Snide Reply

Category: personal essay

  • Desperately Seeking Search Terms

    Photo courtesy Lucy http://www.lucy.com

    A while back, I had what I thought was an amazing and original idea. Ok, I’ve had a lot of what I think are amazing and original ideas. Have ‘em all the time, usually when I’m in the shower. Something about massaging my head with fluffy fragrant bubbles gets my brain going. But I am thinking about a particular amazing and original idea.

    I had the idea to write a blog post about the search terms people type into Google that then lead them to my blog. See, WordPress, the service I use to host my blog, keeps track of the search terms that are bringing people to Snide Reply. Obviously, they do this for everyone who has a blog on WordPress, though it would be really cool if they did it just for me, wouldn’t it? Every day, I can look through a list of what people were looking for that brought them to my corner of the Web. Turns out the idea is not particularly original. Lots of bloggers do posts on the humorous, disturbing, and confounding terms inquiring minds want to know more about. One blogging friend did a particularly fine job with her terms, devising a search term test. It’s fun. I recommend you try it.

    My friend gets some funny search term hits, like “the most beautiful chickens.” I wondered who might be searching for the most beautiful chickens and then I recalled that Martha Stewart seems to have an unnatural fondness for chickens. She has devoted entire spreads in her magazine to close up portraits of chickens. I know Martha also likes to surf the web. (Ok, I admit it. I have an unnatural fondness for Martha. This is how I know about the chickens and the web surfing.) So, clearly, Martha Stewart has visited my friend’s blog.

    I’m afraid Martha won’t be dropping by Snide Reply anytime soon, unless she’s traumatized by a view of her dad’s penis. Since her dad is dead, (I said my fondness was unnatural) I’m pretty sure that’s not likely to happen. A heck of a lot of people are coming to me after catching a gander at dad’s ‘nads. In fact, that’s the number one search term for Snide Reply. Never mind that I’ve written about everything from childish parents to stupid songs. If you’ve been brain-scarred by an eyeful of Pop’s penis, then I’m the place to come for virtual bonding, since I wrote an entire post on my adventures in parental genital awareness.

    That same post covered discovering my son in the act of self-abuse, though my son probably found nothing at all abusive about it. When it happened, he screamed, I screamed, then I slammed his door shut and we pretended nothing had ever happened. Apparently, that’s not enough for some people. Seen your son spanking the monkey? Trot on over to Snide Reply and see how one mom dealt with it!

    It never occurred to me that I should turn to anonymous sources on the Internet when I encountered my dad’s and son’s genitalia. My “pretend it isn’t happening” strategy worked just fine. I save my searches for truly confounding issues, like where to find a running vest for less than $80 because I gave away the one I had with the Susan G. Komen logo on it.

    On a lark, I decided to try one of the searches that have been used to find me. A lot of people come to me looking for advice on dealing with their sons’ monkey spanking habits. Since I think there is nothing unnatural about a boy’s fondness for said activity, I’m not a particularly useful source. So, I searched on one of the more disgusting masturbation-related terms used to find me. My post doesn’t appear until the bottom of the second page of results. But the first result is a doozy! At Circleofmoms.com, someone wants to know how to “stop my son from masterbating at inappropraite times.” Apparently, the boy’s sister walked in on him holding a Barbie in one hand and his wiener in the other. I always tell my daughter that she needs to put her special toys away if she doesn’t want others to play with them. If she doesn’t, she’ll just have to shut the door and pretend nothing happened.

    Naked Barbies featured in a post that brings lots of people to my blog looking for what to do about naked neighbors. The neighbors I wrote about were the best ones ever and the worst ones ever. We’ve had all kinds of issues with the worst neighbor, but his being naked has never been a problem. Mostly, our neighbors are a pretty well-clothed bunch, except for the pasty, paunchy guy who likes to mow his lawn shirtless. My “only Zac Efron should run shirtless” rule is hereby amended to include “only Zac Efron should mow the lawn shirtless.” Oh! And people find me by looking for Zac Efron shirtless. I blush when I think that people assume they’ll find a half-naked Zac Efron hanging out with me. Ok, I don’t blush. Let’s just say things get a little warmer around here.

    Some people who find me aren’t looking for advice related to masturbation, genitals or nakedness in any way. I’m pleased to report I’m a source for advice on good songs to run to as well as Thich Nhat Hahn and the Naperville Library. People find me looking for Journey lyrics, family sayings and bad dad jokes. Someone even turned to me wondering if “you have to wear thongs with yoga pants,” to which I’d have to say, “Search me!”

  • Rants, Raves and Pie

    I’ve been told I’m intimidating and frankly, I’ve never understood it. I’m tiny, no more than 5’ 3” tall. I am fine-boned and thin in most places. I am, as they say, petite. But apparently, in speaking my mind, I am the mouse that roars. Maybe it’s my inner sense of confidence about my beliefs that makes them come out sounding like proclamations. I spend a lot of time thinking about the things I believe, so I suppose it’s natural that I’m convinced I know what’s best—and worst—for the world. Here, for your edification, are my latest edicts.

    Shirtless guys! Heads up! The only man who looks good running shirtless is Zac Efron. You are not Zac Efron. Put your shirt back on. I don’t want to see my middle jiggle, let alone yours. In fact, seeing your pizza dough bouncing up and down is as distracting as Zac Efron shirtless.

    Instead of running shirtless get a pedicure and run barefoot. Frankly, I’d rather look at your shoeless feet than your shirtless form. If you must display your body, make it your primped piggies.

    Facebook posters: stop putting words in quotation marks unless you are referring to something someone said or to a specific word. I don’t know what you mean when you write that the Tea Party cited “costs” for Obamacare at a much higher rate than the President. If you intended, as you say, to indicate that you are skeptical about what was actually considered in the cost estimate, then you failed. Pretend I have no idea what you were trying to say, because I have no idea what you were trying to say.

    Here’s a thought, have a Mexican Coke before you hit the reply button. Savor the good, old-fashioned taste of a cola beverage made with sugar—real sugar—the kind of stuff they make out of sugar cane. No high fructose corn syrup, no fake sweetener. Just Coke made the way it should be. While you’re sipping on your soda, ponder a more accurate way of getting your thoughts in words.

    Son! I don’t have to tell you to have Mexican Coke. You’re addicted to the stuff so much so, in fact, that you feel I owe you a case every month. Never mind that I pay for music lessons to the tune of $200 each month. Never mind that more than $350 dollars is marching out of my checkbook in the next two months so you can join the marching band. And let’s just forget that driver’s ed will drive away with nearly $400 this summer. It’s not enough. No, now you want percussion lessons and a second car.

    It’s all for my benefit, though, he assures me. The percussion lessons will get him into college (huh?) and he’ll drive his sister to gymnastics if he has a car. I used to think Alec Baldwin was a monster for calling his teenage daughter a “selfish, little pig.” Now I believe he may have been holding back.

    Daughter! You can make your own breakfast. I assure you, it isn’t hard. Back in my time, as my son would say, I made my own breakfast when I was ten. Or my sister made my breakfast. I can’t be sure. I don’t remember back that far because, as my son would say, that’s a very long time ago. Still, my mother wasn’t making my breakfast. I’m sure that, like all things in my home, my daughter’s inability to make her own breakfast is my fault. I’ve made the breakfasts up until now, of course. But things are gonna change. From now on, you can pour your own cereal, heat up your own cinnamon buns and get your own juice. And then you can carry the barely-eaten food to the sink and throw it away yourself. I mean it!

    Husband! When a child says, “Dad, hypothetically, if I (insert terrible teenage thing to do), what would happen?” the child is not speaking hypothetically. There is no “hypothetical.” There is only, “Dad, I did this really stupid thing and I’m afraid to admit it because I’m really unsure of how you’re going to react.” Further, husband, when son presents you with a hypothetical situation involving terrible teenage things, you should immediately report said situation to me.

    Oh! More on Facebook posting! Stop it with the “Post this if you support whatever-the-cause-of-the-day-is.” Posting something on my wall doesn’t do a thing for whatever the cause is, especially if it’s something like breast cancer or child abuse. Do you really think there is anyone alive who doesn’t think children get abused or that child abuse is a terrible thing? If you really want to post something in support of your favorite cause, write a check, put it in an envelope with a stamp on it and post that.

    Finally, when life has you down, there is nothing better to do than eat pie.  Say seeing Not Zac Efron running on your local trail has scarred your eyes. Eat pie. You’ll feel better. Say your child is sucking money from you faster than a Dyson. Eat pie. It’s cheaper than therapy. Say your daughter won’t make her own breakfast. Give her pie, then get yourself a piece. Say your husband presents you with some hypothetical teenage situation. Get some pie, real pie, because in life there are no hypothetical teenage situations and there is no hypothetical pie.

  • These Are A Few Of My Favorite (Stupid) Songs

    Maybe it’s because I’m a writer, but I judge music by the lyrics almost more than the melodies. Oh, I’ll occasionally love a song for a bass line or a guitar solo (Beat It, anyone?), but generally good lyrics seal the deal for me.

    Some of my favorite songs, loved for their lyrics, are Billy Joel’s And So It Goes, When She Loved Me by Randy Newman and Bad Sneakers by Steely Dan. I like song lyrics that make a statement; Imagine comes to mind. I like song lyrics that make me feel all mushy about my kids. I can’t keep from crying when I hear Bruno Mars sing, “. . . and when you smile, the whole world stops and stares for a while” because that’s exactly what happens for me when I see my kids smile.

    Funny lyrics can save a song for me. I run to Sexy and I Know It because it’s freaking hilarious and I need that at about mile three in a four mile run. I have a soundtrack for every run, in fact. Train in Vain and September are perfect for that first five-minute warmup, just the right tempo for a quick walk. Wanna Be Startin’ Something cues me that it’s time to pick up the pace. Towards the end, when I need an extra kick, there are the songs that push me to run just a little faster. Try running to Four Sticks, which has the added distraction of keeping up with that wacky time signature. A few songs make the playlist just because their titles make me smile in the context of running. There’s Long Road to Ruin and Everlong by the Foo Fighters.  Finally, I find it amusing to cool off to Hard To Concentrate, a Red Hot Chili Peppers tune.

    My favorite lyrics, though, are stupid ones and there is such a plethora! Try this:

    They say
    Winners and losers are two of a kind
    You know, it’s that way

    Really, winners and losers are the same? I thought winners won and losers, well, they lose. Those seem to be diametrically opposed ideas. In fact, if I were teaching my second graders about antonyms, I’m pretty sure they’d pick “loser” as the opposite of “winner.” Probably not a big surprise that the band responsible for this idiocy has a really stupid name: Hamilton, Joe Frank, and Reynolds. Why some of the players are known by their first names and others by their last is a mystery. These are the same guys who were going to “lay me down and cry for a hundred years.” Do you think they’re still crying?

    Journey’s Any Way You Want It is a gold mine of stupid lyrics. As if “any way you want it, that’s the way you need it” weren’t dopey enough, the song also includes “she loves the lovin’ things.” I used to think Steve Perry was singing, “she loves eleven things.” I’ll admit that’s even dumber than the actual lyrics, but not by much. Then there’s “she loves to laugh, she loves to sing, she does everything,” as if the lyricist hit writer’s block and only vague generalities came to mind. I picture him, tapping his pencil on the keyboard, desperately trying to come up with something that rhymes with “sing” but isn’t completely idiotic. How about “she loves a lot of bling” or “she loves those cherries Bing.”

    I’m pretty sure Gino Vanelli had writer’s block when we wrote People Gotta Move. The chorus goes something like this:

    You gotta move

    You gotta move

    You gotta move

    You gotta move

    People gotta move.

    You gotta mo-ove

    Gino should have gotten writer’s block on the first verse:

    People come on and do it right
    Shake your behinds like dynamite
    Chuck all your worries and toss your thighs
    To be tame is a pain when you realize

    This song actually has potential for my running playlist. It’s about movement and I think it would make me laugh even in the middle of a calf cramp. I could hobble all the way home hardly aware of the pain in my lower leg while singing about tossing my thighs.

    My daughter, son and I can’t agree if Selena Gomez sings a lot of stupid lyrics or not. In Naturally, she sings, “you know who you are and to me that’s exciting.” I think that’s just an awkward construction; I’d edit it out of a student’s paper. My son thinks it’s ridiculous. My daughter thinks Selena Gomez is da bomb and anything Selena says is solid gold.

    I used to think the lyrics of Off The Chain were ridiculous. I mean, what does this mean: “The chemistry is crazy, and you make me feel amazing, and I can’t explain, your love is off the chain.” I’ve since learned that the lyrics aren’t ridiculous. I don’t get it because I’m too old. “Off the chain” is some new-fangled lingo for “da bomb.” So, my daughter wins the Selena Gomez debate.

    We all agree that some of the craziest, laziest, frighteningly stupid lyrics come from Anthony Keidis and The Red Hot Chili Peppers. Here’s something from The Zephyr Song:

    Did you meet your fortune teller?
    Get it off with no propeller
    Do it up, it’s always stellar
    What a way to finally smell her

    I’m pretty sure I know what he’s talking about when he sings about flying on his zephyr. “What a way to finally smell her”? I’d like to stay blissfully unaware of what that means. Then there’s this from Storm In A Teacup:

    Come on come on baby
    Let me show you what I’m talkin’ about
    You try to be a lady
    But you’re walkin’ like a sour kraut

    A sour kraut? Does Anthony mean a German person with a bad disposition or is he referring to pickled cabbage? And if it’s the cabbage, how does it walk? Frankly, how does a crabby German walk? It doesn’t really matter, though. Every time I hear that lyric, I giggle. Lazy Lyricist Mr. Keidis may be, but his stupidity makes me laugh. And that’s what’s really special about stupid lyrics.

    Please note: I’ve tried to include links to official videos where possible. If not, then I tried to choose a video that uploaded quickly for me. If it doesn’t for you, well, too bad. If you’ve got a little while, watch the Foo Fighters videos. They always star the guys from the band and they are always funny, sometimes hilarious, and really, really stupid.

  • I’ve had it with ugly political talk. Have you?

    Here’s a link to my column in today’s Naperville Patch. I’m sick of how we talk politics in the US. You don’t have to be from Naperville to find my comments relevant.

    http://naperville.patch.com/articles/let-s-put-the-civil-back-into-civic-debate

  • Don’t Hold The Mayo

    I never really liked sandwiches. I was a hot lunch kid in elementary school, although this may have had something to do with my mother’s great distaste for cooking of any kind. I still would rather eat something that requires a knife and fork than a variation on the Earl’s invention, with the exception of the exceptional BLT from Buzz Café in Oak Park.

    So I am more than a little annoyed to find myself part of the Sandwich Generation, that lucky group of people taking care of aging—and often ill—parents, while still nurturing nested offspring. In the words of me, it sucks.

    It wouldn’t be so bad, I think, if it just sucked for me, but it sucks for everyone involved.

    Let’s take the aging, ill parent. The ham and cheese in his sandwich scenario, he’s slogging through chemo, radiation, insomnia, tremors, muscle rigidity, chemically-induced anorexia, nightly enteric feeding because of the anorexia, and boredom. He’s on a break from cancer treatment, a little physical vacation in preparation for massive reconstruction of his digestive system to remove the tumor from his esophagus.

    The whole wheat and white bread holding his life together are my sister and brother, respectively. They do the heavy lifting, which often requires heavy lifting, of caring for Dad during the week. This consisted of driving him to doctors’ offices, hospitals and treatment centers, preparing his meals, coaxing him to eat his meals, and attempting to keep him awake during the day so he would sleep at night.

    With the break from treatments, there is nothing much to break up the day, so now my sibs are looking for things to keep from shooting themselves in the head out of  boredom while providing a stimulating environment for Dad. My sister, an artist, has developed a homegrown art therapy program that consists of her encouraging his artistic talents through watercolor painting. My father is an engineer by training. My sister sets the stage, supplying Dad with brushes, paper and water. She encourages him, saying things like, “Dad, you really have a feel for the materials.” Dad, playing along because he’s that kind of guy, says something like, “My heart isn’t in this.” My sister then posts Dad’s artwork to Facebook, titling it “My heart isn’t in this.” Everyone’s happy-ish.

    As boring as the days may be, the nights are full of activity. For the first two or three hours after hitting the hay, Dad sleeps an average of 10 minutes at a stretch, waking to do any combination of the following: readjust the sheets, walk to the center of the room then walk back to the bed, call out for confirmation that he is in the bed, or pee. These do not necessarily happen in a fortuitous sequence.

    Once the initial settling in period is over, Dad will sleep for about 1 to 2 hours at a stretch. Naturally, so does the caregiver.

    Obviously, no normal human could maintain this schedule for an extended period of time. My sister does a two-day shift, my brother another. Due to excellent financial planning on my dad’s part, he is able to afford a professional caregiver two nights each week.

    And where do I fit? I am the lettuce and tomato in Dad’s weekly care. I’m sure everyone could get along without my assistance, but I’m really good to have around. I take the weekends. From sundown on Saturday to sundown on Sunday, Dad and I hang out together. Since I don’t paint and Dad doesn’t want to learn how to knit, we watch golf together. My dad doesn’t golf and I’d rather rub sand in my eyes, but we watch golf. My brother and sister get a break and I get to feel less guilty about them doing so much during the week.

    If I’m the lettuce and tomato at Dad’s house, I’m the challah at home. And between my jobs, my kids, my pets and my husband, I’m feeling sliced pretty thin lately.

    The jobs—there are three—are probably the biggest drain. See, each of them is the kind Rick Perry is so proud to have created: low pay, few hours and fewer benefits. But, hey, they don’t begin to pay the bills, so there’s that.

    The kids are mostly doing ok. The son can be counted on to call Jimmy John’s or put a pizza in the oven. He can also be counted on to bring his girlfriend home from school, but that’s another blog post. The daughter is showing some signs of wear around the edges. She recently got unlimited texting thanks to her brother’s $300 worth of overage. So while I’m at Job One, I’m treated to messages every fifteen minutes. The most recent spate started with “I had a BAAAAAD day” and went through “I’m sad,” “I want to cry,” and “Why should I tell you?” until I had her dad call her to see what was wrong. “Nothing,” she replied to him.

    The pets should soon be less of a drain. I think it’s only fair that with all the angst she’s added to my life, the new girlfriend appears ready to provide a home for the world’s worst cat. There is still the issue of the dog’s confounding penchant for soiling in his crate, but I can only expect so many serendipities in one lifetime, I suppose.

    The husband is a wonder, which sounds sort of like something you’d say about an ugly baby, but he’s picking up what slack he feels comfortable with, trying to add skills that weren’t critical until now and, most important of all, being Mr. Good Supportive Husband. He’s even agreed that Mr. Perry can have back one of his jobs, so I’ll be saying goodbye to Stalker Boy soon.

    I’m probably never going to love the life I’m living right now, but I’m reminded of one sandwich that I crave. Take two slices of white bread. Slather both with as much Hellman’s mayonnaise as they can hold without dripping on the counter. Place a slice of cold meatloaf in the middle. Enjoy. Proof of one of my life’s organizing principles: enough mayonnaise can make just about anything bearable.

  • Let’s Make Nice

    I don’t really let what other people say about me bug me too much. Not that I don’t have my moments of monumental insecurity over some seemingly innocent remark, but I can usually recover and get back to a normal background level of neurosis quickly.

    Lately, though, I’ve been hearing things said about me that have me questioning some fundamental self-truths I hold dear. People are saying I’m nice . . .and meaning it.

    Now, I know many things about myself. I am smart. I am funny. I am a perfectionist. I like to argue. I’m demanding. I’m fair-minded. I expect the same of other people.

    But I am not nice. Nice people are, well, nice. I can be generous. I’ve been known to be empathic. I can even be silly and frivolous. But nice?

    The first person to accuse me of being nice also noted that I am cheerful and optimistic. I know! I know! Me! Cheerful! Optimistic! Obviously, this was someone who knew me not at all. And, indeed, she was a reader responding to my Hanukkah column on my son’s refusal to participate in our Hanukkah festivities.

    The short story is this: I was able to get him to help me light the driveway menorah despite his insistence that he, as an atheist, would not be celebrating the holiday. I wrote that I hoped he would keep Hanukkah with his own children when the time came. One reader noted how difficult it is being Jewish in Naperville and how her sons love Hanukkah and celebrate it despite being marginalized by the surrounding society. Another reader jumped on the “life sucks as a Jew in Naperville” bandwagon, giving me a literary pat on the head for my cheerful, optimistic presentation of what is the drear reality of the west suburban diaspora.

    Never having been accused of being either cheerful or optimistic, I laughed out loud. I called my husband; we laughed out loud together. I’m pretty sure I told my sister and she laughed out loud, too. First, though, she said, “You? Optimistic?” Or maybe that was my best friend. The whole “Janice as an optimist” thing was so disorienting it could have been the cat saying, “You? Optimistic?”

    One person who doesn’t know me saying I was nice, cheerful and optimistic (I’m laughing while I type it! You’re laughing while you read it. I know you are. It’s ridiculous!), could easily be dismissed, but people who know me are saying it, too!

    I’ll grant you that the sales clerk at the local music store is hardly a bosom buddy, but we’re on close enough terms for the man to make a fairly accurate assessment of my temperament. I swear I haven’t been on my best behavior when making my weekly—sometimes biweekly—appearances at the place. I have even been downright rude at times! And yet, just a few days ago, said clerk—we’ll call him “Bob”—said I was nice.

    Now, he didn’t just say, “Hey! You’re nice!” He couched it in a very nice compliment about my appearance. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” said Bob. “You look younger!”

    “Thank you,” I said. “I’m not feeling younger. I feel pretty old and tired, actually.”

    “It’s probably because you’re nice,” Bob explained.

    According to Bob, another woman he hadn’t seen in a while came in looking considerably older than she ought.

    “What does being nice have to do with looking young?” I asked.

    “Oh, all that being mean makes you look older.”

    I saw no point in arguing with Bob about genetics, cleaning living and exercise. I left him with his delusional opinion of me. He told me I looked younger!

    I’m not sure why I don’t feel very nice about being called “nice.” The nicest woman I know is a good friend. I like her a lot. She’s smart and funny, like me. But I believe she’s also got an unshakable conviction that the world is a good, good place. My strongest evidence of that is her existence.

    My dad even told me I was nice recently. I suppose that shouldn’t blow me away, but it does. I know my parents loved and respected me but they weren’t exactly the cheerleading type. They were as aware of my failings as my fabulousness.

    We were sitting in the living room of his home at two in the morning. We’d been trying to get him to sleep for longer than ten minutes at a time since about nine the night before. He’d brushed his teeth, put on his jammies, had his warm milk and gotten tucked into bed. He had pillows and blankets and all the things he could need to get his chemo-wracked body to submit. It wouldn’t. He would drift off for a few minutes, then some demon—anything from needing to pee to feeling driven to escape—would force him from the bed.

    After five hours and two Ambien, we gave up. We sat in the living room, dad and I and the feeding machine. It whirred. The clock ticked. And my father stared into the dark wondering what he’d done to deserve his lot. “Everyone is so nice,” he said. “You, Alan, the kids. You’re all so nice.” As if whatever he’d done to earn this punishment should deny him the right to human kindness as well. We sat a few minutes longer, listening to the pump push food into his body. “Dad,” I finally said, “I may be nice, but I’m also tired. Let’s try to go back to bed.”

    He did go back to bed, but he didn’t sleep any better. Since then, we’ve found out he also has Parkinson’s disease. While my dad was pretty confused, I know he wasn’t demented or hallucinating that night. He thinks I’m nice. So does Bob. And so do some of my readers. There are probably whole bunches of people who think I’m nice. It wouldn’t be nice to argue, though, so I guess I’ll have to suck it up. Hell, it might be nice being nice.

  • Tomorrow Is Another Day

    Profound, I know, but some days just really suck. I should have known that today would be one of them.

    The day started like this:

    “Mom,” my son said, “the dog pooped all over his crate.”

    Wonderful, I thought. “But Dad cleaned it up,” he added. I breathed a mental sigh of relief. I hugged and kissed my son goodbye and went back to bed.

    A little while later, my daughter and I got up, got dressed and went downstairs for breakfast.

    “Mom,” my daughter said, “the dog pooped in his crate.”

    “I know, honey,” I said. “Daddy cleaned it up.”

    “No, Mom,” she said, “he pooped again. Looks like he barfed, too.”

    I screamed a mental scream of anguish then I did what a mother has to do at 8 a.m. I cleaned the poopbarf, made a pot of tea, toasted bread for my daughter’s breakfast, toasted buckwheat pancakes for myself, made lunch for my daughter, turned the toasted bread into cinnamon toast then ate my pancakes standing up while drinking the tea. I did, of course, wash my hands between the poopbarf and the tea making.

    Following dropping daughter off at school, I drove to Chicago to visit my psychiatrist. It is a measure of the suckitude of my day that this visit was the highlight. The week prior, I had driven down to his office and found him not in it. The door was, in fact, locked. After thinking him dead in the office, it occurred to me that it might be me that was in error. Indeed, I had the wrong day. So, it was with great relief that I saw him today, alive, in his office. We had quite the little laugh over my misadventure. We also discussed why I had put my empty coffee travel mug in my coat pocket and brought it to the session. I had no answer. I paid him $200 for a half hour for him to tell me that people do that kind of thing.

    After my session with Dr. Funnypants, I drove to Aurora where I taught reading skills to a handful of kids who really don’t want to be there with the exception of the one who stalks me. Let’s call him Stalker Boy. He meets me at the front door of his school every day. None of the other kids in the class do, but he is there every day that I am there. If I’m late, he has the school secretary give me a tardy slip. He determines when I am late, not me. I still have not figured out what time it is that constitutes lateness in his mind. Of course, today he gave me a tardy slip.

    The unmotivated kids and I ground through the day’s lesson. Stalker Boy interjected comments about his day, my hair, the sharpness of his pencil, the quality of snack the school had supplied, my children, and the weather. Finally, the hour was up and the unmotivated skipped merrily from the room. Stalker Boy walked me out the door as he does every day that I am there. He made sure I turned my tardy slip back in at the front desk.

    I drove home, found my children glued to screens, stuffing their faces with relatively healthy snacks. The dog had stuffed his crate with further poopbarf. My children, perhaps wisely, did not tell me that the crate was full again.

    I cleaned the poopbarf and made dinner. I did, of course, wash my hands between those activities. The kids and I downed the entire batch of linguine and clam sauce, leaving nothing for my husband. He can add a little suckishness to his day, I thought, as I slurped up the last linguine noodle.

    We can fast forward through the rest: attempt to write newspaper column; testy phone call with sister regarding assistance in caring for tremendously ill father; mad dash to gymnastics class; discover last-class show is planned; decide that it is better to be a marginally attentive parent at the gym show than to miss column deadline; write column on heroin use with nosy dad hanging over shoulder; peek up from writing every other line to catch daughter doing cute things on dangerous equipment.

    When I got home, I left a message for my sister apologizing for my testiness, emailed my column to my husband to proof, then ran upstairs to fulfill my mother-son bonding responsibility of watching “Top Chef” together. The suckiness continued as my favorite contestant, the Zen-like Beverly was eliminated in favor of the paranoid Sarah.  At the first commercial break, I checked with my husband to see if he had gotten the column. He hadn’t. I checked my email and found that it was doing the thing that I have taken it to the Apple Genius to repair only to find that it won’t do that thing for the Genius. Mail works fine when the boyishly handsome young Genius is in the vicinity. Mail is a bitch to the harried middle-aged woman just trying to get her column done on time.

    Eventually, I got the column to my husband and edited it, ignoring his suggestions. He could deal with a little more suck in his day, I reasoned. I got an email from my sister which I should have ignored until I was having a day that didn’t suck as much as this one did. So, my response to my sister probably sucked.

    Tomorrow will be a better day. I’ll grovel a little . . ok, I’ll grovel a lot with my sister. I’ll start taking deep breaths as soon as I see Stalker Boy. And I’ll get my teeth cleaned. Yeah, that will be a much better day.

  • Say Hello To Mr. Johnson

    When I lived in Oak Park, my next-door neighbor was an Armenian woman, about my age, who grew up in the Soviet Union. While she had an M. D. and a Ph.D., was working on curing breast cancer and could speak at least three languages, there was one she desperately wanted to learn. She felt her lack hindered her ability to truly interact with her colleagues.

    My friend wanted to learn the language of American vulgarity. I don’t discriminate in verbal acquisition, so my vocabulary includes an extensive collection of American swear words. And I know how to use them.

    So on our nightly walks, I would instruct her in how to swear in American English.  We spent at least two sessions discussing the various terms for copulation. I ranked them in increasing order of severity from “fooling around” up to the “F” word. She was astounded at how versatile that word could be, but couldn’t really master its use. Still she was eager to try her newly acquired skills. At a meeting of her research team, presented with a problem that confounded her, she said, “What fuck is this?!”

    With the “F” word behind us, she turned her interest to vulgar synonyms for “penis.” Again, she was amazed at the variety of monikers Americans have devised for the male appendage. I don’t think she believed me when I mentioned that many men actually have a pet name for their penis, “just like women have a term for their breasts.” The look on her face told me that Soviet women probably don’t have terms of endearment for their “girls.”

    I was reminded of my friend while taking care of my dad recently. Cancer treatment doesn’t just make you tired. It doesn’t just make you nauseous. In my dad’s case, there is a lot of sleeplessness. He also has a feeding tube installed in his small intestine. All night, the adult version of formula is pumped into his body. So, along with the sleeplessness, he has toileting issues.

    It was in the course of dealing with one of these issues that I came face-to-face, as it were, with my dad’s . . .um . . .Johnson. I knew what came next. I dreaded what came next. Out of respect for my dad’s ability to retain his dignity in a terrible situation, I got over myself and did what needed to be done.

    Dad and I both survived the incident and others as well, but it struck me that we had crossed a significant invisible barrier. In a moment, it became appropriate to do something that had been completely inappropriate a heartbeat prior.

    When we were kids, my dad would dress in his swim trunks and get in the shower with my sister and me. With the water beating down on us, he would rock back and forth making storm noises. Now, I’m grabbing a handful of cleansing wipes and helping dad do what he can’t do for himself.

    Ironically, it’s now ok for me to see dad’s unit, but no longer appropriate for me to see my son’s. When my son was an infant, I didn’t just see the teeny, weenie peenie, but was its primary care giver. The doctor assured me that post-circumcision care was simple. She lied. I think she did it on purpose. Prior to amending my son’s constitution, she told me “circumcision is completely unnecessary. We used to think the procedure didn’t hurt them, but now we believe that isn’t true.” She then gave me the pursed-lip “I dare you to be a bad mother” look. I gave her the “it’s none of your damn business” look and said, “My husband is Jewish.”

    My intimate relationship with my son’s winky continued. He refused to use the toilet any way but the way his father did: standing up. This meant that the only time he did not pee in a diaper was at Brookfield Zoo, where there is a pint-sized urinal in the women’s restroom. At nearly four years old, he finally stood tall enough to (sort of) hit the mark in the potty. He still is only sort of making the mark, but I think he does it so he doesn’t have to share a bathroom with his sister.

    The day it became inappropriate for me to see my son’s penis is burned into my mind. I was bringing laundry to his room, just as I had done for years. I seldom knocked. On the day that shall live in infamy, I opened the door and found my son exercising his right to the pursuit of happiness. We looked at each other in horror. I said, “AHHHHHH!!!!” He said, “AHHHHHHHHH!!!! I slammed the door. Now, I knock and he locks.

    I don’t think I’ll ever completely recover from seeing my baby boy behaving in a very un-babyish manner. That kind of thing has a way of searing the corneas. But, I’m behaving like an adult when it comes to caring for dad. He needs it and I’m glad to do it.

  • Why I’m A Bad Blogger And How You Can Be, Too!

    I am a bad blogger. Awards and accolades aside, according to those in the know, I am doing this thing all wrong.

    My first error is in my headlines. I use clever headlines. I am, in fact, quite fond of my clever headlines. Indeed, I have written entire posts just so I could use a particular headline. “I Don’t Have ADH…”, for instance. My son has ADHD. So do some of his friends. One of those friends is fond of telling people, “I don’t have ADH . . .” and then staring off as if watching a butterfly flit by. I thought that was hilarious. I had to use that line, so I wrote a post around it.

    If I were a good blogger, I would use titles like, “Top Ten Ways Americans Are Weird About Birthdays,” instead of “And Many More.” I would have written “Why Your Nine-Year-Old Drives You Crazy and What You Can Do About It,” instead of “Number Nine, Number Nine.” A friend and loyal reader suggested “ ‘Tween a Rock and a Hard Place” for that post. I think his idea has more universal appeal; my headline dates me. Still, neither of our choices has much marketing impact.

    Blog marketing experts assure me that “How,” “Why,” and “Top Ten” are all words that should be included in post headlines if one is to capture attention in our blog soaked world. Maybe I’ll re-title the one on adoption. I could call it “Top Ten Idiotic Things People Say About Adoption.” Or, “How Your Comments About Adoption Make You Look Like An Idiot.” Or, “Why I Think You’re An Idiot When You Say Those Things About Adoption.”

    My second error is in my content. I write humorous personal essays. There is no market for humorous personal essays, apparently. There is a market for mom-to-mom advice and I do give some mom advice on occasion. I like to think of it as parent advice, commie liberal politically correct pinko that I am.

    There is a market for cooking advice, travel advice, craft advice, all kinds of advice. And there’s the rub. I don’t want to write an advice blog. I don’t care if you have a problem. Well, ok, I do care and if you want to email me to ask my advice about something, go ahead. But in my blog, I want to ramble, rant and rave with little-to-no thought at providing anything more useful than a laugh. Humorous personal essays are only marketable if you are a mean-spirited skinny bigot like Chelsea Handler. I’m not skinny, nor a bigot but my kids think I’m mean, so it’s a start.

    Error number three also relates to my content. I write long. The most effective blog posts are 300-500 words. My posts come in at about 1,000 words. Apparently, not a lot of people want to read that many words. With the popularity of twitter, it’s no surprise to me that my 1,000 words are the blogosphere equivalent of War and Peace. I will admit that my writing goal of 1,000 words is completely arbitrary. It seemed like a nice round number when I started blogging. Now, it’s a habit and one that’s given me proof that I can write enough to produce a book. If I were Chelsea Handler, in fact, I’d already be published.

    I commit my fourth error on a weekly basis: I post only once per week. If I were serious about blogging, I would be posting on a daily, even an hourly basis. I would also have no life. I am interested in having a life. At the same time, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to know more about me than I already reveal. I imagine that my readers are interesting people who also want to have lives.

    I could avoid my fifth blogging boo-boo by including more photos in my posts. Adding photos is a lot more complicated than it seems, though. There’s the privacy thing. My kids deserve it. I am not overly worried about privacy for myself but I am overly critical of photos of me.  There’s the practicality thing, too. Pictures of naked Barbies is one thing; pictures of me riding pachyderms is another. Then there’s the copyright thing. I could just use other people’s photos, but then I couldn’t tsk-tsk my son when he pirates music and videos online.

    My sixth error, and a grevious one it is, is my failure to market my blog. When I started blogging, I had no idea I was even supposed to market it. I wrote something that made me laugh, I posted it on WordPress, I told some friends and they read it. Many of them laughed, too. The next week, I did the same thing. And I’ve pretty much done that every week since September 30, 2010.

    If I were a really good blogger, by now I would be running clickable ads in my blog. When I wrote about naked Barbies, for instance, there would be a link to click so that you could purchase your own Barbie. Whether or not you kept her clothed would be up to you, of course. My ADHD post would include a link to drugstore.com, where you could purchase your own supply of Concerta. If I were really savvy about this blog marketing thing, there would be a flashing banner across the top of my posts, hawking the things I’ve blogged about from bacon and dead squirrels to lawn services, elephants and condoms.

    Perhaps the biggest blogging mistake I make though is this: other than the making more money from my writing bit, I don’t really care if I’m a bad blogger. I write what I feel like writing. I write even if I don’t feel like writing, but I don’t write because I have to. I write because I want to. I write about what amuses me and animates me. In short, I’m blogging because I like it and I like that you like it, too.

  • And Many More

    It sounded terrible. Everyone was singing in a different key and the tempo was only marginally quicker than a dirge. But, Marilyn Monroe’s edition aside, “Happy Birthday” almost always sounds terrible. Even my family, which includes a fair number of pretty good singers, couldn’t manage to sound like much more than something Animal Planet might air when we recently feted the two members born in January.

    Birthdays are a big deal in America. People take the day off and they get pissy if they can’t. We go out to eat. We get drunk. We are so invested in having a terrific time on our birthdays that all day we are admonished to do so. “Happy Birthday,” we hear from our family. “Happy Birthday” we hear from our friends and co-workers. Hell, we even hear “Happy Birthday” from our favorite stores. I got a $10 gift card from Ace Hardware last year. Ace Hardware!

    What’s really amazing to me is that we feel like we deserve special treatment as if we did something amazing on the day we were born. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure I was a passive participant in the events of April 22, 1958. Frankly, my mother was, too. The accepted practice then was to knock mom out. She’d come to with a baby in her arms. Maybe that’s where the stork legend came about. When I come out of anesthesia you could tell me I’d had a beer with George Bush and I’d believe it.

    These days, Mom is generally well aware of how the wee ones enter the world: through our bodies. And yet, on the anniversaries of their births, we give them presents. And they expect them!

    My son has yet to thank me for allowing him to suck the life out of me for nine months. The little beast didn’t even want to come out and, in fact, did everything he could to stay in. He was one week late and then took one and a half hours of pushing to get his fat head out of my body.

    Some people think childbirth is beautiful. I think sunsets are beautiful. I even think my children are beautiful, but giving birth? Not so much. When my son finally crowned (for those who don’t know, that means you could take a peek at my lady parts and see the crown of his head just beginning to appear), one of the nurses asked if she should get the big mirror so I could see the baby. She giggled like a little girl, practically jumping for joy, as if looking at my hoohah stretched beyond belief were more fun than getting a puppy for Christmas. “No!” I said. “The only way I want to see this baby is out!” I wanted him out so I could give him the first time out of his life.

    He finally did come out and every year afterwards, we spent a boat load of money on parties and gifts. Lately, it’s been mostly gifts, as he no longer really wants a party, wisely understanding that less party equals more gift.

    It may come as something of a surprise, but I get a kick out of planning kiddie birthday parties. I will even admit, with a modicum of parental pride, to losing my mind over some of my kids’ birthday parties. There was the fishing party which required: construction of bamboo fishing poles with u-shaped magnets instead of hooks, gluing of additional magnets to the backs of assorted pond-related plastic animals, and cutting out of craft foam lily pads. The animals floated on their little lily pads in a kiddie pool in the yard. The children fished them out and exchanged them for treats. It was a-freaking-dorable.

    The fishing party wasn’t my only folly. One year, I constructed a miniature golf course in our back yard out of stuff (read: junk) I found laying around the house. Not as cute as the fishing party, but just as fun. We’ve also had princess parties, flower power parties and night-at-the movies sleepovers. The most recent parties have featured some amazing cupcakes crafted by a family friend.

    None of these parties was for me. In fact, I very seldom get a birthday party. I am wise enough to know that my husband’s birthday planning skills consist of making reservations and placing a credit card in a leatherette folder. Still, for my 50th birthday, I wanted a party and I was damned if I was going to plan it for myself.

    My husband planned the party, bless his heart. If you are Southern, you know what that “bless his heart” means. He tried. He really did. He invited the guests, he readied the house, he ordered the food. About half an hour before the guests arrived, I realized I hadn’t seen a birthday cake. “Is someone bringing the cake,” I asked. “Cake?” he said. “Yes, cake. It’s a birthday. There’s supposed to be a cake.” He got that “I am in it really deep” look in his eyes. He went to the store; he got a cake. He will never live it down.

    I won’t ask my husband to throw me a birthday party again. He’s not good at it and he really doesn’t want to do it. I’m touched that he did it at all. But, we’ve developed a new tradition for my birthday. We go to a really good Vietnamese restaurant located right next door to an Oberweis store. I eat my rice paper-wrapped spring roll, top it off with the best turtle sundae in the world and they roll me home. And they all have the good sense to skip the birthday song.