Today's post is inspired by my friend and fellow blogger Allie Cat.
The other day on her IRL Facebook page, she mentioned in passing that she was given her wisdom teeth when she had them removed. You know, as a souvenir.
Take some home for your friends.
Sidebar: I am also in possession of my wisdom teeth. They're in the back of my mouth. My body also contains my tonsils, appendix, and other original equipment. I didn't come into this world with much, but I plan on leaving with all of it intact.
Anyhoo, Allie Cat's post got me thinking about teeth. Specifically, Precocious Daughter's teeth. More specifically, the fact that I have a box of her baby teeth. And it got me wondering: Is that weird?
I don't have all of them. Apparently we human types lose about 20 baby teeth en route to the 32 grownup choppers we all end up with. I have eight of PDaughter's (and yes, I had to pull out the box o' teeth to count them). This means that at some point I made a conscious decision to start keeping the teeth the Tooth Fairy retrieved from under her pillow.
We're very close.
Why did I decide to start hoarding baby teeth instead of chucking them after trading them for a dollar? Why do I do anything?
Confidentially, PDaughter had terrible baby teeth. She got her father's teeth. I mean not literally, that would be grosser than keeping them in a box. Just dental health-wise. One of the baby teeth I kept has a silver crown on it. I vaguely remember that she somehow cracked a molar when she was a wee thing. Obviously there was no point in putting a fancy porcelain crown on a tooth that was destined to be ejected from her head, so the dentist gave her a pirate tooth. Come to think of it, it might be that I decided to save that particularly shiny specimen when it fell out and just collected them from that point forward.
Anyway, unlike Allie Cat, PDaughter was not given her wisdom teeth to keep when she had them out. But I do have several videos of her coming down from the laughing gas, which are an even better and far more hilarious keepsake. And less weird than a box of baby teeth.
But let's be clear. I'm keeping the box of teeth. Bite me.
I was going to rant about how I'm currently in Twitter jail. For a whole week. I could have appealed it, because it's completely bogus and I've discovered that Twitter frequently suspends people for completely bogus reasons.
Not Margie Four-toes, however. She should be suspended frequently - preferably from a flagpole by her freakish feet..
But honestly, it's nice to have a break from the Twittersphere. Most of the time I have to restrain myself from saying totally inappropriate things over there, so a few days of not even having the option is good for me. (Again, what got me booted was not inappropriate, unless you have a problem with the phrase "choke on a bag of d*cks.")
Still, I was going to go on a tear here about the humorous injustice of it all, poor me, etc.
But then I saw this blog post from my friend-I've-never-met ChrisW. And I decided to share a much gentler story instead.
If clicking on links to support other people's writing isn't your thing (which it should be *stares meaningfully*), Chris' post is about playgrounds. That's all. Just a short history and a couple of anecdotes about kids' playgrounds. His writing is always charming, and today's words were no exception.
I love playgrounds - the kind with swings and slides and jungle gyms. My elementary school in Milwaukee had a playground that consisted of a large expanse of blacktop. It had a painted-on baseball diamond with a chain-link backstop in one corner, a small basketball court (with a hoop that perpetually lacked a net) in another, and various other painted-on features like four-squares and hopscotches and a hundred-yard running track. The only real playground equipment was behind the school, actually a couple of hundred feet off school property. And yes, we kids were allowed to traipse over there, unsupervised, to play on the swings et. al. during lunch. Such were the 70s.
And of course, it had one of these wonderful nightmares.
When Precocious Daughter was small, one of my greatest joys was taking her to the park near our house, which had an amazing playground. Multiple slides, huge climbing structures, those spring-mounted animals that you ride/bounce on, swings for days. All much better built and safer than the sharp metal death traps of my childhood. And there I was, a woman in my 30s, with carte blanche to play on all of it in the name of being a good mom. I was in heaven.
Most parents indulge their kids with trips to the playground. After several years those roles definitely reversed. I'm sure PDaughter eventually recognized that she was being used as an excuse for me to climb on the jungle gym a couple of times a week. As always, she indulged me.
Not gonna lie, I miss the playground. I'm sure I'm not the only adult, whose children are grown but haven't yet produced children of their own, who wishes they had a reason - an excuse - to frequent the local playground without looking like a creep. In fact, I'm positive. And here's how I know.
There's a park about a block from where I currently live. It's just a small square of grass and trees, formed by the haphazard intersection of streets in a residential neighborhood. It's got a tennis court (that doubles as a basketball half-court by virtue of having a hoop erected at one end), a couple of benches, a picnic table or two, a swingset, and a small play structure to climb on.
Because this part of the neighborhood is built on a slope, the eastern edge of the park sits at the bottom of a small hill. The town thoughtfully built a stairway into the hill that descends from the street on that side to the playground below. It's not more than a dozen or so steps, but it saves (grown-up) people from having to either walk around or stutter-step down the slope.
But that's not all there is. Because someone - some city planner with a sense of humor or a big heart, or probably both - also built a slide into the side of the hill, smack-dab in the center of the concrete steps.
It's just a broad, flat piece of shiny metal set flush into the earth. If you're walking by, it might take you a moment to realize that it's meant to be an alternative approach to taking the stairs, if you're so inclined. Then you see that yes, you can park your butt on the top of the hill, give yourself a little scootch, and slide your way down to the playground.
The local park. The top of the slide is in the center of the picture.
I've lived a short walk from this park for almost six years. Needless to say, I've never used those stairs.
Why walk when you can slide?
Thanks to the anonymous architect of that slide, who realized that adults might want to play - to look silly but not creepy. And to ChrisW, who gave me something to write about other than faux internet-based outrage.
Drummer Boy brought his old Wii to my place last week.
So to speak.
This old Wii, as if you didn't know.
You guys, back in the day I really loved playing Wii. Precocious Daughter was around 10 when we got one and was always willing to strap on a controller and play a few tennis matches or a bowling tournament. It was almost more fun to watch her play with her friends, though. We had a big family room in those days with plenty of room to jump around like idiots, and they did.
I'm not sure what happened to the Wii. I assume it went with my ex when we sold the house, like almost everything else. Or maybe we sold it. In any event, I had been Wii-less for a number of years.
I was super-excited when Drummer Boy pulled out his Wii for me. So to speak.
Seriously, you guys, knock it off.
I got to make my little Mii! That was always my favorite part. I remember when The Godfather came out on XBox, I spent at least two hours creating my character, but I don't remember anything about the actual game.
That game did have one of the most amazing character-making thingies, though.
Anyway, all week I've been playing Wii games. It's been a major nostalgic rush, not to mention good exercise for my middle-aged bones. I can't jump around like an idiot, because these days I have downstairs neighbors, but all the flailing is good for my arm-wattles, at least.
So eventually in the course of my playing, I got around to Wii disc golf. And found myself on the horns of a dilemma.
They looked like this.
Some history:
Back in the 90s, my ex was super into disc golf. And I frequently played with him. We were good little GenXers that way. He was pretty good at the game. I was pretty terrible. And I was not OK with that.
It's not that I was a particularly competitive person. I didn't mind losing. But I did mind not being good at it. I've always hated not being good at things. Like, temper-tantrum-throwing hated.
Not an actual photo of me, but sure as hell could be.
For all the flaws in our relationship, I was always able to be exactly who I am with my ex. He knew that I was going to react to a bad throw or a missed putt with yelling, cursing, and pouting, and he accepted it. I would get it out of my system, and we would continue playing. And the next time I made a bad throw or missed an easy putt, I would yell, curse, and pout again.
I'm not proud of being that person in my 20s. I'm pleased that I'm much more able to control my tantrums these days. But that angry, insecure woman-baby still lives in me. Oh, yes.
Now, sometimes, back in the day, Drummer Boy would play disc golf with my ex and me. If you don't know that portion of my personal history, here it is in a nutshell: Drummer Boy was my ex's friend first, then he was my friend, then he was my partner. And yeah, there's a little more to it than that, but we're not going there today.
"The past is never dead. It's not even past." That Faulkner boy knew his stuff.
The point is, when Drummer Boy played disc golf with us, I was always on my best behavior. He scared the hell out of me in those days, did my Drummer Boy. Half the time I wouldn't even play when he was with us. I'd caddy, or just kibbitz. That was the best way to avoid losing my shit over bad play.
Fast forward a certain number of years. Drummer Boy knows and accepts my flaws. I have no idea why, but he does. But, as I've gotten older, I've realized that in a relationship, there is virtue in being your best self, even if your partner already knows your worst self. It's just nice, you know?
But here's the thing. This week, when I was playing Wii disc golf by myself, I reverted instantly to the old Mii, er, me. The one who cursed a blue streak after every bad throw. And there were a lot of bad throws. A. Lot. I'm no better at playing Wii disc golf than I was at real disc golf, and I'm certainly not a more gracious competitor. I made an effort to at least keep my voice down, but my neighbors probably think I'm a crazy person, if not a homicidal maniac.
I Googled "shocked neighbors" to find an illustration. This came up, and I'm going with it.
And now it's the weekend, and Drummer Boy is here, and part of me really wants to play Wii disc golf with him. But I know what's going to happen if I do.
I don't really want to be that person in front of him. But I also don't really want to pretend to be someone I'm not. We're too far along in our relationship for such nonsense. And frankly, I'm not going to enjoy the game as much if I can't lose my shit over it.
As I said, a dilemma. And I don't know what to do about it.
Yesterday on "Good Mythical Morning," Rhett and Link did a bracket to determine the worst kind of Easter candy.
Here's the episode:
I'm a huge fan of "GMM," especially the earlier shows when Link looked like his mom still gave him money to get a haircut once a month and he spent $10 to go to Fantastic Sam's and spent the rest on White Claw. Mostly whenever I need to remind myself that all Millennials aren't wannabe hipsters who drink Starbucks six times a week bur can't save up the down payment on a house, I watch these two 40-something dorks who make six figures annually by filming themselves putting Transformers in battery acid to see what happens.
Seriously, though, I love these guys. GMM marathons helped me get through the loneliest days of pandemic lockdown with my sanity battered but intact
Anyway, the topic at hand yesterday was Easter candy, and the boys determined that these are the absolutely worst things you can inflict on an Easter basket.
Nowadays these apparently are known as "Brach's Easter Hunt Eggs" or "Hiding Eggs." They're also described as a "candy-coated marshmallow." These monikers are total nonsense. When I was a kid, these things didn't even have a name. And they are not now, nor have they ever been, marshmallows.
Basically, these "eggs" are pure sugar, compressed to a consistency that, whatever the candymaker's intention, come off as having gone stale about 12 hours before you put them in your mouth. They're coated in sugar of an even harder texture - if you squeeze one lightly, the coating will crack into jagged shards of incipient tooth decay. And the different colors (all the colors of the rainbow, if the rainbow developed a drug habit) supposedly had different flavors...? More nonsense. Purple sugar tastes like pink sugar tastes like fluorescent green sugar.
In a nutshell, "Hiding Eggs" are the Easter candy you eat after you decide that Pixy Stix aren't an efficient enough vehicle for delivering uncut sucrose into your system.
Now, I don't necessarily disagree with their being crowned the worst Easter candy. But I will say that Rhett and Link's bad-candy bracket was flawed from the outset. I think they said that GMM viewers voted on the candies to be included. I'm usually three or four minutes deep into an episode before I actually start paying attention, mostly because I'm focusing on whether I love or hate what they're wearing that day. Anyway, whoever voted for some of the contenders were bad actors and definitely should not be given water the next time they line up to cast their ballot.
Aside: Seriously, Georgia, WTF is wrong with you?
One of the most problematic inclusions in the bad-candy bracket is the Cadbury Creme Egg. Look, I am a reformed sugar fiend (and as an aside, I can't believe that it's been more than seven years and my sweet tooth NEVER returned), so it's been a few years since I routinely sampled new releases of candy and other sweet treats. But the Cadbury Creme Egg is a Hall of Fame candy, period.
With an annual commercial right up there with the jingling Hershey's Kisses at Christmas.
These first came out in America when I was a kid, and one egg cost as much as a whole candy bar, but biting off the tip and sticking your tongue in that sticky white creamy goodness was totally worth it. And until I wrote that sentence, I didn't realize how closely the experience bordered on sexual awakening, but that undoubtedly was part of the appeal even to an ignorant 10-year-old naif like myself.
Ahem.
To me, the Cadbury Creme Egg has no place in any ranking of worst Easter candy, as it is clearly the second-best Easter candy of all time, right behind the Reese's Pieces Carrot.
Is there a Nobel Prize for candy packaging?
Items that would make my personal bracket for leave-it-in-the-basket-or-hope-your-siblings-are-willing-to-trade candy include the following.
Palmer Chocolate Eggs
Obviously, it's not an Easter basket without a pile of these shiny bits of extraordinarily cheap chocolate. I would go so far as to say that the R.M. Palmer Company gave me a permanently skewed opinion of what holiday chocolate should taste like. Who knew that in some parts of the world chocolate is actually supposed to be flavorful and even sophisticated? These things are truly terrible, and the crunchy version filled with semi-stale crisped rice may actually be a little bit worse.
Russell Stover Maple Cream Egg
These were the most tradable of all Easter basket candies. The Easter Bunny would poop out an assortment (or buy them at Walgreen's, whatever), and each kid in the house got a few different varieties, and you would wheel and deal like a Boomer at a swap meet to get your favorites while unloading the ones you hated. There are so many delightful flavors of Russell Stover Cream Eggs - vanilla, coconut, the coveted raspberry. But it seems I always ended up with maple - the "I got a rock" of Easter candy.
One Chuck to another, I feel you.
Disclaimer: I hate most things that are maple-flavored, so this is purely subjective on my part. However, if you disagree, you're wrong and I hope you get nothing but Palmer chocolate in your Easter basket and Christmas stocking this year.
Black Jelly Beans
Who is the fiend who would eat even one of these, let alone buy an entire bag of them? For that matter, who is the utter psychopath at Brach's who decided the world needed a bag of isolated licorice-flavored jelly beans? GMM did include Brach's jelly beans - or jelly bird eggs, as literally no one in history has ever called them - in their bad-candy bracket. I support this entry. Jelly beans are wonderful, but Brach's jelly beans are the bottom of the barrel. Except for the white ones with pink speckles, which maybe weren't even Brach's but who knows? Again, these putatively have different flavors that go with their colors, but apart from the disgusting taste of black licorice, no one can tell. And God forbid some well-meaning relative added spiced jelly beans to the mix. Spiced candy was invented by Communists to turn Western youth into goose-stepping automatons, and you can't make me believe otherwise. But even they were preferable to black jelly beans, which were always, always the very last thing left at the bottom of my basket a week after Easter.
Reese's White Peanut Butter Egg
Chocolate and peanut butter is the finest, purest flavor combination in the world. Don't go replacing half of it with a gaggingly sweet coating that can legally only be called "white." These can go fuck right off.
M&Ms
Don't get me wrong: M&Ms are great. They melt in your goddam mouth, after all. Nowadays they even come in Easter-ready pastels. But that's just a disguise to fool unsuspecting children into thinking that M&Ms are remotely an Easter candy. This is a con the brand began to perpetuate in the 1980s with its "Thank you, Easter Bunny" commercials.
Bawk bawk, my ass.
I have to tell you, as the parent of a young child even I was guilty of filling plastic eggs with a handful of M&Ms and hiding them around the house. You know, something to break the monotony of eggs filled with jelly beans or spare change.
Aside: Do little kids still get excited to find a quarter in a plastic egg? Or are they just expecting the Easter Bunny to Venmo them funds these days?
In any event, M&Ms as an Easter candy are a cop-out. A pure canard, as Wilford Brimley said in The Natural. Easter candy should take the form of something justifiably spring-themed like a chick or an egg or a bunny, and ideally should be something you can't just walk into Target and buy in a five-pound bag every freaking day of the year. Them's the rules that I just now made up for this post.
Those, then, are my choices for worst Easter candy. Your mileage may vary. But as always, a) you're entitled to your opinion and b) you must be out of your goddamn mind.
Happy Easter to those who celebrate the holiday in either the dead-savior or cheap-chocolate format.
P.S. I now think the white-with-pink-speckles variety of jelly bean was definitely a brand other than Brach's, but I don't remember it and can't find it online. I'm pretty sure it also began with a B, though. Any ideas?
At 12:30 p.m. on Thursday, October 25, 2018, my local classic rock radio station played a Nirvana song.
Pay attention, Dave. This is significant.
I'd been wondering if classic rock radio would ever get around to acknowledging grunge.
I listen to Dallas FM station KZPS (currently known as Lone Star 92.5) every day. Because silence frightens me, but that's another story. I've been listening since (gulp) 1988. Back then, the format was "Classic Hits" by day and "Enerjazz" by night. Really. My then-boyfriend liked jazz, so I listened to a lot of goddamn smooth jazz during our evenings together. The things we do for love.
By 1990, 92.5 had morphed into full-on classic rock. At the time, it was a fairly new format; before that, we just called it "rock." But the Baby Boomers, whose first wave had just entered their 40s, were turning nostalgia into gold and former underground FM stations into the corporate radio landscape we know and, um, love today.
If you've listened to a classic rock station for more than an afternoon, you know the playlist, I'm sure: A Led Zeppelin song, a Boston song, a Rolling Stones song, "Baker Street." Rinse, repeat.
Scott Parkin, a Los Angeles-based voice-over actor and coach, was a disc jockey at KZPS during this period. He told me: "I was not fond of the classic rock format...In fact, one of the reasons I was fired from KZPS was that I would say things like 'Here's Layla...again.'"
Despite (or because of) its reputation as the place where great music goes to die, the format has evolved over the years. The window defining "classic" has slid forward to include newer old music. Somewhere along the line, Dire Straits became classic rock. Ditto The Police. Ditto Talking Heads and Billy Idol and Guns N Roses. Yeah, it's a bit disconcerting to realize that songs I first listened to in college are now "oldies." Scratch that - it's a freaking jarring reminder of my mortality that I didn't want, don't need and didn't ask for, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. Shit.
But I digress.
I get that when I tune into a classic rock station, I'm going to be presented with a thoroughly market-researched subset of music history, carefully curated for my demographic group
Also: Jeebus, I hate the term "curated." Museum collections should be curated. Rock music and overpriced meal kits should not be "curated."
Let's continue to discuss the evolution of the classic rock format. WARNING: Math ahead.
When KZPS started calling itself "classic rock" in 1990, the Beatles' Sergeant Pepper's album - an iconic release of the genre if ever there was one - was 23 years old. Nirvana's Nevermind came out in 1991. By the logic of the format, it became "classic rock" in 2013. Yet "Smells Like Teen Spirit" somehow failed to be placed in rotation by KZPS or other classic rock stations. That's when I began to realize that the evolution of the format seemingly had ground to a halt when grunge came on the scene.
To be fair, I did search the playlists of the top 10 "classic rock" stations in the US. A few have indeed incorporated Nirvana and Pearl Jam into their playlists, albeit as outliers among heavy airplay of Ozzy and The Doors.
That raises the question: Does grunge belong in the classic rock pantheon?
According to radio veteran Parkin, "It's difficult to say that grunge belongs with classic rock....I wish they wouldn't pigeonhole things and would allow different things." Note: KZPS personnel didn't respond to requests for comment.
Me, too. And in fact, Dallas is fortunate to be the home of KXT, a public radio station that plays songs from multiple decades and genres. I listen to it frequently, and appreciate its diversity of musical influences.
Still, I'm a rock and roll girl. And Dallas is a tough market for GenX lovers of rock that includes everything from the Beatles to the Struts.
I guess that's why we have Spotify. But damn, I'm old enough to appreciate the power of radio to play my favorites AND introduce me to tracks that might become my favorites.
Anyway, congrats to KZPS for playing "Come As You Are." Personally, I found it a welcome respite from Zeppelin's ode to nerdism "Ramble On" for the thousandth time. I suppose only time and market research will tell if you actually play Pearl Jam or Screaming Trees next.
Tomorrow. My kid becomes a high graduate tomorrow. I just...can't.
A Few Days in the Life
Originally Published 10/16/2017
Allow me to present Precocious Daughter's schedule from the last few days (keeping in mind that much of this is also my schedule):
Thursday
Band practice 7:00 a.m.
School day
Karate 4:15-5:30 p.m.
Wind ensemble rehearsal (including drive time) 6:30-10:30 p.m.
Friday
Band practice 7:00 a.m.
School day
Football game (including prep and travel) 3:30-11:00 p.m.
Saturday
Marching competition (including rehearsal and travel) 7:00 a.m.- 5:30 p.m.
Fill out college financial aid forms 7:00-8:00 p.m.
Sunday
Wind ensemble concert (including travel time) 1:00-4:15 p.m.
Impromptu trip to Six Flags with friend (because why not?) 5:00-10:00 p.m.
Monday
Band practice 7:00 a.m.
School day
Time with her dad 4:00-?
Tuesday
Band practice 7:00 a.m.
School day
Marching band UIL competition (including prep and travel) 3:30-10:00 p.m.
As you can see, she actually got a good night's sleep Saturday into Sunday. Other than that, it's been up at 5:30 a.m. and asleep no earlier than 11:00 p.m. the whole damn time. And she just keeps going. My child is the damn Energizer bunny.
Slacker.
She never, ever stops smiling.
Oh, and at her wind ensemble concert yesterday, she signed her first autograph for a little boy who shyly handed her his program. It was adorable.
My Precocious Daughter graduates from high school (with honors) in three days. She was nine years old when I started this blog. A baby. And now she's three days away from officially being an incoming college freshman. In honor of this beautiful, smart young woman for whom I take no credit, I'll be posting some of my favorite posts about PDaughter between now and Graduation Day.
Do As I...Oh Shit Whatever
Originally Published 8/4/2017
It's nearly 9:00 p.m. here in Baudelairestan, and my Precocious Daughter has just gone out for the evening.
Because she'll be a grown-ass adult in a few months, and she can do that.
I don't feel old at all, thanks.
Bestest Friend and I used to go out on the weekends - she would drive us in her sweet little orange Beetle because I didn't have my license, just as PDaughter's bestie is driving tonight for the same reason. We went to the movies, to concerts, to bookstores. We met Douglas Adams. We saw Julian Lennon on his first tour. It was the Eighties.
Apropos of nothing, Donald Trump had bad hair and a butthole-mouth even way back in the 80s.
We didn't drink. We didn't do drugs. We didn't have sex.
We were good girls. We waited until AFTER high school to do those things.
So anyway, I asked PDaughter what she and her bestie were planning to do. And it turns out they're going to Lake Lavon - a popular lake about 30 minutes outside the Dallas Metroplex urban sprawl - to watch the stars.
And of course I immediately assumed that meant they were going to drive out to the country to drink, do drugs, and have sex.
You guys. I worked in a video store in 1985-86. I know the lingo, aight?
But I know better.
If my child - who is planning to apply to Columbia, Yale, and Berkeley in the next few months - and her best friend - who is younger than PD but has already completed her first year of college - say they're going to drive to the country to look at the stars, then I f*cking believe them.
Whatever they actually get up to, I believe them. Because they're amazing young women, and I choose to trust them.
Now, if she abuses my trust, and does something illegal/stupid/dangerous, I'll come down on her like bricks on whatever it is bricks typically come down on.
But I refuse to keep her on a choke chain simply because of the possibility that she might do things that other teens have done that have been less than optimal.
Her mother drinks, and her father smokes dope, and she has been pretty much openly contemptuous of both of us for those habits.
And even if she weren't, what am I supposed to do? I'm the poster child for Doing The Things Your Parents Said Were Awful, after all.
Literally all I want is for PDaughter to have a good time and come home safely later tonight.
She'll be legally an adult on November 24th. Advice on how to live with an adult child is sooooo welcome.
My Precocious Daughter graduates from high school (with honors) in three days. She was nine years old when I started this blog. A baby. And now she's three days away from officially being an incoming college freshman. In honor of this beautiful, smart young woman for whom I take no credit, I'll be posting some of my favorite posts about PDaughter between now and Graduation Day. Potty Talk Originally Published 1/29/16
Like 11 million other people, Precocious Daughter and I watched NBC's production of The Wiz Live! on December 3.
It was so good. We loved it. And ever since, PDaughter has been expressing interest in seeing the 1975 film version starring Diana Ross, Michael Jackson, and the great Nipsey Russell.
Oh hell yes.
When I picked her up from her dad's place this week, I saw that she had bought a copy of the movie on Blu-Ray over the weekend. Cool! Free Blu-Ray (for me)!
Anyway, this morning I went into PDaughter's bathroom while she was getting ready for school, to tell her to hurry up for God's sake or we'll be late, as I do most weekdays. And there, on her vanity, was her new copy of The Wiz.
I found that a bit of an odd place to keep a Blu-Ray disc. But that's just me.
But, you know, this is fine.
So I asked, "What is The Wiz doing in your bathroom?" As one naturally would.
Of course, being 16, her response was one part shrug and two parts blank stare. A tactical mistake on her part.
Don't ever give me time to think.
Because after a moment, I amended, "On the other hand, I guess the bathroom is the right place for The Wiz. The Wiz should probably stay in the bathroom."
That got me a sigh. I was onto something.
PDaughter said, "Can you take it out of here, please?"
Instead I messed around with my hair, and helped her mess around with her hair. And as I was finally walking out to put on my shoes, she reminded me, "Take out The Wiz, please."
I stared at her. "You want me to take The Wiz out of the bathroom?
"With my bare hands?
"I don't want to carry The Wiz out of here. Gross. You just keep The Wiz in here where it belongs."
My Precocious Daughter graduates from high school (with honors) in four days. She was nine years old when I started this blog. A baby. And now she's five fouraway from officially being an incoming college freshman. In honor of this beautiful, smart young woman for whom I take no credit, I'll be posting some of my favorite posts about PDaughter between now and Graduation Day.
Goldfish May Have Been a Better Choice. Just Kidding. But Still.
Originally Published 10/30/15
I vividly remember the moment I discovered that the baby I was carrying inside me was a girl-baby.
Until that moment, I had always thought I wanted a boy, and only a boy.
But as soon as I found out I was having a girl, I couldn't imagine having - or wanting - anything else.
My baby was a girl. And all I wanted was to have a happy, healthy girl.
The implications of raising a female in the 21st century were totes lost on me, yeah. You don't think of that stuff when you're fighting massive peanut butter cravings and watching your feet swell to Flintstone size day by day.
Life is all about priorities. Don't ever forget that.
Be that as it may, I gave birth to a daughter. She has been, overwhelmingly, happy and healthy. My Precocious Daughter is the best thing that has ever happened to me, bar none.
Dear God: What the fuck? How do I even deserve this? Thanks and all, but...shit.
Now PDaughter is nearly 16. She's a straight-A student, she's a marching-band nerd, she's dealing with her parents' divorce with incredible grace, and she just celebrated a one-year anniversary with her very first boyfriend, who is an awesome kid from a great family.
Her father is livid. His grandmother, with whom he lives, is livid. I'm...uncomfortable? Because we did talk about it beforehand. Although I wish she had gotten on the Pill BEFORE becoming sexually active, I at least know she knew she could talk to me about such matters. Even if, you know, she didn't when push came to shove.
I remember the moment I went from being a virgin to being not a virgin. I get it. "Control" is not a word that necessarily applies in that moment.
I don't think her dad, or his grandparents (with whom he lives), understand. I'll let them come to their own conclusions and try my best to support them.
I just want these kids to be happy and healthy and not completely messed up by their families.
There's some personal stuff bound up in that, of course.
My Precocious Daughter graduates from high school (with honors) in five days. She was nine years old when I started this blog. A baby. And now she's five days away from officially being an incoming college freshman. In honor of this beautiful, smart young woman for whom I take no credit, I'll be posting some of my favorite posts about PDaughter between now and Graduation Day.
En Fuego. Me, Not My Kid.
Originally Published 8/19/14
Today The Bloggess wrote a post called "Don't Set Yourself on Fire." The topic was: Should you specifically tell your child not to set herself on fire? Should you even have to do such a thing?
(Answer: Because setting themselves on fire is something some kids are actually doing of late, it's not out of the question to have to consider asking these questions.)
(Answer #2: Kids have been doing stupid shit to themselves for forever. When I was Precocious Daughter's age, the dumber kids in my school liked to unbend paper clips and use the sharp ends to carve "AC/DC" and "Led Zepplin" [sic] on their arms. And that was without the promise of YouTube fame for recording their idiocy. More recently, there's heroin and K2. Stupidity is as old as humanity.)
Anyway, I decided I would tell PDaughter not to set herself on fire. Not that I think she would (she has a highly developed sense of the too-ridiculous-to-entertain), but I wanted to see her reaction. She's my perpetual guinea pig that way.
My badass winged steampunk guinea pig. (Thanks for sharing this with me, Riley's Mom.)
The conversation went like this:
Me: Wait, listen. I have to tell you something.
PD (eyes slightly widening): What?
Me: I have to tell you this. It's important.
PD: O...K.
Me: Don't set yourself on fire.
PD: What?
Me: Don't set yourself on fire.
PD: Is that even a thing?
Me: Yes. Don't do it.
PD: Oh, is that the thing where kids douse themselves in hand sanitizer and then light it on fire?
Me (horrified): Is it?
PD: Yeah. I think I've heard about that.
Me: Well, don't do it.
PD: Why would you even say that?
Me: Because I'm being a good mom.
PD: OK.
That was kind of disappointing, actually.
No tearful hugs or any damn thing.
PDaughter actually didn't seem to care one way or the other about the concept of teenagers self-immolating for fun. They are so jaded these days. So I decided to introduce a control stimulus, something that I was sure would get a reaction out of her.
So I showed her this video clip of John Travolta singing his hit single "Let Her In" on "American Bandstand in 1977.
Her reactions:
"That's beautiful."
"Is he going to dance?"
"Nice shoes, by the way."
"That hair, though."
"I was expecting so much more from that last note."
SUCCESS!
Parents, talk to your kids about aging actors' all-but-forgotten singing careers. Dare to reach them through orchestrated pop songs from your childhood. Shake them up. Make them think.
If Travolta doesn't work, try David Soul aka Hutch (or possibly Starsky) singing "Don't Give Up on Us."
Parenting level: Nailed it.
They'll thank you. Or they'll cower in shame. Either way, they won't be thinking about setting themselves ablaze.
My Precocious Daughter graduates from high school (with honors) in six days. She was nine years old when I started this blog. A baby. And now she's six days away from officially being an incoming college freshman. In honor of this beautiful, smart young woman for whom I take no credit, I'll be posting some of my favorite posts about PDaughter between now and Graduation Day.
Anyway, I lifted the lid and saw that the toilet bowl had a bunch of little short curly black hairs floating in it.
If you don't know, Precocious Daughter and I - this is the bathroom we share - both have blondish-brownish hair. She flat-irons hers, and mine only holds a curl if you douse it in Twinkies-grade industrial chemicals, and the last time I did that was in 1991.
So my first thought on seeing what was floating in the toilet was, Why would my ex (yes, still living with my ex; no, not going to talk about it) come into the ladies' bathroom, trim his pubes into our toilet bowl, then fail to flush? And also, did he use my antique toenail scissors to do it?
I have had them literally my entire life. They're not as shiny as these, but they still cut a mean toenail. Am I the only person who uses something like this to self-pedi?
I called him into the bathroom and asked if he knew anything about the wiry black hairs in the toilet. He swore he didn't, and after 26 years, I know when the man is and is not bullshitting. At that point PDaughter wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I mean, I wasn't going to let her look at the scene of the crime until I knew for certain that I wasn't going to be exposing her to her father's pubic hair.
Did I really just write that?
Or maybe it was Bill Cosby's hair! Or...not. Sorry, Cos.
PDaughter knew nothing about it. Look, I give my beautiful daughter the privacy she deserves. But I know for a fact that no part of her body produces kinky black hair. Mine either, for that matter, and even if it did, the dementia has not progressed so far that I wouldn't remember thinning out the crops and dropping them into the toilet.
Not completely related, but...OMG, best tattoo ever.
SO HOW DID THE LITTLE SHORT CURLY BLACK HAIRS GET INTO MY TOILET??
We finally decided to agree that our senior cat, who is a tuxedo kitty and loves to jump onto the toilet seat and drink out of the bowl, must have left the hairs. Did she fall in while we were all out? Did something startle her while she was drinking, causing her to quickly drop a bunch of little furs? Did said furs, assuming we're buying any of this story, suddenly become short and curly instead of medium-length and silky upon hitting the water?
Without ever really meeting one another's eyes, we sort of agreed on some poorly articulated version of that story and dispersed. I flushed the intruder hairs away (without photographic documentation) and went about my business.
And I never did speak aloud my pet theory of how those strange hairs came to inhabit my toilet.
GHOSTS.
Fantasmas muy machos. Orale!
Specifically, male ghosts of Mediterranean descent who decided to haunt my bedroom and use my toenail scissors to man(ghost)scape themselves when I wasn't looking. Except they forgot to flush the toilet, because they're goddamn black-haired ghosts with hairy scrotes, what do you expect?
I really have no other explanation for how short curly dark hairs ended up in the toilet used primarily by fair-haired women who at least know how to flush, for God's sake.
Again, not strictly related, but thanks, Google Image Search.
Bottom line: I believe my home has been visited by hirsute ghosts who decided to take a break and clip their spectral pubic hair into my actual toilet bowl, then dematerialize without flushing.
And I double-dog dare you to come up with a better explanation. You want this goddamn blog? You can have it. Just relay what actually happen.
PDaughter and I and our swarthy spirits are waiting to hear.
My Precocious Daughter graduates from high school (with honors) in seven days. She was nine years old when I started this blog. A baby. And now she's seven days away from officially being an incoming college freshman. In honor of this beautiful, smart young woman for whom I take no credit, I'll be posting some of my favorite posts about PDaughter between now and Graduation Day.
Oh, Like You Would Have Handled It Any Better
Originally Published 4/1/2014
Precocious Daughter and her dad and I had some family time tonight by taking Darling Dog on a walk in the park. It's good exercise, good for the dog, and takes place in view of witnesses so nobody can kill anybody else.
Dogs make everything happy.
PDaughter and I were discussing the differences between Robert Redford's film version of The Great Gatsby and Leonardo DiCaprio's. Mostly we were trying to remember who played Tom Buchanan in the earlier film (Bruce Dern, duh), and I was opining that Gatsby really is a weak, terrible character, and PDaughter was vehemently disagreeing because she loves Robert Redford and is absolutely freaking gaga for Leo.
Dude can rock the pink suit, though.
And while we were discussing all things Gatsby, I noted in passing something laying on the path as I walked by. Although it was very small, my brain must have registered it as an item of interest, because it told my legs to stop and my eyes to return to the object and have another look. Which I did.
It was a tiny Ziploc bag covered with cute red hearts. And inside it were two hairy little buds of marijuana.
In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have yelled "Whoa!"
In my day, dimebags were much larger but not nearly as precious.
Well, I couldn't just leave this bag of contraband lying on the ground for a child to find, could I? How terribly irresponsible. So I handed it to PDaughter's dad, who wisely and bravely chose to transport it out of the park on his own person.
And then I turned to my child and said, "That wasn't anything."
I'm pretty sure she believed me.
And my sweet, innocent, darling child laughed and said, "Right, because I've had no experience with that."
Then I suspect she saw that we were about to experience a murder or a heart attack (Old 97s reference for the win) right there in the park in front of the dog, she assured me that her experience wasn't personal, but that there were plenty of kids using and selling drugs in her middle school.
Which made me feel so goddamn much better.
Actually, I am neither naïve nor a hypocrite, and I would expect nothing less from a middle school than the presence of drugs and sex. I'm not happy about it, and I don't condone it. But mumble-mumble years ago I was there. So yeah, of course that's how it is.
I totally believe PDaughter when she says she hasn't tried any of that stuff. For one thing, she's an honest kid. For another, her parents have raised her with the knowledge that we are pretty comprehensively messed up in many ways, and nothing she ever says or does will be met with harsh judgment unless she lies about it. Honestly, it's way too much effort to try to convince a smart, sensitive kid that you're better than she is. I don't know how - or why - other parents manage it.
When this photo session is over I'm going to lock myself in my room with a bottle of tequila and a razor blade.
So we went back to talking about what a tool I think Gatsby is, and she quoted passages from the book to try to prove me wrong (didn't work), and it was a very pleasant walk.
And I'm going to believe that PDaughter either forgot about the tiny bag o' dope or assumed that her dad would dispose of it when we got home.
Meaning, I'm 100% certain she didn't forget about it and she assumes her dad will use it for its intended purpose.
I ain't raising no Jan Brady.
I guess I was absent from Mom University the day they covered What to Do When You Find a Dimebag in the Park in Front of Your Kid.
So if you still have your crib notes, feel free to share.
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