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Archive for the ‘Angst’ Category

The Followup

Thursday, December 4th, 2014

Let’s get one thing straight. If you are looking for answers, I don’t have any. I repeat: I have no answers to the questions I posed in my midlife crisis sex and marriage posts, and you are not going to find them here. You will, however, find a lot more questions, and a sense that maybe, just maybe, you are not so different after all.

I recently wrote about my . . . I hate to call it midlife crisis, because you know, midlife?, but I guess that’s what it is. I received lots of feedback. Like, more feedback than I have gotten on anything I have ever written before. I heard from singles, marrieds, straight, gay, bi, divorced, separated, widowed, and remarried. I heard from old friends, new friends, neighbors, acquaintances, former coworkers, family. Lawyers, doctors, teachers, ministers, friends’ mothers (not even kidding), and people who are friends of friends who had been forwarded the post. (Thank you to those who shared my post, and especially the ballsy-themselves folks who shared publicly. I don’t delude myself into thinking that it has anything to do with my writing skill, as much as the fact that the subject struck a chord with a lot of people, and, you know, it was about sex. Everyone loves to talk about sex.

Getting all those comments, and the majority of them were private, was pretty wild.  On the one hand, people are praising my writing, my balls, my husband’s balls (which are HUGE), my parents’ balls even, and the fact that I put out there something that affects so many people, but no one ever really seriously talks about. I got a lot of comments about how strong my marriage must be . . . which makes me feel a little self-conscious. Because no one is perfect, and no marriage is perfect. I am far from perfect. My husband is pretty close, but we are not perfect.

On the other hand, the vast majority of folks I talked to are in differing states of marital or relationship or life or work turmoil. I found the overall experience to be very humbling. I was so very overwhelmed that I still can’t wrap my head around it all, so I am just going to give you an idea of the things I heard over the last week. I am also doing this because so many of you asked what kind of response I had, and I think a lot of people are looking for validation, solidarity, and frankly, an answer to the question of how to fix the problems.

There were lots of folks who identified with what I wrote

 “You wrote about so much of what’s in my bag.”

“I’m so in the middle of that right now. There are many days when I just want to get in my car, leave all this behind and drive. To where? Who the F cares?? Just not here!”

“Honestly I think you opening it up and discussing it with folks means a lot to people. And something good has to come of it. And I think the fact that you can talk about it with your husband so openly means a lot and is eye opening to people.”

“That was beautifully painful to read.”

“Somewhere you crawled inside my head and listened to my thoughts.”

“Well, if you could cookie cutter how I was feeling and the emotional roller coaster I was going through a year ago. It would be in the shape of your cookie.”

“Thank you for putting yourself out there. You have a beautiful insight.”

” I admire your honesty about marriage, sex, and middle age. Thank you for being vulnerable.”

“I can relate to what you wrote and have witnessed the same thing among quite a few 40-something friends and in my own life.”

“I want to thank you for writing your last two blog posts. I know from personal experience that it was difficult to both talk to your husband and write the posts and address the elephant in the room.”

“Your post could have been my post almost exactly.”

“WAIT, women are freaking out over this too?!”

There were a lot of people expressing that they have trouble thinking about these issues, much less talking about it

“I wish I was so brave to be honest with myself AND everyone else. You and your husband both have huge balls.”

“Ballsy. Wow, your husband is pretty badass.”

Here’s Hope: Some People Are Really Truly Fully Happy in Their Marriages

“Being married is work and it’s never perfect. I suppose it just means taking the longer view and wondering, is it worth dismantling what you’ve built together? Because the dismantling is also work- in fact, it seems to me like it might be more work than just working through.”

I don’t think marriage matters . . . I actually didn’t want to marry my husband at first because I feared being married meant you were trapped (as I had been), but if you weren’t married, you could always walk away at any time, which meant you had to work hard to keep the passion. Freedom is power, but also means it’s reciprocal. We did marry, and I’m very glad we did, but marriage to me is a construct. You should always know you can get out, but so can they. 

As a counterpoint, I “do” monogamy because the idea of intimacy without anyone else but my husband makes me feel dull, sad and a bit ill. I’m not religious, it’s not religion, and I’ve made some close to questionable choices in the past (before him) so it’s no ones mores but my own. Trying to put a label on “how I’m supposed to feel about sex in my 40s” only makes sense assuming everyone is exactly the same, and that’s just not the case. I don’t care what other people do, frankly, but I just find most other men to be boring and “not for me”. My ex husband was pretty much what it was like being married to a buddy and we’re now divorced. My husband is not my buddy, he’s my lover and I want him every minute of every day and thankfully it’s reciprocal. It’s hard to label people’s sex drive as normal or not. It’s all normal. . . I’m reacting to the concept that monogamy is unnatural for everyone. I don’t think that’s true in my case, with this particular man. In the past I’ve been bored shitless, so yes, if I were answering this many years back, I may have had a different answer.”

“Everyone goes through periods, though, where the dust needs to be kicked up. No relationship is perfect. I’m sure having no kids helps a lot. Not that people with kids don’t have the same desire to be with one person, I just naturally think it would be harder with additional humans in your relationship and would take more work to keep focused on the relationship, sexual and non-sexual, as the most important thing.”

But those folks were in the definite minority. (And I also realize that the most respondents are obviously going to be people for whom it struck a chord – people who are having some kind of issue. The people who are happy for the most part, maybe those people didn’t feel strongly enough to even respond.)

But, oh y’all. . . I heard a lot. Funny, sad, matter-of-fact, regretful, angry, guilty, giddy. . . You name it, i heard that emotion.

 People in Marriages with Little to No Communication

“Living here essentially . . . with extremely dysfunctional communication”

Financial Pressures

“You know what kills the romance? Money problems. So helps your sex life if you’re rich.”

Lack of Affection

“My problem is not sexual….although having sex twice a year for several years in a row doesn’t help. It’s affection and it’s even more than that.”

Masturbation

“Am I a freak because i never, EVER masturbate to thoughts of my husband? I think men acknowledge this all the time. Women hide it.”

“I masturbate to thoughts of my wife, just not that often. And it usually involves her along with someone else.”


There were people who have almost taken the plunge to seek sex outside marriage

“I came so close to making the jump to affair..I’m such an open book i told wife immediately after I broke it off.”

I should also point out that “seek” was the wrong word to use. People have things happen to them. A ton of people told me of just suddenly finding themselves in situations that seems innocuous at first and then suddenly had them reeling.

Some of these were too personal for me to quote (the one above was a public comment, so I used it), but suffice to say that people are having all sorts of . . . well, there were some affairs mentioned, but those were a small number as compared to the smaller things. A stolen kiss. A friend’s husband who went a little too far at a party. Emotional affairs with coworkers. Texting and Facebook messaging gone awry. (There was a lot of this y’all. A LOT.) Some people nipped it in the bud. Some people gave in. The most interesting thing here is how torn they all felt about it. If it felt natural to them, and so good, even the emotional part of it, then what is so bad about it and why do we have this marriage thing that might just be making us all crazy?

A few other quotes along these lines: “I’m fond of quoting Perry F these days in saying that there really isn’t much right or wrong. Just pleasure and pain of one sort or another.”

“Right and wrong are societal constructs… just like… marriage.”

 

People are Often Staying Together For the Kids

A lot of the time it is not just the marriage, but the kids that are holding things together.  I got a LOT of comments about that.

“If it wasn’t for the kids, I don’t think we would be together. They are about the most real part of all this.”

“Why the f* else would anyone bother getting married?”

There were a surprising (to me) number of people who feel uncomfortable or brought down by their work situation

“I totally understand the not being able to be yourself at work. I constantly have to tone down and even then I am still “too loud.” . . . Sorry for the rambles but everything you said about work–me.freaking.too.”

There were people whose sex drive or desire was out of line with their partner’s, and not all sex drives are the same it seems

“Would you mind slipping my wife some of whatever you have?”

“I’m so jealous of your sex drive, I can’t even stand it!!!” (This was two friends in a discussion with me, but the jealous was directed at my friend – Yes, there are a number who are wanting it way more than I am.

“We probably average about 3 times a day. Definitely a minimum of twice, always before we get up in the morning and before we go to sleep at night. On weekends when we’re together all the daylong we usually have it at some point during the day, sometimes more than once.”

“I’ve always wanted it a lot, but I have been in relationships, especially my marriage, where it was more like once every 6 weeks or some such. And I told myself that I was being selfish. Which is bullshit. You’re allowed to feel however you want about it. I’m just lucky that I finally found a partner who reciprocates. . . . if you DON’T want to have the sexing very often, that’s fine, too! My ex-husband just didn’t want it. There is/was nothing wrong with that! It just meant we were mismatched. If there are lower-sex-occurrence relationships, that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re unhappy. Often it does, but I just don’t think we should vilify people if it happens that they’re not highly sexual. Our society tends to do that. And then vilify people who ARE highly sexual. So we should get off that vilification train.

There were a number of men that bristled at the thought that men might peak sexually in their teens 

“The ‘men peak at 18, women at 40’ is a myth. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=nSNoiAnUnH0. (Unless one’s interest can peak for 25 years and going strong, in my case. Haha!)”

The Need for Romance Or Spontaneity

A few friends complained about not having enough romance in their marriages. Likewise, a number of men knew this was the problem for their wives and just have no clue how to “do” romance.

“I can’t just jump right in it. We have a signal. I wear something nice or sexy to bed and he knows that I am up for it.”

To other couples, if you are naked that is a signal that you are ready.

One friend said that sex was “so scripted,” she could tell exactly what what going to happen next.

Evidently, Kids May Not Be Good For Your Sex Life

“You have not lived until you’ve tried to maintain a sex life and raise teenagers at the same time.

“I have a friend who gave her teenagers headphones and told them if it bothered them they should put in the headphones.”

The Reasons Why

There were a lot of people speculating on the “why” of it all. Maybe it’s chemical, maybe it’s hormonal, maybe it’s situational.

“So the question is, if [marriage is] ‘unnatural’, why do we continue to do it”?

“My wife said that pheromones and shit must be exploding about now in our age group. All her friends have crushes (I do as well) or some sort of sexual explosion. She said the Facebook ninjas are coming out of the woodwork. All dressed in little black cocktail dresses and looking to steal your man.”

“I’ve always wondered how people married a really long time don’t get bored. Maybe I’m just not a super sexual person (or maybe I’ve just not been with the right people to help make it so?), so I always kinda wonder how folks make it work.”

“I’d say the #1 reason we do monogamy is because of our history of religious patriarchies.”

“I’m not trying to be Debbie Downer. But when you’ve been with someone for 20 years and you have teenagers and life has knocked you around a bit – right now, today – emotional intimacy means more to me. That’s not to say I don’t adore sex as much as the next girl, it’s just that marriage is an ocean and sometimes the tide goes out and sometimes the tide comes in.”

There were lots of folks who came to the same conclusions that I did – That this is just biological

“I guess I’ve gone beyond the theoretical some but that’s not the interesting part for me. Not by a long shot. That’s just [sex]. The interesting part is why this had suddenly become SUCH a big deal?

Boredom. And biology. That is my theory.”

“My mom and I were discussing the whole “box of saltines” issue last night. Neither one of us believes that monogamy is a natural state for almost any species. And humans are just a species of animal on this planet regardless of what we’d like to believe.”

“We are conditioned to believe that monogamy is the norm and that anything outside of that is deviant. I think mostly as a societal control of women, because that same narrative comes with the same tired bull* that women don’t have the same levels of desire, etc., that men are programmed to “spread their seed” and women are choosier based on resources, etc.”

“It is so ingrained now, after a 2000 years of the church that it is almost a separate issue. Now we put these constraints on ourselves, because we have some totally messed up idea of what marriage should be.”
“The thing is, this shit is sooooooo hard and it doesn’t need to be. I have to work so hard to just explain to my wife that she is everything that i want all of it, except variety and she buys into that narrative too. she feels like a failure to some extent because “she’s not enough”. Which is complete bull*, But it’s what she was taught, it’s what I was taught and in the end it’s self destructive.”

“Cheating, open marriages, polyamory, swinging…. There is a reason all these things are much more prevalent in our society than we realize. Sadly most don’t share this part of their lives out of fear of judgement, shame etc. Humans are not biologically meant to be monogamous in my opinion (and in the opinion of lots of doctors and sciency types whose books I’ve read and podcasts I’ve listened to).”

I had very little (okay, no) feedback from people who talked about their faith and how it affected their marriage, their views on sex, etc. Interestingly,  I even had some religious leaders contact me to praise me for writing honestly about it. But no actual comments about it. 

And y’all, there are WAY more people experimenting with non-traditional marriages than I thought

“I think I could be emotionally monogamous but not sexually. It got pretty boring  until we “opened” our marriage. “Oh THAT’S where I put my sex drive!” Apparently it was in other guys’ pants…”

“What if I were to say I wanted an open marriage? (I don’t see this happening for a multitude of reasons, but . . .)  What if he [there were plenty of ‘what if she’ too] said yes? What if he said no? Would it make everyone crazy?”“I would be curious how open marriage works and how it is brought it up in the first place?”

 “There are so many shades of ‘open’. A lot, and probably the most successful I would guess, are the “don’t ask, don’t tell” that involve people who can separate the sexual act from emotional entanglement. Which is tough if you grew up in any kind of mostly Western society that went through a Chivalrous age.”

Another friend referred to the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” as “The French Way.”

“Greatly enjoyed reading about SOC [Same Old Crackers] and empathetic to a degree… While I could use the guise of several bottles of wine to share my thoughts, I’m sober and bold enough to say I do not condone open relationships mostly because that’s ultimately an escape in not addressing bigger issues, but I don’t think there’s any harm in “recreational” pursuits as long as there is great communication.  The couple indulges together with another party(ies) with agreed upon parameters and mutual consent is in place before an interaction begins. Each individual in the couple has power to veto and the other half must respect and abide by that veto. This isn’t so much an open relationship as it’s a closed relationship that may extend a invitation when mutually agreeable.”

“Husband and I don’t have an open marriage in the sense that he does his thing and I do mine, but definitely have fun with other couples from time to time (yes, that’s technically swinging, but I find that term always conjures weird things for people). We both love the new relationship energy you can get with someone new, but for us there must be full disclosure…in fact talking about it is half the fun. Some of the best married couples we have ever met are in the lifestyle (yes, that’s the preferred nomenclature).”

Lots of folks in Couples and Sex Therapy

A lot of people are already in therapy. And most of them are finding it only temporarily helpful, or finding that it just makes them understand what the underlying problems are, but now how to fix them. As one friend said,

“People change. Long running patterns just wear people out. Resentment and imbalance cannot last.”

And this, which cuts to the core for me, because I fear there is this much marital unhappiness out there:

“50% of marriages end in divorce…that means that only 50% of people are brave enough to end it. How many of the remaining 50% just don’t have the guts to end it?”

I also liked that this person pointed out the bravery in dissolving a marriage. I talked to a lot of people who struggled for years in an unhappy marriage, because they were too scared or ashamed to do anything about it. I think we need to acknowledge the bravery in making positive life changes.

What to do about it?

I wrote this in an earlier post: “The Crackers Dilemma – You can cheat. Or you can have sex with the same person. OR that person can die and you are free to have sex. OR you can die, in which case you still only had sex with that one person. FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. “

One person wrote:
“Your comments about crackers was hilarious. And scared the f* out of me – For some reason I thought I was special and that I was the only person dealing with “crackers” which meant it could be fixed. Seeing you write it made me feel like it was a foregone conclusion and inescapable.”

And another:”This sort of thing has been happening with me for a while. I’m just bored in general. My spouse? He is a loving, sexy, smart man. And my mind is wandering. I’ve never even been a little tempted in real life to actually cheat, but it’s sinking in that this is *it* forever. And the thought is daunting.”And what I kept hearing over and over: “Has Anyone Come Up With a Solution?” (I would say that this is the number one comment I got  from people. Right after, “Right there with you.”)

As one put it: “The question is what you do with it. I am interested in how to make this [midlife crisis/sexual frustration] work within the confines of my marriage.” And there were a lot of people who JUST. WANT. A. FIX. for their marriage, within their marriage. It’s like all our marriages are ebola, and I might have the vaccine.

There were quite a few suggestions from folks on how to improve sex/intimacy  with their spouse.  These include:

  • ‘Ask for it. Have you said, “Have sex with me?” Try being direct.’
  • “We make time to be together, both intimate and otherwise. I get dolled up to spend Friday nights at home with my husband after our daughter is asleep.”
  • One recommendation for nudist resorts where my husband and I can go to have “Monkey sex”
  • One couple agreed to show each other pictures of people/things they find sexy. (This one backfired and is a cautionary tale. And, yeah, for the record: Your spouse is probably attracted to either Jennifer Anniston or Zooey Deschanel, or both.
  • “You can try crazy weird fantasy shit with the person you’re with.”
  • “My wife and I are currently working through all of this with a marriage counselor and I highly recommend the same to anyone else struggling with these issues.”
  • A number of folks recommended books to me. I’ve included links to those at the end.

The Viable Options

Okay, now there were also a good number of people who are married, but exploring other options, and I heard, frankly, some kind of crazy stuff that will not be laid out in full on my blog. Instead, I will summarize. Lest you think that I am the only one giving it this much thought, you would be wrong. I received a number of lists of “viable options” – So many that it occurs to me that maybe we are all just Houdinis trying to get the key, insert it into the lock and get out of the box before it fills with water.

  1. Cheating: Pretty much universally agreed to be the hottest sex, but also creates MASSIVE MARITAL DESTRUCTION. Guilt is not fun, and it makes you sick.  Seriously not recommended y’all.
  2. Swinging: Whoa. Much more popular than i would have thought. Like, a number of people I know do it, although they apparently call it “The Lifestyle.” A few men mentioned that they are not fans due to not wanting to watch another man with their wife. However, they would be fine with it if the other man gets lost, which really just becomes a threesome, no? There are tons of websites and clubs, evidently.
  3. Polyamory -“The practice, desire, or acceptance of having more than one intimate relationship at a time with the knowledge and consent of everyone involved.” Honestly, few seemed interested in this. But there were two people who had explored it.
  4. Don’t ask don’t tell (or as one couple calls it “The French Way”.) “Basically, a tacit agreement that either or both of the spouses will have an affair at some point. The key is to be discreet, don’t embarrass the other partner and make no promises to the third person that would lead them to believe this was anything more than fun. The marriage is the bedrock and still wanted very much by both. You just recognize that there are other needs. This is not something necessarily talked about a lot (other than maybe laying down some ground rules) but just sort of accepted.” (I quote here, because I could not have explained it any better.)

 

Interestingly, a number of people who have explored these options (other than cheating) said first and foremost, start thinking about it NOW and discussing it with your partner/spouse BEFORE it all lands in your lap, because one or both of you will be tempted or have some kind of  situation arise sooner rather than later. And honestly, after reading how some of these incidents have spiraled out of control, I think they are probably right about at least thinking about what one truly believes should be a plan of action or boundary.

As one person currently exploring these options with their spouse said: “It can be a celebration of the strength and communication skills of two people dealing with powerful (!!) physical and emotional needs in a positive, constructive way.”

 

So, that’s the summary. There are no pat answers. We are all just struggling along together.

I have nothing to add, except that I was overwhelmed by the response and people who felt validated to hear that others struggle with the same or similar issues. I also was, like others, a little sad that there was no one or good answer, even though I knew deep down that there wouldn’t be. I know that it helped me to write about this, and I hope that it helped others. Thank you to all of the thoughtful, wonderful people who shared their thoughts and stories with me, and to those who listened while I shared mine.

I’d love to hear what you think after reading this, preferably in the comments, and especially if you disagree with what the bulk of the responses said. I do think the best part of writing this was feeling like I did something to open up a dialogue about the issues, both in my own personal life, and hopefully more publicly amongst those whom I know.  Don’t be so scared to share! I feel better for having shared my story. You might too.

 

Recommended Reading

Two friends said their husband reading this book “saved their marriage.

Protected: Am I a Freak of Nature? (Part I)

Saturday, November 22nd, 2014

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This is 41

Wednesday, January 30th, 2013

A week ago yesterday, I turned 41. It was a Tuesday. Why does it seem like birthdays always fall on Tuesdays? It fell on Tuesday. I got up at 6 am at my mom’s house, put on my Dad’s underwear*, and went to work. My own mother forgot to wish me happy birthday before I left. (No hard feelings. I don’t remember that stuff either.)

I worked all day. Got home at 5pm or so. Started my period. (HAPPY-BIRTHDAY-TO-YOU-HAVE-CRAMPS-AND-BLOOD-AND-WANT-TO-EAT-YOUR-YOUNG-AND-CHOCOLATE-ITS-AWESOME.) Turned back around and got back in the car to go to the Japanese steakhouse, because that’s what you do when you are middle-aged and it’s your birthday. I’m not saying that it didn’t taste good, but sometimes after a long day at work, you are tired and you just want to have your cramps and wine in peace without someone throwing shrimp at you or singeing your eyebrows.

It was actually really nice, and my husband gave me a lovely necklace and my kids were good. (Okay, one was kind of a jackass, but he at least contained it until the end.) So, we came home, and the kids went to bed, and then Toddler and i decided we should watch “This is 40.” I totally didn’t get what people liked about this movie. Other than Paul Rudd is cute. That wife’s voice makes me want to jump off an overpass after about ten minutes. It didn’t really matter, because I ended my birthday by promptly falling snoringly dead asleep in the middle of the movie. Todd woke me, i wiped off the drool, thought “Huh. So this is what 41 feels like,” and went upstairs to fall asleep in my own bed in order to be able to start all over again at 6 am the next day.

So, I woke up and kind of felt. . . a letdown. I felt old. There’s a lot more to it than suddenly turning 41 and feeling old – aging parents, bad stuff happening, marriages around me on rocky ground, a general feeling of being tired all the time, change, change, and more change, and not having DONE anything with my life – more than I can recount here. But i woke up feeling old.
(Happiest wake up feeling old song ever.)

So, I finished out my week, with this . . . oldness. . . hanging over my head. I wanted my sister to have drinks with me on Saturday. She didn’t feel like it. God, I’m so old, i can’t even get anyone to go have a drink with me on a Saturday night. So, she says, “You and Todd should go.” And todd heard her, and suddenly, he is hellbent on going to see Camper Van Beethoven that night. And i was like, okay, i guess I’ll go. And my husband, when he decides he wants something, he is damn well gonna go after it. So, he managed to procure one precious ticket, which he just about wrested from the jaws of a giant EAV possum, and we went to the Earl, thinking, well, at least you have a ticket, and if I don’t get one, you can just take a cab home. But for some reason, i got out, and I sat at the bar, and i thought it would be a good idea to hang out there while he went to the show. So, i sat there, and I only had a couple of drinks, and I talked to some guy who knew about ten people that I know, and I talked to a few folks I hadn’t seen in a long while (we used to live in the n’hood, you will remember), and then I talked to some young people from out of town on a road trip who had just been to the Clermont for the first time. One of them thought i was a Crip. This was the funniest thing i ever heard. I actually think he might have been serious. And then the show was over (never did get a ticket) and then suddenly, i was heading off to the house of a friend of my friend Terri, and then we were drinking beer in a basement and listening to records. We were all of an age, and we listened to Beastie Boys and The Pixies, and the Meat Puppets, and I had to listen to this TV on the Radio song:

No idea why i love that song so much, but it always makes me feel good to listen to it. And one of the guys there, whom I didn’t know, told me as he was leaving that he thought i was “a rocker” and maybe he was making fun of me, but I took it as a compliment.

And then there were four of us, and I’m pretty sure that Terri and Todd were completely ready to go, but me and the vinyl guy were geeking out on Bowie, and we listened to my favorite Bowie song twice in a row:

And I got home at 4 am. And then it took me like two days to recover, but it was totally worth it. I didn’t really feel old anymore. I felt tired, but not old.

So, I already had plans to go see Ty Segall with my sister on Tuesday. I have turned into a person that listens to music all day long, at home or work or in the car, but who never has the time or energy or money or babysitters to go see music live anymore. I had mentioned in passing that I loved him and wanted to see him live, and that we should go, and then she kind of twisted my arm. I don’t usually go out and see bands on school nights. It’s just too painful to stay up til 1 am, and then get up at 6 am and then . . . think . . . for a paycheck. (It’s really the getting up that’s hard – not so much the thinking.)

So, there I was, downing coffee at 8 pm on a Tuesday night, one week after my 41st birthday, in hopes of being able to stay up until 10 or 11, or whatever time these young whippersnappers go on stage these days. And then we got there, and . . . wow. It’s been a long time since i’d been to see a “current” band. I usually go see bands, and there are some young people there, but it’s mostly people in their 30s and 40s. Let’s just say that I almost cried at how good the people watching was. You know when we were 20? I am pretty sure we were stupid. We looked stupid, we acted stupid, we acted cool, we thought we were hot shit. We were not. We were stupid.

I was amazed at how they all looked so much like people i knew. People I knew in 1991. You know. When they guy I was going to see play was about five. There were people wearing shirts for bands whose albums were released before they were born. There was a guy wearing silver sequined pants. The only things different were that you couldn’t smoke inside the establishment (Terminal West, by the way, which is a GREAT venue – i thought it was nice and the sound was great, and it was a really good size. Kind of 40-Watt-sized, actually.) and that they had craft beer. In cans. Tons of craft beers in cans. And when you’re 41, it ain’t that easy to pick out what beer to order when you can’t see the cans across the bar. Also, no bottles? In my day, you drank out of bottles and chanced the glass breakage! Oh. And in my day, we just watched the damn band. I wanted to shove everyone’s iPhones down their throats, what with all the video and camera flashes. Don’t get me wrong. I love my iPhone. But it stayed in my pocket.

No, seriously. All I could think was Everyone. Was. So. Young.

Then I ran into this guy, and i was like, oh, awesome, you are old too, and he was like, “you’re never too old for rock and roll!” and i loved him. Also, he was like ten years older than me. And he was right. Because as soon as the music started, I was super happy, and it was loud, and it could have been 2013 or 1993 or 1963. I wasn’t tired any longer, and people were stage diving and it was so fun to watch, even though they just seemed a little . . . weak. I mean, it just seemed very safe compared to ye olden days. It bordered on polite. Someone through a beer at a guy in the band and Ty was like, “Please don’t throw things at us; we aren’t a punk band.” And he was so polite. Mom me took over a little, because i really don’t want my babies being thrown around over concrete floors, and these kids, the ones around me, who were born when I was like 20? They have moms too, and I might have gone to college with them. But then I decided that hey, my sister was there, and she’s a nurse, so we were all fine.

It was something like this, but a lot less people.

And then I let go and i rocked out. I did that awesome thing where you watch live music and you just get lost, and sometimes it’s so loud that it almost affects your vision for a few seconds. I had forgotten that if you hold an empty beer can to your chest while the music is loud that the drum and bass will make it vibrate in your hand. And I smiled. I couldn’t wipe that damn smile off my face if I had tried.

And after a while, it ended. And I was sad. But also happy.

And I did not feel old. I remembered what it was like to leave a show all sweaty and feel the cool air outside, and feel complete and total release. I remembered that I can sleep when I’m dead. Or at least the next night. I felt like I should go see more bands I love. I felt like maybe I should learn to play guitar. I felt inspired to write again, because I’m happier when I write.

When you grow up, your heart doesn’t die. It just gets really tired.

And then I was thinking tonight, I am old. I am tired. But I should write. Because I did fall asleep on the couch on my birthday. And I did rock out last night. And Saturday night. And I don’t get enough sleep. But I need to seek out the things that make me happy. I need to love them and nurture them, even if I feel too tired. You know. To keep my heart from dying.

And so that I will remember, when I’m 60, that this is what it is like to be me now. That this is my 41.

*Follow me on Twitter, and I make more sense.

Elementary Electoral Fraud

Monday, November 5th, 2012

So, let’s say your kids’ school has a mock presidential election.  Let’s say that you are sitting at the kitchen table and you ask your child about the election. You don’t care who your kid voted for, because you’re more interested in them learning about the election process than about platforms and issues, because elementary school is maybe a little too early for them to be wrestling with issues that adults can’t even begin to work out.  Your child tells you that they had the election and who they voted for. And then they proceed to ask you who one of the candidates is. And you tell them about the candidate and then say, “why do you ask?” And your child says, “Because they told us we couldn’t vote for him. So why was he on there?”

What would you do?

Because I am about ready to go down to the school tomorrow and raise some hell. Which of course I’m not really going to do, because my school is also my polling place, and you can’t do that at a polling place. But I am going there to vote. And while I am there, if the teachers are working, I am seeking out the teachers who were present during my child’s voting experience, and I am going to ask them about it. Because, seriously. Is this not basically electoral fraud? (Not to mention really, really poor teaching, and just very, very dishonest.) Any other ideas about how to go about this? Other than taking my level-headed husband with me?

Here’s another question: Does it matter which candidate the teacher said this about? Answer honestly. Do you care more if they said it about one candidate than if they had said it about another?

Any other thoughts?

Never Forget: What is your 9/11 Story?

Tuesday, September 11th, 2012

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I sit here every year, read a few news articles about folks who lost their lives, families whose loved ones never came home that day, and heroes who saved others, but lost their own lives. I never quite know what to say. It is a sadness that will never go away, and as someone I know said (and I apologize for not remembering who), the whole “never forget” thing is patently ridiculous. As if anyone could ever, in a million years, forget what that day was like. It was one of the most emotional days i have ever lived, full of anger, relief, disgust, horror, fear, disbelief, confusion, and a heartwrenchingly deep sadness. It is a waking nightmare that I take out like a worry stone once a year, just to remind myself that it was real, it really happened, and it happened to us all. A mass consciousness nightmare from which we will never quite awaken.

It also gives me one ray of hope . . . We have it so easy in our country, in so many ways, that we don’t know true day-to-day horror. I never want to experience something like 9/11 again, but I also never want to forget that given the right circumstances, our country might once again come together and stand undivided. It happened in those days after 9/11 and it might one day happen again.

Never forget. Here is what i wrote about my experience on 9/11 for the 911Digitalarchive, back in 2006. (OMG, i have been blogging for too long, i think!) I often revisit what 9/11 means to me and how my views about it have changed over the years, but i always come back to the story of what happened, of the event itself, and what it looked like from my little corner of the word. I always come back, like a stone that I worry in my palm and fingers, always studying it, but never quite figuring it out.

What is your 9/11 story?

Emotions and Inequities

Wednesday, May 23rd, 2012

I expected to get choked up at Honor’s Day. But not for this reason.

The elementary school holds Honors Day every semester, and the Principal gives out awards to all the kids (1st through 5th – no K.) They get awards like Citizenship Award, Academic Award, and Principal’s Honor Award. They get awards for finishing certain programs, like the reading program Accelerated Reader, Literary Guild (which introduces new genres to kids that they might not have read before,) and Math Facts in a Flash, which is a computer program that drills kids in math concepts. Each level gets progressively more advanced, until you reach level 50.

Remember a few weeks ago when I posted on Facebook that “I absolutely hate Lit Guild with every fiber of my being?” Basically, I had decided that rather than argue with my child about whether or not he was going to finish it (it’s optional), I would leave it up to him. If he finished, he would get the trophy, and if not, well, he would learn what it was like to watch all of his friends get the trophy, knowing that he didn’t work hard enough to get it. I decided that this was a good life lesson for him, and that me wanting him to get the trophy was really more about me, and my idea of how I wanted to present myself as a parent. (I guess that would be the kind of parent whose whose kids get Lit Guild trophies?) I decided that I was okay with it. My reasoning was that he was already reading well past the level of the lit guild books, that he enjoyed reading, and that he was reading what he wanted to read. He was reading for pleasure. Isn’t that what I always wanted for him anyway? Mission achieved; I didn’t need him to get a trophy to prove to me that I had done my job. He had learned the joy of reading, which is truly the gift that never stops giving. No one can ever take that away from him.

I sat a few rows back in the cafeteria today, and I watched him as his friends went up to receive their lit guild trophies. I watched his back, looking for some sign that he was sad or embarrassed that he didn’t get the trophy. I told myself that if he was upset, he would be learning a lesson. Instead, i saw my son cheer for his friends, clap at the appropriate time, and give a friend a high five as she went up to get her award. I was proud of his response.

The teachers proceeded to give the other awards to their classes. Each teacher stood at the podium, called out the student’s name, then called out the awards being given to that child. The child walks past the podium, receives the certificate(s), and shakes the principal’s hand. The audience claps for each child. It’s a pretty darn long process.

The first class completed their awards, and my son’s teacher stood at the podium, and began to speak about his class. He began by saying that it was one of the brightest classes he has ever taught. He spoke of their intelligence, their readiness to learn, the fact that they are all above grade-level when they came in the door, and that he never even taught from the curriculum or the book, because they all already knew the stuff. He said they challenged him, and kept him on his toes, and he acknowledged that much of that was due to the parental involvement in the class. He said that his class rarely came in and talked about what they watched on T.V. last night, but rather about the books they were reading and the things that they did outside.

I admit it – I felt proud and thankful that someone said aloud, in their own way, “you are doing a good job as parents.” Parents don’t get that kind of affirmation very often. It was a good moment. In the back of my mind, I thought, “Wow, I hope this doesn’t make the other parents in other classes feel bad.”

Pride goeth before a fall, or so they say.

The teacher started giving out awards. He read the names, he listed their awards, the kids walked across, got their awards, and shook the Principal’s hand. The kids smiled, and the parents clapped and their cameras flashed. But a couple of times, this teacher said a child’s name, and then he commented a bit more about that particular child. Things along the lines of (and I am paraphrasing, because i don’t have a tape recorder for a memory):

“This child reads all the time. He does nothing but read.”
“This child is doing 6th grade math problems. His success inspired the whole class to finish levels of the math program.”
“This kid is the most motivated kid I’ve ever seen. He reads books that look like ship anchors.”

There were four or five of them who were personally recognized for their exceptional characteristics. They were all boys. They are all good kids, with lovely parents, most of whom I consider friends, or at least really good acquaintances.

Not one of them was my son.

And I was sad, hurt, jealous, and angry. I was worried for my son and how this would make him feel. I clenched my fists, and I fought back tears. I clapped politely, even as the thoughts I was thinking were not at all polite. I am not proud of these reactions, but I am a very honest person, and I did experience them, and even if they were illogical, they were authentically and sincerely felt. I had a hard time sitting through the rest of the ceremony, as my son’s class finished and we moved on to the other three classes.

After the ceremony, I smiled at my child when he smiled at me. He evidently didn’t notice any discrepancies. I took his photo with the Principal and Assistant Principal. My son asked specifically to have his picture made with his teacher, whom he had told me just this morning, he was “going to miss.” And I must add here that his teacher was great – he inspired the kids and challenged them, and didn’t force them to go over and over things they had already learned. I knew in my head, when he stood up and gushed about the class, and the parents, and those particular kids, he was not doing it maliciously – He was doing it because he enjoyed teaching a class that was so ready to learn, and so challenging to him as a teacher. I took the photo of the two of them, and thanked the teacher, and I meant it when I said thank you. My kid learned from him, and he was inspired and enjoyed school this year, because he and his class were challenged.

I left school, though, and I felt very out of sorts, emotionally raw, almost irrationally angry, and ashamed for feeling the childish emotions I was feeling. I don’t feel shame very often. And I haven’t exactly pinpointed the root of my shame. Perhaps it was jealousy – something i almost NEVER feel. Perhaps it was shame that i worried what others might think of my parenting if my kid was not singled out as a superstar in his class. Perhaps it was doubt about my “let him experience failure” tactic when it came to these extra programs. Perhaps it was shame at the thought that maybe I was disappointed in my child for not living up to the standard set by this class? Because i am proud of my kid, so very proud, and I love my kids more than anything on earth. I would take a bullet for either of them without blinking an eye. I don’t think it is disappointment in my child. I think it might be disappointment in myself – did I let my child down by not being a Tiger Mom?

I spoke to a couple of parents as I left, and I think the teacher’s gushing did not go unnoticed, although others didn’t seem as affected by it as I did. My neighbor, who has two 2nd graders, neither of whom are in my son’s class, seemed to shrug it off, as if it were something to which she had long ago become accustomed. She pointed out that my child’s classroom is a bit of an anomaly. I agreed, and headed for my car, thinking of what she said as I walked and I tried to make sense of my flustered feelings.

And i realized, this must be what it feels like for many parents all the time. I remembered thinking as the teacher crowed about his class, “I wonder how this makes the other kids’ parents feel?” I am not sure how I managed to not ever feel it before, but it felt awful.

And this is where it all gets pretty complicated. . . .

Sidebar: I should take a moment (Lie! Many, many words to come on this!) to explain a bit about my son’s class makeup, and how it compares with the four other 2nd grade classes at our school. My son is in a magnet class. Specifically, he is in a Science and Foreign Language Magnet. This is a DeKalb County program at our school. It is the only one of its kind in the county. There are other magnet programs, but they are run differently, or have a different focus. Some are for “high achievers,” some are theme schools, like DeKalb School of the Arts. Slots in these classes and schools are all given out by lottery. Some have minimum requirements. For example, to remain in the magnet at my son’s school, one must maintain a B average. To qualify to put your name in the lottery drawing for Kittredge (the “high achiever” magnet) you must meet the following requirements:

>75th percentile Total Reading, ITBS
>75th percentile Total Math, ITBS
>85th percentile Complete Composite, ITBS
>3.0 GPA from the fall semester of the application year
Current resident of DeKalb County

You get the idea. Basically, it’s open to anyone who can meet these requirements, and then a precious few are chosen. They get, from my understanding, a more challenging curriculum, and they are no longer going to school with those children who could not meet the above requirements.

I digress, but my point is that there are only so many magnet and theme school spots in DeKalb County, and the application process, lottery drawing, and transportation involved are not for the faint of heart. The children that attend these programs are the product of parents who went above and beyond to get them there. They are also the product of luck. Sheer, dumb luck. The drawing of a number, out of a hopper. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, go watch Waiting for Superman and then come back to finish reading.)

Now, my child would be attending this excellent elementary school anyway, because we live in the district. Even if there were no magnet at our school, he would attend the same school. The magnet program at our school is one magnet class, per grade (K-5th), made up of 50% students from the “Home” pool (our elementary district) and 50% “At Large” students (Dekalb county students who live in other elementary districts). There was much discussion among parents when my son was in pre-k (another program paid for by DeKalb) about whether or not to put our kids in the lottery drawing for a magnet spot in Kindergarten. Our kids were already in district, so we were not like the “at large” parents who were trying to escape failing schools by getting their kid in a magnet (any magnet!) at another, more successful, elementary school. Our kids would attend the school either way.

The main draw of the magnet class was that they would receive daily foreign language instruction in French. (Yes, I could write a whole other post about the choice to continue French instruction when Spanish or Chinese might be so much more beneficial.) Many parents were confused about the “science” portion of the magnet program – it simply means that we have a Science lab. Our Science curriculum is the same as that offered by all of Dekalb county.

According to DeKalb County Schools’ website: “The Evansdale Magnet Program is available to students in kindergarten through fifth grade who have an interest or aptitude in mathematics, science, or French.” The only difference in magnet classes is that they receive that extra hour of french language instruction a day, and the fact that the school has a dedicated Science lab. It is my understanding that no other DeKalb County elementary schools have a lab. Oh, and then there’s this little problem: This program is only available to those students lucky enough to win a spot through a lottery drawing.

Other discussions of whether or not we should put our kids in the magnet lottery revolved around “diversity.” To many, the fact that half the kids were from other parts of the county would make the class more diverse and exposing one’s children to more diversity is a “pro.” Unless it isn’t – Some parents, sadly, think of this as a “con.” This is all the more ludicrous, because those parents of “at large” children had to go to great lengths to apply and get their kids into the program, and then have a kid attending school in another area of the county. As I mentioned before, these parents are not passive bystanders in their children’s education – these parents went above and beyond to get their children into the program in the first place, and then continue to support their children in a school that might be many miles from home. That is a large commitment to a child’s education. These are good, caring parents with a strong interest in getting the best education for their child.

The joke is on the anti-diversity parents. And the parents whose kids just weren’t lucky enough to get a spot in the magnet program. Last year, during redistricting, our little school took in a lot more students. Our neighborhood demographics changed. Some of those new kids are on free-and-reduced lunch (a typical indicator of lower achievement), live in apartments, and have parents who speak little English. Class sizes swelled at our school this fall, and classes had to be added in some grades. Except Magnet classes – their class makeup is dictated by the lottery. When these new students came in, they were put in the regular classes, not the magnet classes. So, for instance, on the first day of Kindergarten my daughter, who is in a regular class (she was not drawn for a magnet spot) did not even have a teacher yet – she was in an “overflow” class with a substitute; The county had not even hired a teacher for them yet. She did finally get a teacher a few days later. This phenomenon is not a problem at the county level, or with the principal, etc, but simply a side effect of having kids show up on the first day of school who must be served, but for whom the school had no knowledge beforehand.) They added an extra class. Where did all the new students (the group which included the apartment kids, the ESOL kids, the free-and-reduced lunch? They went into the regular classes. The Kindergarten Magnet didn’t have to absorb any of them. The K magnet class kept it’s static student teacher ratio. This happened for other grades. For those grades whose class sizes went above the county mandate, new classes were created. (Again, I could write a whole post about the classes that were inherited by the last teachers to come on board. Let’s just say that there were obvious differences between those classes, and the earlier-formed regular classes, and again, more obvious differences between the regular classes and the still-untouched Magnet classes.) And the magnet classes, through it all, remained untouchable.

Remember? The Magnet classes are set. They have the most involved parents. The regular classes have the new students. And that last class put together to catch the overflow? It consists of predominately African American and Hispanic kids, lots of boys, and a few token white kids whose parents don’t happen to be active in the PTA or the school foundation. I wish I were kidding. I keep trying to tell myself that if i could look carefully, this is not the case – that it’s simply an error of perception, that i am just mistaken, and things really are done fairly. I have to admit that I have not viewed this phenomenon in grades other than my own kids’ grades (2nd and K) and that it may be so glaring because of that late-added class. I don’t know if it even exists in other grades, but I have not looked.

Disclaimer: I have not sat down with photographs and class lists containing the demographics. This really may just be my perception. Even if it isn’t, I’m not pointing fingers. I don’t know who, if anyone in particular, is responsible. Also, I am not saying there are not involved parents in the regular classes. There are, and there are a lot of them. But it is not so across-the-board as in the magnet classes. Oftentimes, there are a few involved parents pulling the weight for the whole class.

I mentioned that this is where it all gets pretty complicated. Because the core of my emotion in the moment of that presentation was a very personal reaction. It was about me, my perceived inadequacies as a parent, my disappointment that my kid is not always going to be the best or the smartest, and even if he is, he might not be recognized for it. It was about feeling that nagging feeling, deep down, that maybe I didn’t do my all for my kid, that maybe I failed him.

And while it’s a normal emotion, it’s absurd. I am a highly involved parent. We send our kid to school ready to learn. I co-chair a PTA committee, sit on the board of the school foundation, and always step up to volunteer whenever I can. And yet, I still felt inadequate this morning. Obviously, i need to get over myself. I should be thankful that i have such wonderful, smart, thriving, healthy children.

And the nagging takeaway for me is that this feeling of inadequacy speaks to a much bigger problem. A problem that has been jostling around in my head for a couple of years ago, and which has moved back to the forefront for me with the discussion of budget cuts and tax increases to cover the Dekalb County schools system budget shortfall. My child is benefiting from his lucky inclusion in this very special class. I felt inadequate because I didn’t schlep my kid around to find specific books and take tests and Tiger Mom him; What about the parents who feel like they have failed their kids by not finding them the same opportunities that my child has just by being in the same room every day with these other privileged kids. What would happen if the boys recognized today were spread out into four or five different classrooms, inspiring all of those classrooms to strive to higher scores in math? I’m not saying we should do away with things like Guided Math, and differentiated instruction or Discovery. I think we should have kids on similar levels in the same reading groups.

In the end, I think all the kids in my son’s class (and school for that matter) are going to be successful. They are going to do great in life. But how is it fair that we spend so much money on these special classes that give some kids the opportunity for a leg up, while others are denied that opportunity?

I did not intend this post to upset my fellow parents. I love your kids and was proud of their recognition. I love my kids’ teachers and the principal at our school. I love my own kid and I think he is exceptional in his own way, whether or not his teacher recognizes him personally for it. There were hundreds of parents in that cafeteria today that feel the same way about their own children. I am guessing there are hundreds of thousands of parents in DeKalb county that feel the same way about their children.

I guess I just felt like this was the kick i needed to speak up and write about something I’ve seen as an inequity for a long time. This program has the best of intentions, and some really good consequences for those involved, and even some for those not in the program. But in the end, it is patently unfair. In the end, maybe my shame stems from the fact that until now I haven’t spoken up about it.

I’m guessing that if you read this far, you are a parent. You might be a parent of one of these students, or you might be a parent at my kids’ school. You might think that i should keep my mouth shut, since the school benefits from this program. I’m sorry, I can’t. If i was on the board, i could not in good conscience keep these special programs open. Before we raise class sizes, we should cut programs like this one. Before we raise taxes, we should cut programs like this one. And before we do anything, the central office should be made a skeleton crew.

On my end, I’ll be getting some therapy for my own parenting issues. Or at least trying to see the forest for the trees. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Parenting is really, really hard.

My Memories as Fairy Tale, or Once Upon A Time I May Have Touched Curt Cobain

Saturday, April 21st, 2012

I was laid out on the couch today, with strep throat. Todd took the kids to R’s baseball game, and I was flipping through Netflix, trying to find something interesting. The good thing about being sick is that I can watch tv that I wouldn’t normally watch. Guilt free. Because i’m sick. I can watch four episodes of British teen dramas. (Skins. I can’t quit you.) Then, I can totally decide to switch over and watch music documentaries, which I used to watch all the time, but never seem to find time for these days. Because of the aforementioned guilt.

And yeah, the music is early 90s. Got all nostalgic after seeing facebook photos posted by college pal Jasonaut. Black and white photos, fresh faces, wrinkled, lived-in clothes that didn’t really fit, Athens porches. Beautiful photos that make me think of the past with wistfulness, even as I realize that photos don’t capture heartbreak, heat, humidity, night breezes, the smell of smoke, or the feel of old couches, or what it feels like to have so. much. time. to. think. About everything. To death.

So, there i was, laid out on the couch, watching a documentary about Nevermind, and the kids walk in from post-game pizza at Felini’s and Tiller is looking all cute, with a pony tail on her head, wearing mary janes, polka-dot leggings, a madras plaid patchwork skirt, and a shirt that can only be described as “riotous” (it had a zebra print, at least five colors, including hot pink, and sequins) – she is Belinda Carlisle on acid. And she walks in, puts her hand on hip, and says definitively, “This is my favorite song.”

It’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” And i though to myself, “novice.”

And then I said, “Really? I didn’t know you liked this song.”

And she said, “Yes,” her hands out to me, palms up, making a point, and cocked her head to the right, nodding. “We listened to the Nirvana in the car with Daddy.” Weird. Synchronicity. Also, this is good, because it means he might have been actually listening to me when I was saying that it was sad the kids don’t hear full albums more often.

“Oh. Okay, well, would you like to watch a documentary about the album?” And I totally thought they would say no, while giving me that “fuck no, i want to play. Why would I want to watch this boring shit?” look, but instead, they both said, “Sure!” in unison, and curled up on the chairs, and there wasn’t even a fight about who would sit where.

And then they started asking questions:

Tiller: “Who’s that? Is he the dead one?”
Me: “Uh, did daddy tell you he died?
Tiller: “Yeah. How did he die?”
Rollie: “He got old, Tiller.”
Me: “Well, actually, no, it’s sad. He killed himself. Have you heard of that?”
In unison: “No.”
Oh. shit.
Me: “Well, he did. It was v. sad. Always remember that no matter how bad it might get, Mama and daddy are here, and you can always talk to us, and it’s never bad enough to kill yourself. It is a selfish, terrible, heartbreaking, sad thing.”
Rollie: “How did he do it?”
Me: “Uh, i don’t remember.” Total lie.
Tiller: “Why?” Uh, shit. Too early to discuss drugs and depression.
Me: “Sometimes people are in pain, physically, or they are so sad that it hurts, and they don’t know what else to do.” SHIT.
Rollie: “Was it a gun?” Shit.
Me: “I don’t know baby. Let’s watch. maybe they will tell us what happened.”

And then, my stomach kind of clenched, because they had Butch Vig talking about recording the song “Something in the Way,” which is just depressing-as-hell, a haunting song, and i was thinking, why am i letting them watch this? Crap!

Rollie: “This one is not so loud.” He says this, not with distaste, but with thoughtfulness.

Butch Vig talks about how he recorded it with Kurt Cobain laying on a couch in the room with the soundboard, and he was just lying on the couch, playing the guitar, and singing, and it was so quiet, and so moving. I was waiting for the kids to get bored and start fidgeting, but they are both staring at Butch Vig, talking about doubling up vocal tracks, like Lennon did, and i see R. jerk his head towards me, like, “Lennon! I know him!” but he turns back to the tv. And they just . . . listen.

Rollie whispers, eyes not leaving the screen: “I like that song.”
Tiller: “Me too.”

And then they start talking about Smells Like Teen Spirit and how they made the video, which, well, you know. You’ve seen it. And Tiller says, in a Barbara Walters-gonna-get-you-to-fess-up-voice: “Mom, were you there?” And I laugh and say no.

And then the documentary starts talking about Nirvana playing live. They show all sorts of footage that makes me smile: Cobain wearing a white coat, beating his head into his amp, and Novoselic throwing his bass in the air, and Cobain leaping into the drum set. I am smiling and I look over at my kids, and they are looking at me, like, “Why are you smiling? Aren’t they gonna get in trouble? Isn’t that bad?”

Tiller: “Why are they making that mess?
Me, smiling a HUGE, guilty grin: “For fun. For entertainment.”
R: “Are those people on stage dancing in the band?
I laugh. “No,” more laughter, “they are people in the crowd stage diving.”
R: “What’s that?”
Me, with a lot more laughter. “It’s stupid. People got so excited and they would jump on stage and dance with bands, and then they would jump into the crowd, and the crowd would catch them, usually, and then they might carry them around. And that’s “crowd surfing.”

Complete silence in the room, as they both sit watching this footage of . . . what i remember going to see bands like that was like. And i realized that they are watching people at a Nirvana show, and it must seem like a fairy tale to them, like my dad telling me he met the Rolling Stones, or if my mom up and told me she was at Woodstock.

Tiller: “Were you there, mom?”
Me, more laughter. Laugh out loud laughter. A happy laughter. “Not there, baby. But i saw them twice. One time in a really big place, like the Georgia Dome, but it was called the Omni. But the first time I saw them, i was in Athens and I saw them in a little small place, smaller than the place where we took you to see They Might Be Giants.” The crowd on TV is pushing and shoving.
Tiller: “Was Daddy there?
Me: “No, baby, i didn’t know Daddy yet. I was there with my roommate and another friend.”
Rollie: “Did you get pushed down?”
Me: “No!”
Rollie: “Did you get pushed?”
Me: “yes.”
Tiller: “Were you scared?”
Me: “No. It was fun.”
Rollie: “Did you get up on stage and jump off?”
Me: “Oh, no, baby. Not my style. Remember I don’t like heights or being the center of attention.”
Rollie: “Did anyone jump off?”
Me: “Yes, Curt Cobain did! But not with his guitar like that.” On the TV, Curt is jumping off a huge stage, with his guitar, at some festival into a sea of people. “And there were not that many people there.”
Tiller: “did you catch him?”
Me: “Yes, everyone caught him. He jumped off, and people caught him, and he grabbed a hold of this movie screen, you know the kind they set up for movies at school? That pull out of the ceiling? And he grabbed hold of it, and he pulled it down, while the crowd was holding him, and it came right out of the ceiling and he wrapped himself up in the screen while the people held him up.”
Tiller, eyes as big as saucers: “Did you touch him?”
Me: “Uh, yeah, i guess so.”

And they both just stared at me.

And I gotta admit . . . I felt like a complete and total bad ass. I really did have a life. Back in the day. And what’s more? I’m pretty sure they thought i was a badass. That will probably never happen again. At least until they have children of their own. And then they will know that keeping a kid alive for 8 years is pretty badass in and of itself.

p.s. Mom? Dad? Y’all aren’t perfect, but I do think you’re pretty badass.

post-post script: Interestingly, i found this site, because I was curious if anyone else had written about the show online. I would have keeled over in happiness to find a photo of that night. Not even a complete setlist.

10/05/91 – 40 Watt Club, Athens, GA
Set (incomplete)
Smells Like Teen Spirit • Breed • Endless, Nameless
Notes
The band was drunk and out of tune, but the show was apparently incredible, according to attendees.
During “Endless, Nameless,” Kurt vaulted up to the movie projection screen and ripped it out of the ceiling, inciting the crowd to get onstage with the band and trash everything. Meanwhile, Dave kicked his drums over, then piled them up in no particular order and played them with microphones. After the noise and destruction, the band piled their instruments onto the drums, wished the crowd a good night, and left the stage, according to an attendee.
Other Performers
Das Damen

So, yeah. . . i guess i didn’t totally dream it.

Mean Girls in Full Effect

Tuesday, February 28th, 2012

So, the mean girls are evidently in full effect in kindergarten these days. I wouldn’t believe it, if I hadn’t seen with my own eyes the drastic change in my own girl. She pouts. She whines. She tosses out ultimatums. She’s all, “I won’t be your friend unless/if” and “so and so says she doesn’t want to be my friend any more. Now she and so and so are BFFS.

I say, “What is a BFF?” She rolls her eyes at me.

Where did my sweet little girl go? She sure as hell didn’t learn this bullshit from me. This shit is why I always had more male friends than girl friends. (Once I was old enough to realize that girls generally suck and are more trouble than they’re worth). I’m not surprised that it’s happening. Just surprised that it’s happening so early. I thought for sure that I would have until fourth or fifth grade, at least, until i dealt with Queen Bees, Heathers, and Mean Girls.

So, where is it coming from? Have little girls always been this way, this early? Is it too much TV, with the bratty, self-centered, smart-mouthed girls? Is it my generation’s fault? As a girl, if you sassed your Mama, that was frowned upon. Were we completely misguided, misappropriating the term, reading our Sassy Magazines, and reveling in our own sassy attitudes? Have our girls just learned from us? What happened to true friendship, or at least the old adage, “Treat others as you would like to be treated?” I fear we have lost it in a whirlwind (an ill girlwind?) of iCarly and Miley and Serena. This is not what i had in mind when I reveled in the awesome women in music of my youth: Joan Jett, Madonna, Sinead O’Connor, Chrissie Hinde, Debby Harry, Terry Nunn, and Johnette Napolitano. What the fuck happened?

So, I’ve been a bit bewildered, dealing with the tears and the tantrums, the stomping and the mirror-smashing door slamming. To say that I am in fear of the age of 13 is putting it lightly. But she’s only six. And worse than the tears over her own hurt feelings? The knowledge that she is picking up the same tactics and using them on others, in some sort of Lord of the Flies scenario. She is not treating others as she wants to be treated, but as they are treating her. And so it is that we have reached the advent of The Mean Girl Note.

Be frightened. Be very, very frightened.

Or if you are me, be very disgusted, a little sickened, and a whole lot disappointed.

We had friends over the other night. They have a girl about T’s age. The kids all play well together and almost never fight. But they fought this evening. Something about not all wanting to play the same game, which was some kind of running club game. (I am of course in total support of this game, as any game that involves them wearing their little asses out is always my first choice. “Here, baby. Tie this rope, the one attached to the cement block, around your waist. Good. Now run back and forth in the back yard, dragging the cement block behind you. Yes, that’s right. Now do it as many times as you can. Y’all have fun!”)

So, the girls disagreed and one of them quit and played with R (the only boy), having become fed up with the arguing. (Girl after my own heart.) After they left, and our kids were in bed, Todd and I came across the mean girl note. It read something along the lines of, “I will be your friend, if you will play the game with me. If not, you are not my friend.”

GRRRRRRRR. This is it. This is the fucking bullshit that girls do that made me want to BLOW UP MY FUCKING MIDDLE SCHOOL. That’s a bit of a lie. I didn’t always daydream about blowing up the middle school. I actually would have been more happy if there was some kind of disfiguring virus that attacked all the mean, superficial girls. They would contract the disease (spread by lip gloss and notes, of course), suffer a deathly illness for weeks, and then come back to school with hair fallen out, a few pounds piled on, complete pizza face acne, and wearing clothes from [GASP] Goodwill. You know who else would get hit? The social climbing brown nosing types. You know the ones: Not really ugly, but not exactly pretty either. Kind of plain, but with a layer of too much makeup that said, I’m trying too hard. They usually still had some baby fat. They did just what the popular girls wanted them to do, and followed them around like god damn puppets. They also threw their also-not-so-popular brethren under the bus in an attempt to impress the popular girls. In my eyes, they were always the absolute sorriest pieces of shit of them all. Because they wanted to be popular so. very. badly.

Oh, wait. This post isn’t about me? My bad.

So, we found the note. The next morning, Todd talked to Tills about it, and about all the ways in which it was wrong to write it, and they decided together that the next day, she would write a letter apologizing to her friend. I would help her write it after school. It was bedtime when Todd came home the next night. He asked if Tiller had written her letter. I did the deer in headlights – Because I am such a stellar parent, I had completely forgotten about it, what with all the Bonbons I was eating, and Facebook and my soap operas. I promised that I would help her with it the next day, and told him the kids were in bed, but not asleep, and they wanted him to come and tuck them in.

He went upstairs. A few minutes, he came back down, with a funny look on his face, holding a piece of paper. This piece of paper:

Alwase

She wrote it some time after school, of her own accord. It is so sweet I could cry. Yeah, she misspelled some stuff, but SHE PUT A PAIR OF SUNGLASSES ON THE SUN, for heaven’s sake. How can there be a mean girl in a child who thinks the sun wears shades?

I would be happier if it said “I’m sorry for hurting your feelings.” I would prefer it dropped the “best friends” language all together, as the premise of Best Friends seems exclusionary by its very nature. But the essence of it, of two girls, holding hands so sweetly together, so full of love and light that the very sun is blinded by it. . . I’ll take it.

Hell, I’ll cling to it. Allwase.

What is the Point?

Tuesday, February 21st, 2012

I have been a little down lately. Might be the weather, or hormones (bitches!). I really wanted to go to the lake this weekend and the weather was awful, so we ditched the idea and stayed home. The kids were kind of driving me crazier, and everything and everyone were kind of getting on my nerves, for simply existing. I felt, as my sis and I say, that i was so sick of everything that i was getting on my own nerves.

It didn’t help that i had three days of upset stomach, and I didn’t run all week. The more I put off the long run, the more stressed out I became, the more guilt I felt, and the more worthless I felt; it becomes a vicious cycle. If I exercise consistently, I get the endorphins, which are simply and purely an antidepressant for me, and I don’t drown the kids in the bathtub. If I get sick, or life gets in the way and I can’t exercise, I feel down. I totally have withdrawal, as if from a drug, and the cycle continues. I feel down and depressed and know that if I exercise, I will feel better, but I am too depressed to get off the couch and do it.

Even after my stomach was better, i was putting off the run, feeling depressed, and then cranky and depressed because i wasn’t running. It’s very hard to explain to you if you don’t fight depression, or if you don’t ever exercise. (And yes, I realize that exercise doesn’t cure all depression – I am lucky in that my depression is not completely debilitating. I get blue, but I function. I know some folks are not that lucky.)

Oh, the negative self-talk came out in force. I came up with a million reasons not to go run:

  • It’s too cold.
  • I don’t have time to finish.
  • We will never get the house cleaned before our friends come over for dinner.
  • I can’t finish the laundry if I am not at home.
  • I feel guilty leaving Todd with the kids.
  • Ad nauseum.
  • Luckily, my husband has been told numerous times to remind me how much better I feel when I work out and he finally told me yesterday, as I revealed a litany of reasons i shouldn’t, to “GO. Just GO.

    And so I went. I should have just walked out the door, and ran at home, but i got it into my head that it was cold outside, and i went to the gym instead. Six miles on the dreadmill.

    Yeah, that’ll cheer anyone up. Not.

    A little background – My friend Megan convinced me (bugged and badgered me?) to run a half-marathon with her, even though we only had 8 weeks to train and I had not been running a lot when we started. I told her that I would train with her until I injured myself, which is apt to be any time now, since we are adding a mile to our long runs every week, which is obviously too much, too fast. So, I told her we would finish, but i was not going to be fast. I figure if I am adding that much mileage, I am not going to make it worse by being fast. This attitude may be seen as cautiousness, fear, fat runner negative self-talk, or self-preservation. It is most likely a little bit of each.

    So, there I am, on the treadmill, running my tortuously slow miles. The frustrating part about being a fat, slow runner is that you are, as mentioned before, slow. So, 6 miles? That can take a big chunk of time. And on a treadmill? Dear God, the boredom. The sheer will and number of Girl Talk albums required to stay on the machine and not get right off and go eat a slice of pizza and drink a beer are staggering.

    So, there I am, listening to my Girl Talk, but having alternating thoughts of reasons I should just stop, and thinking about all the negative things I sometimes think about –

    What is the point? I might get hit by a bus or murdered, wouldn’t I rather that happen with a full stomach, and well-rested, rather than exhausted and sweaty? I will never lose all this weight. How could i? It took years to put on. It’s not just pregnancy weight. It’s fat. Why do you drink so much beer? Oh, fun? Drinking beer is fun, but what is fun about being fat? Nothing. Remember when you thought you were fat in college? That’s a fucking laugh now, isn’t it? You couldn’t fit a pinky in those jeans today. Yeah, even your knuckles are fat. Or maybe it’s not fat. Maybe it’s the beginning of psoriatic arthritis or RA. Yeah, you are at a genetic risk for that. So really, what is the fucking point in all this exercise and eating healthy? You might be in debilitating pain and unable to run in ten years anyway. We could just get off the machine now. You have been on it for 30 minutes anyway. Someone else probably needs a turn. No one would think anything of it if you hit stop and went home.

    And so on. For about the first 2 miles of my run. And then i attempted to drag myself out of the depths of the negative self-talk by looking around at people in the gym, hoping their hot bodies would inspire me to finish another mile.

    And that’s when I saw him. The cute young guy in a wheelchair. He was with a friend, who was wearing camo pants, and not in a wheelchair. Wheelchair guy was talking to the friend as the friend lifted weights. They were doing upper body. I will not lie – Full disclosure: These men had very nice arms. I looked. I might have bordered on ogling. Do not judge me, because I know that when you are on the dreadmill, you also look around and admire the hard bodies at the gym. If you say you don’t, you are a liar.

    So, I am watching, and camo pants guy stands up, and then wheelchair guy lifts himself up out of his chair using only his upper body, and lifts himself onto the machine. He pauses, and I realize, shit, that would be a workout for me before I ever even started the weightlifting. He takes a chain from around his neck and puts it in his pocket. Dog tags.

    Dog tags.

    And I realize, with not a small amount of shame, that he’s not just a guy in a wheelchair. He’s probably a vet. He probably lost the use of his legs preserving my right to sit and be depressed on my goddamn couch.

    I had slowed to a walk at that point, had given into the negative self-talk, and convinced myself that I needed to walk, that I wasn’t able to finish that mile without a breather. And my heart swelled at the thought of this young man, pulling himself around by sheer willpower, who has every reason to be angry and bitter, and yet, he is at the gym on a Monday, on the holiday. And he is smiling and laughing.

    And here I am, thinking of all the things that I can’t do, all the reasons I can’t do them, all the obstacles I have preventing me from doing them.

    Obstacles.

    What do I know about obstacles?

    Yes, the unexamined life isn’t worth living and all that jazz. But why am I worrying myself sick over questions like “What is the point?”

    This cute boy in the wheelchair, with the killer arms. . . he isn’t worried about what he can’t do. He’s doing what he can. And he’s doing it with a fucking smile on his face.

    And I knew then, that I would finish those six miles and that every other mile I ever run, I will probably remember this young man, and what he lost, and what his loss gave to me. It gave me, among a million other things, the freedom to relish in 6 miles on the treadmill, sucking air, and knees aching. For no other reason than that, today, i can do it.

    What is the point?

    The point is not what I can’t do. The point is what I can do.

    Inoperable Ostrichism

    Thursday, December 8th, 2011

    Okay, not really. But i have not really been able to write ever since losing the Q-man and my cousin this past summer. (Apologies to those who are offended for lumping them together, but in my heart, they are both gaping holes. Do not judge my pain.)

    I am not usually one to avoid difficult subjects, or as my sister and I call it, “ostrich” (the action of sticking one’s head in the sand), but I keep finding reasons not to write about the things that have been on my mind this year. I will be glad to see this year go – it has been painful in so many ways, and it seems that every time I turn around, i see someone near me affected negatively by some circumstance or accident, or unforeseen crappy event. I think maybe part of that is that the events of this year for my family were so negative that I have on my dark lenses when I look at anything going on around me. I hate that.

    I am usually one to try and not get bogged down in negativity. I come from a family of . . shall we say, ‘realists.” We are not a positive people. We save for a rainy day. We look at things with a critical eye. But i am aware of it, and I try, day in and day out, to be thankful for the things that i have and that are going well. But it is and always will be a struggle for me to do that. I have to work at it.

    If you think i am irreverent or i make too many jokes when things go awry, you are seeing me fight my basest instinct to get bogged down in the shit.

    Maybe that is why i haven’t written about losing my best friend this year. Yes, he’s a dog, and yes, I loved him so very much, and when I think of him, all i can think of is . . I am not ready to write about it yet. I am hopeful that I will get there. Or about what it means to live with the thought that someone you love was brutally murdered, and most likely knew what was happening the whole time.

    I will never write about that.

    I will continue to push that one down. It seems to get almost more unreal, yet never goes away. I think of it almost every day, in that quiet time when the kids are in bed and i am doing dishes. Every night.

    I don’t write about these things because I don’t want to get lost in them. I want to look on the positive side. I want to be positive. Sometimes? There isn’t a positive side. So i ostrich.

    And so I don’t write, because i have almost always sat down at Dogwood Girl in the mornings to write about the things that were foremost in my head. It was my therapy. I wrote them down, just as if I had cut my skull down the hairline, pried it apart, and pulled out the malignancy in my brain. But the issues weren’t so heavy before. These thoughts and images are inoperable.

    I will get to the dog. I will write about him. The other? It is terminal. Not in the sense that I will die from it, but in the sense that I will die with it. [wipes tear from cheek.]

    p.s. Wow. I started to write about what I’ve been up to since Halloween. And this came out. I guess the writing is good therapy after all. If you are still reading my blog, thank you. I know I haven’t been funny, or sentimental, or nostalgic – all the things that people say they like most about reading my blog. I want to be her, Dogwood Girl, again. She is still here. I promise.