WHO is this again?" 

I'll tell you what terrifying is.  Terrifying is when the smartest kid in class shows up to pick up your daughter for a date, and he doesn't understand WHERE, exactly, a belt goes.  Just in case a young whippersnapper is reading this, it goes ABOVE your ass, not below.

Terrifying is standing in line at Taco Bell at midnight, sober as a judge, and realizing the deepest level of philosophy coming out of the mouths of the stoned younger generation amounts to "OMG!! LIKE, SRZLY?!" and "FOR REALZ!"  WTF ever happened to debating the fascist standardization of the size of the lettuce shavings on my Chalupa?  Does no one pay attention anymore?

And, really, what the hell is up with me having to stand in line at Starbucks for 30 minutes, behind some teeny bopper who has 3,000 contacts in her iPhone, "because it pulled all her facebook contacts" (like SRZLY, I KNOW you don't actually KNOW all those people, I monitor my kid's facebook, twitter, and whatever those 20 other sites are that add 5 hours to my day) and she can't find Brittany in all of them to ask if she wants chocolate sprinkles or rainbow sprinkles on her skinny cocoa?  For the love of all that is sacred and holy, the line is 15 minutes long.  You send 16,000 texts a month.  Type in her ever loving name, or better yet, have that shit figured out before you walk in.  LIFE SKILLS, PEOPLE! We old bastards need our coffee to fight tyranny (AKA our parents who still know EVERYTHING *eye roll*) and still find the energy to deal with the Beibs and that Swift girl that can't get her shit together enough to have a normal break-up. Which reminds me, what the hell happened to that Starbucks mermaid's breasts?  Was there a pink ribbon fund raiser I missed while waiting for Brittany to make up her mind?

In all seriousness, I still feel like a teenager.  I remember it all too well.  I'm known to sing "Teen Angst" by Cracker to my 16-year old when drama unfolds...I need another folk singer like I need a HOLE in my head...and she just looks at me perplexed.  I know she's trying to find herself and what she is and to stand out from the crowd.  Your middle teens to early 20s is all about proving you're different and finding what the world means and your place in it, while having a total and complete existential crisis. I wouldn't relive it if I had a choice, but I get to as a parent.

I'm just trying to find the balance between letting her experiment and knowing when to put my foot down.  I'm trying to walk a tight rope between knowing I've taught her to do right, and finding the faith within myself to know she can do it.  I'm on a unicycle in this Circus of Parenthood juggling when to let her learn lessons on her own and when to step in and protect her.

She's a smart kid. A different kid than I was.  She has different hobbies and likes, and she's outgoing when I was very shy. My only goal, as her mother, is that she is loving, kind, peaceful, and confident. That she finds what and who she loves.  That she learns to weave in and out of the lanes of this rush hour that is life and doesn't take the HOV lane for through traffic.  That she enjoys the journey and finds in her heart what makes this world better for her.

I'm not terrified of her generation.  I'm not terrified of teenagers.  I'm terrified that in all of it, somewhere, I'll fail. Mr. Vonnegut, true terror is realizing you're Muhammad Ali against the ropes, and your rope-a-dope better work. Its a kid that put you there, and you sure as hell better have trained...not you them.

And most of all, they give us hope.  They give us hope that idealization still lives.  They stand in our face and make us have acceptance.  They stand and say, "Embrace change. Accept us...our vision."  We taught them that vision.  We owe them, at the least, a look.