Great(ish) Things About 2024

 

This definitely has the potential to be a very short post.

A lot of not-great things happened this year. Some of them had global ramifications, others only Baudelaireian. (My spellcheck doesn't know what to do with the word "Baudelaireian." But I like it, and I'm going to keep it.)

We lost a lot of fine, well-known people in 2024. Like, a lot. Maybe not as many as in 2016, which was a bumper crop of sadness as far as losing beloved figures goes, but still a lot. The New York Times has a lengthy, if USA-centric, list on its website, while Wikipedia's is more exhaustive and spans the globe. Obviously former President Jimmy Carter is front of mind today, but I only just found out from the NYT that in September we lost author Nelson DeMille, whose books accompanied me on many a business trip when I just wanted to immerse myself in something with a lot of action, humor, and few life lessons. I enjoyed his writing a lot.

These were not people I knew personally, but they touched my life, and I'm sad they're gone.

On the other hand, good things happened this year, as well. That's where this post might become a little brief, but the fact is there are always flowers among the garbage. Some things were good only in the sense that I choose to accentuate the positive, others were actually fond memories that I'll carry with me for a long while.

I recommend you make yourself a list like this, even if it's difficult. Especially if it's difficult. That's the best reason to do it. Here's mine (in no particular order):

• I saw Precocious Daughter walk the stage to receive her Master's degree. I've always said I can't take much credit for what an awesome person she is, but I fully claim the status of proud mama.
• I saw Jonathan Groff and Daniel Radcliffe on Broadway, just before they both won Tony awards for Merrily We Roll Along. (A bucket list item I didn't even know I had until I checked it off.)
• I watched the total solar eclipse with a crowd of people on top of a parking garage. The moment of totality, along with the awed response of the assembled as daylight disappeared in the middle of the afternoon, made me feel simultaneously part of something huge, and very small and insignificant.
• Two people I know kicked breast cancer's ass, while a third continues to fight the good fight. They're all inspiring, and stronger women than I will ever be. 
• I allowed myself to be re-acquired by a cat, a year after losing two beloved felines two months apart. The lovely Tacocat is sweet and feisty, and a pain in the ass. He gives me somewhere to put my love, because love doesn't do you much good unless you can give it away.
• I drove in a snowstorm. It wasn't fun, and it's not a positive thing per se (except that I survived it). But it gave me a story to tell. Since I'm not particularly good at making up stories, I'm always glad to add a new real-life one to my repertoire.

When all is said and done, we're the sum of our stories. For me, 2024 wasn't exactly an anthology of great literary works. More like a pamphlet with a few interesting pages. Maybe 2025 will be better. Maybe we'll live in interesting times, as the curse goes. But for better or for worse, I plan to stick around and see what happens.

To everyone who has paid me the great compliment of reading this little blog (even if you don't like it, you came by to see me), thank you so much. Have a happy and safe New Year.

P.S. I don't generally make resolutions, because I suck at keeping them and why do that to myself every year? But I do promise my readers monkeys wearing clothes in 2025.

Poem: December

 December

December counts off, screaming

Ready or not!

And not scurries out of the way of the lot,

While the confident ready is crushed by the rush

Realizing too late, as it does every year,

That the line between ready and not disappears

As the calendar's climax draws closer, and whether

We like it or not, we all get there together.

Some started the year

With high hopes for success,

Manifesting for more while depending on less.

Meanwhile others were late coming out of the gate,

But just like the tortoise, intent to prevail,

Took well-measured steps on a well-trodden trail

Just to find that in hindsight, no matter the pace

That we set, we all get to the very same place

At the very same hour

In the very same year

As the timelines converge until they disappear,

And the ready, the not, and those who forgot

There was even a race they were trying to win

Set their sights on the one that's about to begin.

And if there are regrets, by the time next December

Counts off, chances are we won't even remember.

- Chuck Baudelaire

12.5.2024

Let's Just Give This Nonsense Another Try

 Happy 2023!

In keeping with the situation, I'm sure.

Drunkards, I haven't posted here in almost a year and a half, and I'm really, really sorry about that. Surely I'm more sorry I haven't written a post than you are that you haven't read a post. I get that. 

But because I should care more about whether I'm writing than about who might possibly read my words, I need to get back at it. And here in the year of our arbitrary timekeeping mechanism 2023, I'm going to try.

To start off, just a brief anecdote. 

My Precocious Daughter, who was in, I think, the fourth grade when I started this blog, graduated from high school third in her class and is now a graduate student in a Very Large City. I'm so freaking proud of her, you guys, and I miss having her around. She's been home for the holidays, which has been wonderful. (More on me being an empty nester in a future post.)

Lol, the eggs have long since fled this nest, though.

When she got here, shortly before Christmas, she still had one final paper to write, which she banged out over a couple of days, with all the frenzied energy of a graduate student who has left their final paper to the very last moment. Although I never went to grad school, I remember the energy required to make those deadlines as an undergrad. I remember actually having that energy. Wild.

Anyway, although PDaughter is working on a degree in High-Tech Whizbang Stuff (the actual name in the catalog, I believe), she also is taking film classes, being a film junkie of the highest order. Her final paper was in this area. She let me read it when it was finished.

Damn.

My kid can write.

Like, she's a better writer than I am.

The paper was a review of a movie I feel confident few of you have seen, by a director I feel confident few of you are familiar with, in the context of a critical framework I feel few of you have considered. I'm not being condescending to any of you amazing readers, I'm just saying that this paper was...niche. But PDaughter nailed it, and it was interesting and informative even to me, who felt pretty much in over her head while reading it.

I am delighted that my kid is a talented writer. I'm also fucking mortified that I've allowed age and stress and discouragement and alcohol to turn me away from the one thing in my life that I've ever been good at. 

Other than composing for the theremin.
Wait, that wasn't me.

So I'm going to give this blogging thing another shot. Please be patient if I start off slowly. There might even be a few Best Of posts while I figure out if I'm capable of reconnecting to my writerly self.

Oh, and there may be poetry. It's the only thing I've written on a semi-regular basis over the last 18 months. (The one I've linked to is much older than that, however.)

And monkeys. Because I still love monkeys.

And I love all of you. Let's do this.

A Place for My Money, A Place for My Time

Here's a little story about principal and interest, and the economy of time.

Chapter I: The Past 

The company I work for IRL used to offer a traditional benefit of paid vacation and sick days. An employee of less than five years' tenure (like me) would accrue 10 vacation days and six sick days per annum. Sick days were "use it or lose it," but vacation days rolled over to the next year if you didn't use them all. If you left the company, any unused vacation would be paid out to you in cash. Pretty standard stuff in the U.S.

If you stuck around the company for a few decades, you would eventually accrue something like six weeks of vacation a year, most of which you were probably too "indispensable" at work to use. (In other words, if you hopped on a conference call while you were "on vacation," that day magically became work time instead of vacation time. Tenure has its perks.) And under this system, there was no upper limit to the amount of vacation time you could accrue. And so the company routinely saw people retire after 20 or 30 years of service with literally months of unused vacation hours saved up, which they received in a lump sum on their last day. That time was paid out at their most recent pay rate, by the way, even if they'd accrued it when their salary was considerably lower. Quite a tidy payout.

For readers outside the U.S.: Yes, I know this model is inconceivable to you. Yes, our paid time off is pathetic compared to what your country provides. Yes, I know your government mandates a certain level of paid time off and doesn't leave it up to the whims of individual companies. I have the internet. Thank you for your concern.

Chapter II: Accounting

Fun Fact - Accrued vacation time is considered a financial liability. It's a debt on the company books. Large companies (and at least one bloated former POTUS) may routinely operate from a position of indebtedness, leveraging it in ways I don't really understand nor care to, because business is stupid. But to a smaller, privately held company like my employer, that kind of debt may not be useful or attractive, and there are also tax implications that again I don't give a flip about but they do.

The upshot is that as my company grew, its liabilities grew. And as it has always prided itself on cultivating long-term employees, it had to find a way to manage a potential debt of millions of dollars of unpaid vacation time.   

Therefore, a policy change was made.

Chapter III: The Present

Last year my company went to a PTO system. Instead of accruing a little annual sick time that expired and a little vacation time that didn't, we now get a "bucket" of time off that can be used to cover vacation, illness, doctor's appointments, bugging out early on Friday, etc. For me, that amount is currently 160 hours, or four weeks a year. 

It's twice as much time as I was getting under the old system, which basically means twice as much time that I rarely get to use because every hour of vacation means an hour of playing catchup when I return. Being indispensable has its downside. Unfortunately, the days of stockpiling months of time (or salary) are now gone. Under the new system, only 120 hours of unused PTO roll over from year to year. No matter how long we work there, no one will ever accrue more than three weeks of paid time off. So much for saving up time for a three-month backpacking tour of Europe. And for younger employees, so much for an extended paid maternity or paternity leave. 

Like most American companies, when my employers say "benefit," it means there's a benefit to them. 

On the other hand, if I end up with more than 120 hours of PTO at the end of the year, the excess time doesn't just go away. I get it in cash, just like the old system, except I don't have to leave the company to earn the payout, and it's never going to be a windfall of months' worth of salary. Fair enough.

Or, in my case, more than fair, if I play my cards right.

Chapter IV: The Goal

This past week I reached an important milestone at my place of employment: I achieved a stockpile of 120 hours of PTO. I started accruing time mid-2020, when the new system began. There wasn't enough calendar time to reach 120 hours, so it all rolled over. I've also taken a couple of random days off in 2021. Now, with just over six months left in the year, I've reached the point where every hour of earned PTO represents a potential cash payout.

In other words, those 120 accrued hours are now principal, and they're simply earning interest until the end of 2021.

I'll accrue another 80 hours of PTO between now and December. If I don't take any more time off, I'll get it back in cash at the end of the year. That's assuming I don't need to take sick days, of course, which I can't totally control. But I'm more than willing to forego any voluntary time off for the rest of this year. Even if I end up being sick for a full week at some point, that still leaves me a payout of 40 hours to look forward to. And I'll go into next year with the same 120 PTO hours in the vault.

I don't plan on touching my 120 hours of principal. Ever.

Chapter V: The Future

Starting in 2022, I'll earn 160 hours of PTO over and above my banked time. That means I can take a full two weeks off and still get a cash payout of two weeks' salary at the end of the year. After I've been with the company for five years, I'll get an extra week of PTO, which means either an extra week of time or an extra week of pay every year. I'm guessing I'll choose the money most years, and here's why.

You guys, barring a lottery win, I plan to retire in 14 years. I'm in nest-feathering mode. I'm not planning any long vacations or sabbaticals, because my focus is on trying to make up for the years when I was married and wasn't able to save. Five years ago I exited my marriage without a dime to my name. Right now my net worth just scrapes six figures. That's not very much for where I am in my lifespan. I don't expect to live to a ripe old age, but I would like to have a few years of comfortable retirement with my darling Drummer Boy and a little nest egg to leave to Precocious Daughter.

Thanks to my employer's PTO policy, and my admitted lack of a life, I can give myself a 4% bonus every year provided I stay healthy and employed. I can invest it and make even more. I can't dwell on where I'd be now if I'd been able to do this in my 30s instead of in my 50s. This is all about the path I'm on, not the ditch I've had to crawl out of.

Epilogue

There's every chance that my plan won't pan out the way I've envisioned it. The economy could tank, my employers could change their policy to close the loophole I'm counting on, or the trickster god could throw any number of flies into my ointment. That's life. 

But hell, I'm going for it while I can.

Should I Stay or Should I Go

 Just going to think out loud a bit here. I can do that, it's my blog.

And I'll blog if I want to.
(Early 60s musical reference for you youngsters)

So this week I was the target of a potential poaching. That's right, someone tried to simmer me in a white wine sauce over low heat until I -

Oh, wait.

Not that kind of poaching. I am not a piece of salmon, silly.

Aside: I think that sauce has reduced
a tad too much. Time to deglaze.

Obviously I mean that someone tried to hire me away from my IRL job. This happens all the time, albeit not to me because I'm generally worthless. I find recruiters annoying, and when I was answering phones for my office, I routinely sent them straight to the voicemail of whoever they were calling. Yes, they're just doing their job. But to call a company's main number, sometimes five times a day, with the sole intention of offering its people different employment on company time? I'm not saying these are the same guys (and they're always guys) who carry roofies when they go out drinking, but...

If I've offended any overconfident d-bags,
I don't care. Come at me.

Anyway, I wasn't approached by some random corporate headhunter, but by my former boss. He hired me for my current job a few years back. He's an awesome person, and we clicked right from the start (unlike my previous boss, who literally threatened to beat me with a hammer when I made a mistake, but I digress...) 

When the pandemic hit right around this time last year, my company did a (fortunately limited) round of layoffs. Unfortunately, my boss was among the layees. It was pretty devastating, as he was universally beloved by everyone whose job wasn't deciding who to lay off. He landed on his feet, though, and now works for a competing firm.

Meanwhile, ol' Maxwell Edison
still has his job. (Late 60s musical reference.)

This week he dropped me the proverbial "There's a job here that you'd be perfect for" text. I don't know if there's actually a proverb that is in any way relevant to this event. It's just one of those hackneyed phrases: "the proverbial..." Frankly, it's overused and misused and I should be ashamed of myself for deploying it here. Bad blogger. Bad.

No lucrative book deal for you.

Anyway, he didn't actually offer me the job. But it is a pretty great job (I looked up the listing online), and I would be working for him, and he is the hiring manager.... 

Oh, and he threw in the "how much money would it take to sway your decision?" gambit, too.

Even I can sometimes connect dots when they're that obvious. 

I'm going to cut to the chase here: I respectfully declined.

Now might be a good time for that hammer, after all.

Why? Why did I turn down what seemed to be - hell, what undoubtedly was - a solid opportunity?

Self-sabotage is a reliable go-to answer for a question like that. At least for me it is; I have a long history of self-sabotage. It's kind of my brand.

But I don't think that's the case here.

It's not loyalty to my current company. It's a good place to work. It's not a great place to work. I've had maybe two great workplaces in my entire life, and one of them was a video store in the mid-80s. I realized long ago that nothing will ever top that, so I don't use it as a comparison criterion for selecting new jobs.

It's not salary and benefits. As I said, I undoubtedly could have negotiated a higher salary from my former boss than I currently get. My pay is sufficient, but my company is stingy with raises unless they accompany a promotion. My job has few opportunities for promotion - it's a nonzero number, for sure, but there just aren't many rungs on my career ladder. The company does offer an obscenely generous 401(k) and decent health insurance.

It's partly location. I know plenty of people who commute long distances every day. But for me, not sitting in traffic for two hours every day is a huge quality of life issue, and my current commute is relatively short and stress-free. The potential new job would have required me to drive downtown from my cozy suburb. For me, that's a nightmare scenario. Down the road I could see myself moving to the city, which would make a downtown commute a non-issue. But for various reasons that's not an option right now, and every time I tried to convince myself otherwise, my inner voice wisely told me to cut the crap and be realistic about my life.

My inner voice is much saner than I am
and is probably pissed that it didn't get the outer voice gig.

And it's partly stability. My shortest "real" job since graduating from college lasted two years. I didn't leave voluntarily - the company was operating under a bad business model that included flouting Department of Labor rules about exempt vs. non-exempt workers. I was laid off not long before the company collapsed. I would have stayed longer if I could, because I'm a creature of inertia.

The job my former boss dangled in front of me could have been great. I could have been happy and fulfilled at that company. I might never have regretted the decision to leave my current gig. But while there might have been good reasons to go to a new job, there just aren't that many good reasons to leave the job I have now. In the eternal battle between change and stay the same, my natural tendency, for better or for worse, has always been to set a high bar for change. 

Believe me, as I get older and hypothetically closer to retirement, that bar only gets higher. 

Probably I've missed out on a good many opportunities as a result. That's something I can work on in my next incarnation (assuming I don't come back as a slug or a pampered housecat or something). But here, now, and on this plane of existence, I've decided to be happy with the size and shape of my world for now.

If that changes, you'll hear about it.

Ten Ways I Won't Celebrate My Birthday This Year

My birthday is Thursday, Drunkards. I'll be 52 years old - one for every week in the calendar, one for every card in the deck. The same age as Adam Schlesinger, who wrote "Stacy's Mom" and "That Thing You Do!" - and who died of COVID-19 last week.

Ssssssigh.

Fucking COVID-19. Just come out of nowhere and turned everything to shit, hasn't it?

My natural, morbid response to our current pandemic has been to re-read Stephen King's "The Stand." I love this book, always have. It's got its flaws and its anachronisms - even King couldn't quite imagine how much pop culture would have changed between 1978, when he wrote it, and 1985, when it's set. No one had really conceptualized or categorized GenX at that point, and as a result almost every character in the book, no matter what their age, is written with the attitudes and experiences of a Baby Boomer. I've always found it hilarious that Larry Underwood, the up-and-coming rock star character, was supposed to be stoked to have done a recording session with Neil Diamond. Come on, Mr. King. Even in 1978, Neil Diamond had become a middle-of-the-road pop crooner. Maybe in 1968, when you were about Larry's age, he had some hipster cred.

Don't get me wrong - 1968 Neil Diamond
was hot.

But I digress.

One of the main differences between the events of "The Stand" and the 'Rona is the timeframe. In the book, the superflu sweeps through America (and presumably the world, although that's only hinted at) literally in a matter of days. By the time anyone realizes what's happening, 99% of the population is dead. There are no quarantines, no shelter-in-place orders - one infected man escapes a top-secret government facility in mid-June, and by the end of the month all but the immune have succumbed.

Here in the real world in 2020, we're not so lucky. Our plague is unfolding in slow motion, relatively speaking. Especially here in America, our fortifications against the Coronavirus have gone up with too little speed, too little urgency, and almost no consistency from place to place. And where the America of "The Stand" has Randall Flagg, the dark incarnation of evil, presiding gleefully over the anticipated annihilation of humanity, we have a fat orange asshole who thinks he has all the time in the world to screw around and be some kind of hero. And the death count keeps rising as the days go by with almost agonizing slowness.

What was I talking about? Oh, right - time.

See what's become of me.

So whereas in fiction, characters are drop-kicked from normality to devastation, here in the real world we're in suspended animation. We can't do most things or go most places (but not all, because some people are too stupid to understand the concept of ripping off a Band-Aid). And so we're stuck, not knowing if we're going to get sick and with little to do while we wait.

And it's my goddamn birthday this week, and it going to suck. I mean, I'm not someone who makes a big deal out her birthday, but even by my standards it's going to be as dull as the part of the daily Pandemic Response Team briefing where the experts all stand around waiting for Trump to finish taking a shit or applying his orange coating or whatever the hell he does before he lumbers out to the podium to spew lies, hate, and nonsense.

Anyway, here are ten things I won't be doing on my birthday this year, thanks to the Coronavirus:

1. Going out to dinner
2. Having lunch with my co-workers
3. Treating myself to a little something from the bookstore or Target
4. Seeing my family
5. Seeing Drummer Boy (OK, so I almost never get to see Drummer Boy on my birthday, but on other birthdays I could at least be disappointed when he didn't come over)
6. Going to the movies
7. Meeting up with a friend and saying "You shouldn't have" when they give me a present
8. Buying a cake just big enough for Precocious Daughter to eat on my behalf because I don't eat cake
9. Getting a hug from anyone
10. Getting a birthday spanking (I haven't actually gotten a birthday spanking in ages, but I couldn't think of one more - and anyway, if I did get birthday spankings, they would definitely be a huge no-no this year)

I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I'm healthy, and the people I love are healthy. I actually get to leave the house every day to go to work, so even though it's the only thing I'm doing, I'm not housebound. Things could be much, much worse.

But this is a rotten time to have a birthday.

On Thursday I'll drink a toast to myself and probably donate some money to a worthy cause. If you want to celebrate my day with me, you could do the same things, wherever you are.

Maybe I'll listen to some Neil Diamond.

Sleepless Night, with Thoughts of Cat

To quote Elton John:

It's four o'clock in the morning, dammit, listen to me good.

I have insomnia, and I'm stretched out on my sofa, staring at my computer.

My Siamese Kitten is stretched out with me, sound asleep.

And I just realized that this "kitten" is almost 12 years old.

She seems the picture of health. She zooms, and yowls, and jumps to the tops of the kitchen cabinets. Just like any cat in the prime of life.

But as she lies here next to me, I notice that her fur seems thicker and denser...because it's covering less flesh. And I can clearly see the outlines of her shoulder blades, and her spine, in repose.

She is aging.

We're all aging. I'm a damn middle-aged woman. Precocious Daughter has become an adult with a car and a job, and she will start college in a few weeks.

My parents, somehow, are elderly.

Yet I'm fixated on my cat.

She came into our lives when PDaughter was in first grade. I hope that she'll be here in four years when PDaughter gets her degree. That would be sweet.

The Siamese Kitten has saved my life on more than one occasion. Just by being here.

I hope she continues to be here.

And you guys, too.

I hope you've slept well.

So and So

Check it out, Drunkards: I got my 30-day chip.

I mean, my  30-day chip.

No, no, no. My 30-day CHIP.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, as of yesterday I'm 30 days sober.

So yay, me.

And in a completely unplanned coincidence, yesterday was also the 30th anniversary of my first date with my ex-spouse. And in a holy-shit-you-couldn't-plan-this-if-you-tried twist, my ex and I had a sort-of date last night.

Totally not a date: Precocious Daughter is playing in the orchestra for her school's musical, and last night her dad and I saw the show. PDaughter had my car, and I had the tickets, so it worked out logistically that the ex picked me up at my place and we sat together in the auditorium.

So not a date.

The show was "The Little Mermaid," by the way. And it was fantastic. In particular, the young man who played Sebastian the Crab basically stole the show and also happens to totally not be PDaughter's boyfriend. I know this because I ask her every time they spend hours texting, and she always says he's not her boyfriend. Also, I asked her after the show when she introduced me to him and I took a picture of them smiling like loons together. And she said he's not her boyfriend.

So there's that.

I feel really, really good, you guys. And for the record, despite my references to 30-day chips, I am NOT, in the parlance, "going to meetings" or "working the 12 steps" or being "a friend of Bill W." Alcoholics Anonymous (probably) has helped a lot of people. And I'm a huge fan of people doing what works for them. But for me, personally, AA has three strikes against it:

1. I'm not down with the whole "giving up control to a higher power" thing. I've spent the last few years - not to mention the last 30 days - seizing control of myself, for myself. No offense to the God of my understanding, but I don't need another in a long line of father figures to chart to my course for me.

2. I don't want to sit in a room and talk to people. If you know anything about me, no further explanation is needed.

3. I'm not an alcoholic.

Don't go tripping all over yourselves to say that only an alcoholic would insist she's not an alcoholic. I'm a stupid person who stupidly developed a drinking problem. I have within me the capacity to return to said stupid behavior at any time. But I don't want to, for now. I'm enjoying being sober, I love the fact that I'm losing vodka-weight, I dig not having to sift through my brain cells every morning to figure out what I need to be embarrassed/ashamed/apologetic about from the night before.

Alcoholism is a thing. It's not my thing.

This is also not my thing, but it is extremely funny. Each to his own.

So where does that leave me?

Getting there, mainly. Getting healthy. Getting happy. Getting back to doing the things I enjoy. Getting to be part of PDaughter's senior year.

I couldn't do this without her, and Drummer Boy. And my dad, who loudly, lovingly shamed me into putting down the bottle (thank you, Daddy).

And you guys. Turns out I was lying to myself when I thought I was a better writer drunk. Maybe Hemingway actually was, but I'm not Hemingway. If you haven't figured that out.

So stick around.

When and if I make it to 60 days, I'll let you know. You'll probably know if I don't.

So.

Probably I'm About to be Out-Adulted

In just a little over 24 hours, my Precocious Daughter turns 18.

I'm staring at those words on my computer screen, hardly able to comprehend them.

Feeling a bit old, obviously.

My beautiful little girl, who was nine years old when I started this blog, is on the cusp of adulthood. Which means I've been doing this blogging crap for almost half her life.

OK, that's a little depressing, given how much little I've accomplished with it. Bleah.

So instead let's focus on her.

PDaughter was in fourth grade back then. Now she's applying to colleges.

She loved riding her Razor scooter. Now she's bugging me to buy her a car (hilarious, since her top two school choices are in New York City and Berkeley, where she will never, ever drive).

She chewed with her mouth open, making gross chomping sounds. She...totally still does that. It's a terrible habit. And it's not like I haven't tried to break her of it. Lord knows I've tried.

Hey, she's almost a grown-ass woman. She can chomp if she wants, and let the crumbs fall where they may.

Good luck winning a Nobel Prize like that, young lady.

I think it was on her tenth birthday that I first exclaimed, "I can't believe you're (age)." I've said it every year since. A teenager? Sweet Sixteen? Old enough to see an R-rated movie without me?

An actual adult?

PDaughter's voter registration card arrived in the mail a few days ago. She just missed the last local election, but she's all set for the midterms next year. My daughter can vote.

I bought her $18 in lottery scratch-offs as part of her birthday gifts. She's loved scratch-offs for years, but now if she wins she'll be able to cash them in herself. My daughter can play the lottery.

If a Hollywood talent scout or modeling agent discovers her this weekend, she can sign her own representation contract, without getting my consent.

But NOT without getting my approval. I'm still Tiger Mom, and I will protect my cub from the sleazy operators of the world as long as I can. Grrrr.

I said, hold still.

I'll never stop being her mom.

And even though she'll no longer be a child, she'll always be my child.

That's exactly the kind of treacly cliched shit I never understood until...right about now.

So tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day here in the U.S. And the day after that is PDaughter's 18th birthday.

I know I can do this, because Bestest Friend did this less than eight months ago.

As of Friday we're both old bitches with grown-up kids.

Maybe once she's out of my goddamn hair I can concentrate on growing this writing gig into something significant.

JK...she'll never be out of my hair, and if I want to grow this writing gig, it's on me as a writer to stop playing the mom-card.

Did I mention I feel old as shit to have a grown child?

Wagging finger, threatening wooden spoon, and all.

Those of you who know: How is it done? What should I do?

Happy Birthday, Precocious Daughter. I love you with all my heart. Even when you chomp.

From Diapers to Diplomas

Precocious Daughter began her senior year of high school today.

And yes, I do feel like Hans Moleman today.

I took a picture of her, so that Facebook can continue to taunt me with the memory well into my dotage. I dutifully "liked" all the pictures her friends' parents posted and wondered how all of these beautiful children grew up while none of of parents have aged a day. I made PDaughter a sack lunch and drew a "Class of 2018" doodle on it.

And then I dropped her off at school and made everybody at work listen to me expound about the wonders/horrors of having a senior for the rest of the day.

Now I'm home. But she's not. Today happens to be her dad's birthday. He picked her up after school, and she'll be home later this evening. I won't be the first one to hear how her day went. Which kind of stinks.

I realize that, because she lives with me, PDaughter's dad almost never gets to be the first to hear how her day went. I get it. But he also doesn't do her laundry, help clean her guinea pig's cage, or pay her many expenses. Possibly I'm being petty. Screw it - my little girl is not with me, and I'm kind of feeling sorry for myself.

Which brings up an important point.

PDaughter is applying to exactly one university in Texas. It is very likely that she'll end up moving to New York or Connecticut or Washington state in a year. And that will leave me on my own.

And that's terrifying.

For one thing, I don't exactly eat right when I'm by myself. And by "right," I mean "basically at all." I love cooking for PDaughter and grocery shopping for PDaughter and splurging at our favorite restaurants with PDaughter. But food doesn't interest me much when she's not involved. Tonight in her absence I ate dinner - leftovers from a meal she made for herself a couple of days ago. Without those in the fridge, I probably would have eaten a handful of peanuts and called it good.

As always, Target gets me.

Also, her various school/band/social events are about the only things that get me out of the house besides my job. I'm not a social creature. I've made so many good friends who are the parents of her classmates, but without that connection, I'd probably be a a freakish shut-in.

The Simpsons - an image for every situation.

I suck at being an adult, frankly. When I had parents, when I had a spouse, when I was raising a kid, I was golden. But I've never lived alone. I don't know how, you guys.

So what will I do?

Will I finally take the plunge into adulthood and become a fully-functioning, self-sustaining adult?

Will I immediately shack up with Drummer Boy, which might not be the best thing for either of us at this point in our lives?

Will I wither away and die like a piece of week-old romaine lettuce?

I have one short year to figure it out. I remember when a year used to feel like an eternity.

Now it's a blip on the radar of my life.

I'm not necessarily asking for advice, but if you have any, I'll listen.

Special shout-out to Bestest Friend, whose amazing daughter is beginning her first year of college. She went through all the crap I'm now going through last year. If she can survive it, I can. Best wishes to PDaughter's beautiful godcousin, and to her parents!

Back to the Groundhog

A Chuck Berry song came on the radio today...

...because of course I listen to the kind of radio stations that play Chuck Berry (yay, SiriusXM 50s on 5!)...

...and I had a thought.

I want one of these, about three feet tall and
literally wired into my brain.

The thought was about one of my favorite scenes in one of my favorite movies.

The movie is Back to the Future.

Does your teenage daughter own this poster?
Mine does. She's cool like that.

The scene is near the end of the movie, when Marty McFly, having successfully ensured his parents would marry despite his frankly inept efforts to avoid destroying the space-time continuum, breaks out a rockin' version of Chuck Berry's "Johnny B. Goode" that stuns his pre-rock and roll audience into silence. While he's tearing it up onstage, his bandmate, MARVIN BERRY, phones his cousin, CHUCK, and says to him, "You know that new sound you're looking for? Well, listen to THIS."

Thus Marty McFly invented rock and roll.

It got a big laugh in 1985 the time(s) I saw the movie in the theatre. And it's still funny. But today, it occurred to me that there's a whole other layer of meaning to this scene.

Basically, Marty McFly is trapped in a horrific Groundhog Day-style temporal nightmare.

Why do I always hear "I Got You, Babe" at exactly 6:00 a.m.?

Hear me out.

The implication of the "Enchantment Under the Sea" scene in Back to the Future is that Marvin Berry gives his cousin Chuck the inspiration for his legendary sound by exposing him to a performance of "Johnny B. Goode" before anyone has ever heard it. Right?

This suggests that Chuck Berry's distinctive, profoundly influential style would not have existed unless a time-traveling white boy had introduced him to it.

First of all, how insulting is that to the legacy of one of the main architects of R&B and rock, who developed his sound in St. Louis and Chicago in the 40s and early 50s, to suggest that he owed it all to (and ripped it off from) some middle-class white kid from 1980s SoCal?

Standard blues riff in B, watch me for the changes,
and try to keep up, OK?

I'm pretty sure that message would not McFly in 21st-century popular culture. 

#RobertZemeckisIsABigFatRacist

But even more to the point, how would Marty know "Johnny B. Goode" if he hadn't introduced it to Chuck and the world in 1955?

Chuck Berry was a legend in 1985. Of course an aspiring musician like Marty McFly would know his most famous tunes.

But if Chuck didn't play his signature style until Marty played it for him, then how did Marty know  about it before he traveled back to 1955...when he gave Chuck the idea?

Obviously, Marty McFly is stuck in a time loop, just like Phil Connors in Groundhog Day.

I mean, think about it.

How could Marty be familiar with Chuck's music unless he had at some point heard those iconic riffs in a past timeline and then gifted them to Chuck when he was stuck in 1955?

The only other explanation is that Chuck Berry developed his style himself, as history suggests he did, in the early 1950s. In which case, the seniors of Hill Valley High School would not have been stunned into silence when Marty played "Johnny B. Goode." 

Geez, you guys. Mary McFly created a temporal clusterfuck when he dared to suggest that "Johnny B. Goode" was too advanced for his white-bread audience.

He's been stuck in a time-loop for 61 years now, going back and forth between the post-rock 1980s and the pre-rock 1950s, the unwitting (and unwilling?) emissary of rock between generations.

Where is he even?

Is he learning to play the piano a la Phil? Is discovering how to woo his sweetheart through hundreds or thousands of trials and error?

Or is he just setting up two sequels?

Think about it, Drunkards.

Let me know how you feel on this subject.

Because I'm totally not down with cheating Chuck Berry out of his legacy.

If you have a better explanation for how the ending of Back to the Future went down, please let me know.

Whoa.

Survey Says

So last year I wrote this:

In 2015, I resolve to:

1. Get divorced.
2. Leave my spouse.
3. Get divorced.
4. Start a new life.
5. Commit myself fully to my dear Drummer Boy.
6. Move.
7. Get divorced.
8. Start over.
9. Leave the past behind.
10. Be happy.

Let's see how I did.

This would be better with a little Steve Harvey.
Everything is better with a little Steve Harvey.

1. Not officially divorced yet. The papers are filed, the assets (mostly) divided, custody worked out. Just not signed on the dotted line yet. 
2. Leave my spouse. Accomplished, physically, at least. Boy, it was hard.
3. Yeah, about that divorce thing. Shit got complicated with selling the house, and by the time the dust settled, it was the beginning of the holidays, and I couldn't bring myself to schedule a court date during the holidays.
4. Define "starting a new life." I mean, I think so, yeah. But maybe not. The jury is still out on this.
5. I am committed to being the kind of person Drummer Boy wants to be with. I have some work to do on myself to get there, I think.
6. I moved! I totally did that thing. It was terrifying. But I am very happy in my new, tiny space. And it turns out Precocious Daughter is a pretty awesome roommate, although I'm glad I don't have to use her bathroom.
7. Damn, I was pretty obsessed with the whole divorce thing last year at this time. Probably I should follow through and tie up that loose end in 2016.
8. Have I started over? Or have I just moved into a new phase? Good question, 2015 Chuck. I suppose 2016 Chuck will have to figure that out.
9. Leave the past behind. I mos def have not done that. I'm still dragging big chunks of it around with me. I'm not sure how much of it I want to get rid of. I've discarded a ton of things this year, for sure. But it turns out letting go of things is easier than letting go of the memories that go with them.
10. Be happy. I'm trying. In 2016 I'm going to nail this. I hope.

So I'm not exactly batting 1.000 for the year. I'm OK with that. I actually got more accomplished than I dreamed I could. 

Your turn, guys. What did you want to do in 2015? What actually happened? What's on tap for the new year? Spill it.

Bumpy

Tonight I told my next-door neighbors on both sides that Saturday is moving day.

They have been awesome neighbors. I hope the guy who is buying my house appreciates them as much as I do.

We stood outside and chatted and watched the (kind of underwhelming, tbh) blood moon rise in the east.

It was lovely.

Tomorrow begins the intensive packing up and moving out that will culminate in transporting beds and pets to the apartment.

If you're hoping to read about other topics for the next several days...you may be disappointed. I'll try to write about politics or monkeys, but honestly my mind is going to be on leaving my home, my husband, my marriage, and my life. Funny how that is.

I'm kind of psyched, but also really terrified. And still not 100% convinced that the house sale won't fall through and leave me destitute. In 10 days I'll know, one way or the other.

Ten days. Pfffft. This has been coming for almost three years. What's 10 days, right?

I don't do prayers, but if you all could maybe spare me some positive thoughts, that would be a nice thing, and I'd be very grateful.

Strap yourselves in. It's going to be a bumpy week.

A Year and...What?

One year ago today, I got drunk on tequila, slashed my right forearm with a scissors, and announced I was quitting this blog.

Whatever.

The very next day, I woke up suffering from shingles. It defined my life for the next five months. Here's my advice about shingles: Don't get it. Seriously.

Wouldn't wish shingles on my worst enemy,
honest to God.

One year later, I would say I'm 98% over shingles. I still have random, unexplained facial itching. I still experience random puffiness in my eyes and face. And I'm still terrified that it will return, full-blown and announced, at any time.

But here's what bothers me even more.

A year ago, I was drinking way too much. My marriage was over yet still in limbo. My job was frustrating. I was in love with someone but nowhere near being in a real relationship. 

I came down with, and ultimately overcame, shingles during this period. But today, exactly one year later, I am still drinking way too much. My marriage is still over yet in limbo. My job continues to frustrate me. And I'm still in love with someone but nowhere near being in a real relationship.

So my question is:

What's to keep me from slashing my arm again?

What's to keep me from waking up tomorrow in terrible pain?

Why should I believe that anything changes for the better, ever?

Fuck that, or am I wrong?

I don't plan to slash my arm open tonight, so there's that. But not much else is significantly improved. Some things are even worse. This past weekend, I finally decided to cut ties with my emotionally abusive father. I'm too goddamned old to put up with being screamed at. Fuck that. No more father in my life.

In the hottest real estate market in a decade, I'm having massive difficulties selling my house. I could blame it on my almost-ex spouse, who made it a point to never have enough money to maintain our home. But there's no point in that. Blame sucks.

I just want to be happy. And I want you to be happy. I don't want anyone to have shingles, or to be stuck in a relationship that means nothing and goes nowhere.

I do want to thank every single person who has stuck with me over the last year. You've made everything worthwhile, I swear to glob.

I hope to actually write something meaningful this year. It's all for you.

And I hope we are all well and happy. Because we all freaking deserve it.

Love you.

No blood.

Silver

Today was my 25th wedding anniversary.

That would be the silver anniversary.

It wasn't horrible.

For many years, my spouse and I have had to share the date of our wedding with several tragic events. First there was the siege on the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas, which ended on this day in 1993 with the deaths of cult leader David Koresh and 73 of his followers in a fire following an assault by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Then in 1995, Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols bombed the Alrred Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, killing 168 adults and children and causing $650 million in damange, And then in 1999, on the day after our anniversary (and just a few weeks after learning we were expecting our Precocious Daughter), two students murdered 13 people and injured 21 others at their high school in Columbine, Colorado.

Then we stopped watching the news around our anniversary.

Some people might say that April 19 is simply a snakebit date. For many years, my spouse and I chose to believe that our successful marriage was a bright spot on an otherwise blighted area of the calendar.

Until of course it wasn't.

Still, it wasn't a horrible day. We didn't even acknowledge that it was our anniversary until the end of the day, when he was about to go out for the evening. We hugged, and had a little peck, and smiled at each other. Because we can still do that.

Sunday is a day when we still try to have family time when we can. Maybe the three of us go out to lunch, or play a board game, or watch a movie. I don't know how important it is to my spouse or to PDaughter, but it's important to me.

It's very possible that once we're divorced, he won't want to have anything to do with me. I base this on the times he's said to me, "After we're divorced, I won't want to have anything to do with you."

Sometimes you have to take things literally.

So today we went to lunch as a family. We went to the comic book store together. He gave Darling Dog a bath while I took out the recycling and loaded the dishwasher. It was low-key and low-stress.

When we finally acknowledged the significance of the day, it was more sweet than bitter.

The bitter is coming.

Because once you've made it to 25 years of marriage, ending it isn't easy.

But there is sweet on the other side.

This has been our last wedding anniversary.

It wasn't horrible.

What Would YOU Do?

Yesterday I told you about my upcoming high school reunion.

Class of 1985, when we all totally,
no lie, looked exactly like this.

And I said that I probably will not be attending the reunion. But that there was also one circumstance under which I might consider it.

Here it is.

Last year, when Precocious Daughter got contact lenses, I wrote about it. And I told a kind-of-semi-not-really-related anecdote about a guy on whom I had a massive crush in high school: Erik L.

Erik was popular, talented, extremely cute. He barely knew I was alive, because I was none of those things. I got over my crush (OK, I moved on to other, equally unrequited crushes), and after high school Erik L. faded into a vague memory of someone I went to school with but never really knew.

And then I grew up to be Jennifer Garner. LOL.

Flash-forward to maybe six months ago. My darling Drummer Boy had posted something to his Facebook page, and several people had "liked" it. 

One of them was Erik L.

I was like:

Yeah, Drummer Boy and Erik L. were Facebook friends. Considering that Drummer Boy was several years ahead of us in school - and didn't graduate from our high school - I was rather dumbfounded by this strange coincidence.

So I asked him - you know, all casual-like - "Sooo...how do you know Erik L?"

And he said, "We're old friends. How do you know Erik L?"

Ummmmm.

Ummmmmmm.

There's a small part of me that would love it if Drummer Boy escorted me to my reunion, and Erik L. was there, and I could be all like, "Your old friend Drummer Boy is cool, right? Well, he thinks I'm cool. And hot. And we're together. Because sometimes crushes turn into something else. By the way, I loved it when you played 'Blackbird' on your guitar in the theater room in 1983. Turns out I'm more into drummers, though."

Right?

Snap.

Or maybe I should just move on.

I would love to show up at my reunion with Drummer Boy on my arm, though. Because he is smokin'. Also, kind, smart, funny, friendly, and personable. And smokin'.

Not that I need validation from a bunch of random 40-somethings.

What do you think, Drunkards?

Girl Talk

Here's a conversation between me and Precocious Daughter.

But first, here's a little background.

In the bathroom we share, there are two packages of, um, feminine napkins. Why the hell are they called that? I will pay an Internet dollar to anyone who sends me a photograph of them using a maxi pad to wipe their mouth after nomming on some particularly greasy pizza pie.

It's so absorbent! And fresh!

Anyway, there are two packages because PDaughter likes the pads with wings. I don't. They're the training wheels of feminine hygiene products: If you even remotely know what you're doing, they're unnecessary. Also, they tend to stick to my pubes, if you must know. And that is unpleasant in the extreme.

Shown here: Ripping a piece of tape
from your genitals.

Anyway, I don't like wings, but she does. So OK, we stock both kinds. Except that I'm not exactly running through my supply. On account of impending menopause. On account of getting old. On account of...well, I don't really know why I'm getting old. It's not something I ever considered a goal.

Woo-hoo! I win, bitches!

And tonight, there was this:

PD: We have to go to the store.

Me: Why?

PD: I need pads.

Me: But I'm so tired. Just use mine.

PD: I don't like yours. They don't have wings.

Me: It makes no difference whether they have wings or not.

PD: I like wings.

Said in exactly this tone of voice.

Me: Can't you just use mine until tomorrow?

PD: NO.

Me: You know, it's starting to look as if I'm never going to use mine.

PD: What do you mean?

Me: I mean, you've had, like, four periods since I last had one.

PD: Really?

Me: Yes, really. I think my eggs may be dried up.

PD: *does this, basically*

PD: You're all dried up! *laughs gleefully*

Me: Whatever. Get in the car.

She got her goddamn winged maxi pads. I highly resent that she even menstruates, to be honest. After all, she's only six. In my mind. 

I don't even want to think about her ever asking me what it means if she misses her period. Wings seem like a pretty good goddamn thing when you look at it that way.

Sorry, male Drunkards. I'll write about something slightly more gender-neutral next time. I promise/hope/think.