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I Watched The JLo Thing and Here Are My Thoughts

For context, I was on a plane and I had already downloaded it (it being a “show” on Amazon Prime called “This is Me…Now” in case you have a burning need to waste an hour of your life) so I figured I’d watch, because how bad could it be?

The answer, it turns out, is very bad.

Upon opening, I immediately wonder what exactly it is I’m watching. Is it a music video? JLo is talking about love, and I think she and the other dancers…live…inside a heart? It is my theory that they are supposed to be tiny people keeping a heart functioning, not to ensure that blood is properly infused with oxygen and delivered to parts of the body that need it, but instead, that the heart is capable of love, that it’s repaired when heartbroken. In case you’re not crystal clear, the heart we’re talking about here is the one you see on Valentine’s Day cards. Rainbows and bunnies and chocolates and living happily ever after love. That kind of heart. LOVE. Already, I feel a big heart-shaped (again, not the organ, but the shape) anvil should fall down and hit one of these dancers/workers on the head.

I mean, it is terrible. I check the time at the bottom of the screen and oh my good God, I am only SIX minutes in and I hate it so much. I didn’t expect it to be good, but worse than expected is arguably impressive.

Carrying on bravely (and signaling the flight attendant for champagne), now there’s a high rise apartment building where I believe Jennifer lives with the flavor of the we—sorry, sorry, I mean her boyfriend. I am not sure which boyfriend or husband this is supposed to be. It appears he is physically abusive. I wasn’t aware that was an issue in her past. There’s nothing wrong with trying to speak truth to power, but honestly, this seems like such an odd way to do it. And truly, I too have always just wanted to be in love. I can relate, but this is so dramatic it takes me right out of the story (because, again, WHAT IS THE STORY?) while I wonder what it is she’s trying to say and which guy might be represented here as they kick and punch in a choreographed manner while she sings and then, does the building explode?

Oh, okay, that part’s over. Now there’s a Zodiacal Counsel? It’s possible you don’t know what that is, so please allow me to explain what I’m seeing on the screen now. (Pause for a huge gulp of champagne.) It appears that she relies heavily upon the guidance of the Zodiac; therefore, each sign is represented by a person, and they’re wearing elaborate costumes and watching her from…space? And then they judge her choices. Shockingly, some big names have signed up for this. I spy Trevor Noah and Sofia Vergara, just to name a few. Have they signed up in jest? Do they understand what’s happening or do they also feel like they should have done some LSD before beginning this…experience?

If you can believe it, I am now only 15 minutes in. The current scene looks like perhaps we’re watching the wedding from the first time she married Ben Affleck. (Wait, did they ever get married on the first round or was it a broken engagement? Does it even matter? I refuse to Google this.)

I still don’t know if this is a musical, or a music video, or a movie, or a tv show, but what I do know is she seems INCREDIBLY SELF INVOLVED. I get it lady—you just want to find your Prince Charming and ride off into the sunset. You think no one has EVER SUFFERED LIKE YOU HAVE FOR LOVE. Except, oh I don’t know, probably more than half of women in the world who have also dated dumb guys, dated mean guys, tried to change the bad boy, married the wrong guy (maybe more than once), never found the guy, but likely don’t have your good looks, wealth, fame or connections leading to virtually unlimited possibilities. Pardon me while I try and find my tiny violin and, oh yeah, drink some more of my cheap airplane champagne while squeezed into a coach seat on Southwest. (Full disclaimer: I found the guy and he’s the love of my life and I consider myself extremely lucky. Because I did all the other stuff above before him.)

In all this madness, there is one Black guy with a British accent and talking a whole mess of shade. I have no idea who he is—a friend, a frenemy, an ex? Obviously, it’s not clear to me and probably wouldn’t be clear even if I read the “script” for this thing. He’s completely stealing the show for me. (I wonder idly how upset she might be to know that he’s upstaging her. I also wonder if there was a “script”—if so, seeing it might completely melt my brain.)

All righty, we’re on a pause from the musical portion of this travesty. Ah, it’s a montage of couples therapy with multiple dudes. I usually ADORE a montage, but of course this is horrible, so now I’m infuriated that I am not enjoying it. I think one of the partners is Sean Combs P Diddy Puff Daddy (what do we call him these days?), one is Ben, and who’s the blond? Was she ever dating a blond guy? I don’t see a vampire so what’s-his-face must not be included in the Montage of Couples Therapy Despair.

(Note: WHY THE FUCK DID TREVOR NOAH SIGN UP FOR THIS STUPIDITY.)

Twenty-seven minutes in. I feel psychotic. I believe now I am watching some type of love intervention. Seriously, Jennifer, could you be more tone deaf? You’re going to equate trying to find love with serious addictions like alcoholism and meth?

Surprise! She took the intervention seriously, and now she’s attending a Love Addicts Anonymous meeting. Thirty seconds in to her speech and I’m dying.

This is beyond pathetic. Wait for it, well of course she breaks into song and there is a choreographed number to interrupt the meeting so I have now deemed it a musical. Have I mentioned I LOATHE musicals?

What I really notice now is that her makeup and wardrobe are ON POINT. These things sort of belie the fact she’s supposed to be SO BROKEN and SO DEVASTATED by her repeated failures at love. But hey, not so messed up we might see her looking like shit in a pair of sweatpants without her hair and lash extensions while she eats a pint of ice cream in bed.

I am now 38 minutes in, and I swear I see a friend of mine named Ronne but it’s possible I’m hallucinating. (I must make a note to ask him if he was part of the cast for this….thing.) The scenery looks like NYC, so I assume this means Jenny is going back to the block, and unfortunately for me, I’m going with her.

I think this scene is meant to convey that her inner child is mad; however, Jenny is able to reassure inner child that grown up Jennifer loves her. Emphasis on think. Oh Lord, she’s singing again. The ode to her inner child sure seems like a pat on her own back—like she’s overcome SO MANY OBSTACLES to get where she is now. And I bet she has, but dating the wrong guys cannot possibly be at the top of that list. What kind of message does that send to women? (I must admit the choreography in The Block is great. Maybe I’ve had too much wine at this point.)

Forty-five minute mark: the Z Council gets super excited and proud and they say, “She did it!” Did what?!!?? WHAT DID SHE DO BESIDES CONFUSE ALL OF US?

In this scene, I think we’re supposed to give her a cookie or a round of applause or a Grammy for attending wedding solo.

(Around the point where we have 15 minutes left, my notes say: “Fuck this woman and her entitlement” and also “WTF dancing in the rain” so I’m just going to leave those here.)

Finally, this monstrosity is over. In the final scene, I think the guy is supposed to be Affleck. But I’m way more focused where her neck meets her ear and whether or not the way the skin is folded there indicates an expert facelift. There’s no judgment on the facelift itself, but lying to the public is where I get off the bus. I feel celebrities who famously appear not to age but claim not to have work done are doing the rest of us mere mortals a disservice. I digress. No clue if she’s really had work done. And let the record show if so, it was expertly done and she looks fabulous.

In sum, it seems she is trying to convey that she’s a love addict and makes poor decisions; perhaps Ms. Lopez (Mrs. Affleck?) is embarrassed that she’s been married multiple times. I’m not sure why this is so humiliating and needs to be explained or excused, but I’m even more unsure why she considered this absolute pile of dung the appropriate vehicle by which to do so.

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Cover Girls

In July of 1999 I was 21 years old and living in Manhattan with my boyfriend Matt*.

I don’t remember how we heard about Woodstock ’99. Social media didn’t exist. Maybe it was the radio or TV. But somehow, we discovered the iconic music festival from the ‘60s was back, and the lineup seemed incredible. I was a huge fan of nearly every band on the list, from Metallica to Jewel. It was an eclectic mix but fitting for an outdoor festival originating from the peaceful and loving hippies of the ‘60s.

Or so it seemed.

The venue was Rome, New York: approximately a five-hour drive from Manhattan. Being from Texas, Matt and I were used to long road trips, even though we didn’t take them anymore. Hell, we didn’t even have cars anymore.

The $150 ticket price was excruciating for me. Fresh out of college, I made $25,000 a year and lived in a shoebox with Matt. (At one point, I counted up the square footage of our apartment and was astonished at how little space we had compared to our astronomical rent.) Obviously, I was determined, and I scraped together the money for my ticket. My brother Joe hopped a flight from Austin to join us.

Obviously, the details are fuzzy now (Did we go buy a tent for the three of us? Where does one get camping supplies in Manhattan? Did we stock up on anything practical?), but there are a couple of things I recall in vivid detail. One was the Metallica show Saturday night, sitting on Matt’s shoulders, at what felt like miles from the stage. I remember thinking, “Man, they love what they’re doing.” They were performers.

The second memory is jarring. Sunday night during Red Hot Chili Peppers’ set: small clusters of people gathered around what looked like campfires but weren’t. Earlier in the day, a non-profit group handed out candles to honor the Columbine shooting victims. Instead of a reverent vigil, concert attendees were lighting anything and everything on fire. The fires were still small, but as I watched a guy take a running leap over one, I said to Matt and Joe: “Let’s go. Now. This is about to be very, very bad.” I don’t know when we had planned to leave, how long it took us to pack up or if we just left everything behind. But by the time we returned to Manhattan in the middle of the night, we turned on the TV news and saw that my prediction had been correct, except it was even worse than I had imagined.

Watching the HBO documentary recently, these atrocious details were revisited in living color. Poor planning, unhygienic conditions, angry young white men, trash being thrown at the stage while these young men chanted “show us your tits!” at every turn. I’m stunned that I don’t recall the last part. I wonder now if I tuned it out at the time, or if I’ve blocked the memory, or some combination of both. Was I somehow protected because I was with my boyfriend and my brother? As I watched the documentary, the tales of sexual assault and rape at the festival horrified me and gave me a very real sense of survivor’s guilt.

The documentary not only recapped the festival itself but put it in context of the period. I had never considered how truly odd the nineties were, and when I did speak up about it, I was told, like most women, that I was being rather stupid.

In Manhattan, I walked from my apartment each day to the subway. I haven’t visited in years so I don’t know if this is still the case, but a newsstand sat on practically every corner. Those newsstands were plastered in magazines and newspapers, but what stood out to me were the magazine covers featuring women. FHM, Maxim, Rolling Stone—they all seemed to feature a half-naked woman who looked impossibly young, impossibly sexy, impossibly perfect. I felt assaulted each single day by what I was supposed to be. Meeting up with my boyfriend and his colleagues one night at a bar, the topic came up after a few cocktails. Embarrassingly, I started sobbing about how ugly I felt; how it was a double standard because nothing like that happened to them. They stared at me incredulously and told me I was being silly and too sensitive. Matt wasn’t even kind enough lie that I was just as gorgeous and perfect as the girl on every cover.

Things like this would happen repeatedly to me over the course of my life and my relationships. One night soon after my experience in New York, at my birthday party, a different boyfriend and his friends were passing around a Rolling Stone magazine with Britney Spears on the cover, ogling her. My birthday party, my boyfriend, and I felt like an ugly duckling. My boyfriend couldn’t stand up to his friends, couldn’t tell them to lay off and put the magazine away. Humiliated yet again.

Another boyfriend a couple years later went to a strip club when he said he was elsewhere. He knew it upset me, so he lied. And if there was a lap dance, I also knew touching was likely despite his claims it wasn’t allowed. Again, a double standard: I definitely wasn’t doing anything similar with my girlfriends on a Friday night. I certainly wouldn’t have done it and lied to him.

All of this happened a long time ago. Perhaps I should attribute it to guys who were just jerks. But as the documentary pointed out, this was a unique flashpoint in culture where misogyny was celebrated and expected. In fact, when reflecting on this time, I took part in the misogyny as well. I blamed the women for stealing attention. I called them slutty, or stupid, or vapid when I really had no idea who they were as people.

We shouldn’t have been surprised that the majority of the male Woodstock attendees apparently considered it their right to see women’s naked breasts or entire naked bodies. They thought it was acceptable to touch them, to violate them without consent or permission. And society found it acceptable. Women being confronted at every moment with a barrage of images that pummeled our self-esteem, and guys “just being guys.”

Some twenty years later, we’ve made some progress in our reckoning, but we still have a long way to go.

*names have been changed

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Conspiracy Via Email

My husband was forwarded an email recently from a family member. Another family member on the same email chain told my husband that he was not using logic and facts to understand the situation in which we find ourselves as a nation. Hours after the email exchange, it kept eating at me. How many facts and how much logic are involved in this forwarded email? What if instead of clicking “forward” and “send”, he had taken five minutes to search the Internet for reliable sources to put this in perspective? So I decided to do it myself.

Notes: Email is in red, then my fact check/analysis below in black. And if you consider mainstream media to be an unreliable source, I’m unlikely to change your mind so you might as well stop reading if you ever started. You are too far gone, and don’t @ me with talk about logic and facts. You lost the argument before it even began.

The US Population is 330,000,000 and in 5 months the number of deaths was 130,000 . The number of deaths as a percent of the population is 0.03939 %, compared to the number of cancer cases diagnosed in 2019 (1,762.450) and 607,000 deaths.

This doesn’t seem far fetched because it is happening before our eyes.

These numbers are correct: At the time of this email, the United States population as 328,200,000 and the COVID-19 deaths totaled approximately 130,000, which equals approximately .04% of the population. However, then the writer contrasts COVID-19 with cancer in an attempt to show you that it’s much more serious than COVID. First of all, this isn’t an apples to apples comparison. One statistic shows the number of deaths as a percentage of the U.S. population. I think the intention of the second one is to cite the number of deaths from cancer as a percentage of cases.

So, the conclusion the author wants us to come to is basically this: cancer is far worse than COVID, and we are overreacting. I think.

However, a quick Google search brought me to a Business Insider article that compiled all the data, and found that COVID-19 was killing more Americans weekly than heart disease or cancer did on average per week in 2018. Moreover, the article is from April, and predicted that by August our death totals may be in the 60,000 range. Well, here we are: August and the total number of deaths is more than 170,000. Draw your own conclusions there.

A very well orchestrated plan, or a unimaginable set of events that just fell into place … with the United States front and center. You tell me!!

Scare people with a virus, force them to wear masks and place them in quarantine.

Count the number of dead every second of every day, in every News Headline. By the way, ninety-nine and eight-tenths of the people who get the virus, recover. About one to two tenths of one percent who get the virus, die. Most all of them have other medical problems. Did you catch that ? Less than 1/2 of a percent die.

There’s a hyper focus on death here, as if that’s the only thing that matters. I offer two thoughts: first, even if the percentage is low, does that mean you’d rather play the odds? What if your sister or husband or good friend is in that percentage?

Secondly, even if one does not die from COVID-19, they are likely still hugely affected. Someone who doesn’t have health insurance could be bankrupted by medical bills. Someone who is on a ventilator and suffers a severe case of COVID-19 is looking at PTSD and rehabilitation. What about their lost wages because they were suffering from this disease, even if they didn’t have to go to the hospital? We should be worried about people needlessly suffering when we have the power to control the situation.

Close businesses = 35,000,000+ instantly unemployed.

Remove entertainment and prohibit Recreation; Closing parks, gyms, bars, restaurants, sports.

No dating. No touching. Isolate people. Dehumanize them.

No doubt that closing businesses resulted in unemployment. It was also necessary to flatten the curve. Just look at the data from other countries that did this well. South Korea is a good example: 14,000 cases and 300 deaths, while the United States spirals out of control.

In addition, these are not permanent closures; this is supposed to be a temporary situation. It is hardly dehumanizing to ask people to make an effort to stay home during lockdown to help control a worldwide pandemic. Is this hard? Of course. But the sender of this missive doesn’t seem to grasp that this is not just about the United States. (The sender notes the “US is front and center!) Yet this is a worldwide pandemic. And we, the richest country in the world, cannot manage to  do our part, when we have the resources and the ability to do so.

Close Temples and Churches, prohibit worship. Create a vacuum and let depression, anxiety, hopelessness and desperation set in.

This is a ridiculous argument. Worship is not being prohibited because a building is closed. God doesn’t live in a temple or a church. No one is being prevented from worshipping on their own time, in their own homes. I believe at home worship is a more personal experience anyway, and a more direct connection to God. But I suspect this section is more about appearances than actual worship.

Then… ignite hatred and civil unrest, creating Civil War.

Again, this makes no sense. Who’s igniting the hatred? It’s the President of the United States. At a bare minimum, review what he’s said over the past 3.5 years. He makes derogatory comments about women, Mexicans, and Blacks, just to name a few. He calls certain places “shithole countries.” He makes up juvenile nicknames for people he doesn’t like, and tells lies about them to confuse his supporters and ensure they hate those people too. I could go on, but that’s an entirely different article.  

And these protests and civil unrest are in response to the systemic racism running rampant through the United States. Watch the video of George Floyd being pinned down. It’s cold, and it’s terrifying, and it’s time the system changed. What’s that got to do with this virus? Nothing, unless you’re a conspiracy theorist, as it appears the author of this email is.

Empty the prisons because of the virus and fill the streets with criminals.

This section is, quite frankly, utterly insane. The prisons are certainly not empty. And those who have been released are non-violent offenders and are almost finished serving their sentences. Each state has created specific criteria for those who are to be or were released. The numbers are low. Simply put, there is no deep state plot to allow criminals to run rampant through the streets.

Send in Antifa to vandalize property, as if they are freedom fighters. Undermine the law, Riot, Loot and Attack all Law Enforcement, but tell government to order a stand-down.

Blame “Antifa” and suddenly you’ve got people’s attention. A couple of actual facts: the Guardian found that they have been responsible for zero murders in 25 years of existence; a report from Reuters states that  “U.S. federal prosecutors have produced no evidence linking dozens of people arrested in anti-racism protests in Portland, Oregon, to the antifa or anarchist movements, despite President Donald Trump’s assertions they are fueling the unrest.” It’s more fearmongering and attempts to delegitimize peaceful protests, which are permitted under the Constitution.

Then… Defund Law Enforcement and abolish Police. We are all being played by those who want to destroy America! This is how you destroy a Nation from within, and in very short order. Will it work, I guess that depends on you and me.

One ludicrous claim after another. Words matter. (Just like Black lives!) Using the words “defund” and “abolish” again is intended to obfuscate and fearmonger. At a high level, the proposals involve diverting funds to other social services to allow for the proper agencies to respond to requests for help. This move would allow the police to focus on responding to the calls for which they are properly trained. In addition, some proposals call for increased mental health counseling and training for police officers.

The author of this email—and everyone who just forwards it without thinking – should be ashamed of themselves. In this age of 24/7 information, it is incumbent upon all of us to be responsible with said information. Instead of immediately typing some email addresses into the to: box and hitting send, we should be researching, thinking critically, and analyzing. It’s all too easy for us to be keyboard warriors scrolling and commenting incessantly.

The future of our democracy—currently a precarious 200 year old experiment—is at stake.

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Reality Check

Here’s what I’m supposed to be.

I shouldn’t have a line or a blemish on my face: a perfect FaceTune in real life. A full set of long, curled lashes. The perfect pout and long, shiny hair that never frizzes. My measurements should 36-24-36; not a bit of cellulite.

I’m supposed to be a runner, a weightlifter, a downhill champion skier, the girl who gets up a 5 a.m. to go to boot camp. I should eat kale, and quinoa, grilled fish and chicken.

Cultured. I would enjoy visits to a museum or an art gallery. Maybe learn a new language. I could take up the guitar.

I should be volunteering at the food bank or taking pro bono cases for those who can’t afford it. Maybe work at the community garden. I would never forget the reusable bags for the grocery store. And definitely bike to work three times a week.

I should work 60 hours a week, and if I have downtime, I should be studying articles about the law, my industry, management. I should create new projects and initiatives. I should work weekends. My job should be my passion.

If I were perfect, my husband and I would always hold hands, make love spontaneously and often. I wouldn’t ever go makeup free in yoga pants and sit on the couch. If I were perfect, I would have great friends, and a best friend. We would have these elaborate parties and get togethers and have great talks over coffee.

Here’s who I am.

I have cellulite on my thighs. I have lines on my face. My hair frizzes when the humidity hits 40%. But my husband says I’m gorgeous, sometimes in the morning when I’ve just woken up and I have not a stitch on, nor any makeup on my face. I have my dad’s long straight lashes, and my mom’s freckles. My grandmother’s dark brown eyes, almost black. Those lines on my face: some are frown lines, but perhaps far more are laugh lines.

I hate running. Lifting weights bores me. But I work out nearly every day. Sometimes, I get up at 5:45 am to go to a gym class that challenges me. (It usually involves weights.) If I don’t get up early, I go to the gym after work. I am one hell of a downhill skier. I am a pretty decent mountain biker. Each day at work when my Fitbit reminds me to get up, I walk the floor. Sometimes, I take the stairs.

I am flawed. I drink too much. I don’t want to learn French. I just want to sit on the couch and watch old episodes of Felicity. I tried the guitar once. But I meal prep on the weekends. I have a budget. I have a weekend checklist of productivity. My idea of a fabulous Sunday afternoon involves mimosas, and my husband, and some of our friends, and laughter, and my favorite wedges, and a hip new restaurant, or the one across the highway from our house where everyone knows us and we sit at the bar.

Every once in a while, I do take a pro bono case. Every couple of years, I take a family law case and help women free themselves from a marriage that stopped working long ago. Every once in a while, I volunteer to help green card holders apply for citizenship.

I don’t work 60 hours a week. When I have downtime at work, I pick up my phone and scroll through social media, or read an article in the Washington Post. I wasn’t in the top 10% of my class in law school. Sometimes, though, I read the bar journal magazine. Almost always, I do good work. Always, I am a good employee, a good colleague, a good manager.

My husband and I can go a whole day without touching except a quick peck on the lips to say hello or goodbye. But that’s not every day. We love each other with passion. We have fun together. We talk, we laugh, we plan, we dream. We are a true team, a partnership. We take care of each other. Perhaps most importantly, we are friends.

I invited a bunch of people to my fortieth birthday party in Vegas. Three people came. And sometimes people who I thought were my friends…aren’t. But my mom is my dear friend, and she is a wonderful person who is slow to judge and quick to compliment. I could not love that woman more. And I am still friends with a girl who lived across the street when we were just babies. Another one, from first grade – has a baby and lives in New Orleans and doesn’t drink anymore – but when we’re in the same room it’s like no time has passed at all, and we let each other be…each other. I found some wonderful ladies in a car group. I found an unexpected friend at a workout class. I have lovely friends who stood up at my wedding and who I’m confident will be by my side forever. And with all of these friends: we get together, and we laugh. Over booze, or coffee.

Sometimes, I eat the freaking cupcake.

Sometimes, I give myself a break.

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Cats Are Assholes

03.28.2017

Look, I’m just going to say it: I think most cats are assholes. I hate to admit that I feel this way, as I tend to be open minded about most things. I’m not into newer country music, most sports, many theme parks, carrot cake or that guy who plays Sherlock, but I can definitely see why people like these things. I recognize that we all find different things appealing and that is good. It’s what makes the world interesting! And I am usually able to get along with just about anybody, even people who seem to have no sense of humor, other than the laughter that comes at other people’s expense. Do you know the type of person I’m talking about? Is it my imagination or are there more of them lately? They are not fun or funny, but they *think * they are. Ugh. I’ve had to deal with more than a few of those folks in my life and they are extremely tiring to endure for long periods and only barely manageable in small doses. I generally just nod and smile and make affirmative sounds near them, until I can get away. Much like I do with cats. Which was the subject I was on, before I digressed. I often digress. I have no illusions about my endurability to others, but thankfully I like my own company. But cats? They suck. There, I just threw that down. Boom!

I know that some people admire the “don’t give a fuck” attitude that cats seem to have, but not me. That attitude doesn’t make me want to win them over, it convinces me even more that they are assholes. It’s not that they aren’t cute assholes. They are adorable! I love pictures of cats, especially in clothing, but even uncostumed, they are pretty damn cute. I don’t love that they will walk on your counters and tables and not even give a shit that you don’t like it and think it’s probably unsanitary. I don’t love that they poop and pee in a box that you have to clean frequently so that your home doesn’t smell like an indoor zoo exhibit. But I could deal with those issues.

Here’s what I can’t deal with: I hate that cats ALWAYS approach me. Always. They meow at me and look irresistably sweet. They rub up against my leg as if to say, “I reeaaally like you. Pay attention to me. Give me pats.” And I always acquiesce even though I know how it’s going to end. I pat them for a while, they purr and seem oh-so happy, they snuggle up to me and relax. And then, out of nowhere, those cute little motherfuckers will bite me. Almost every time! If they don’t bite me at this point, it just means that this is a long con, where they are going to bite me six months or a year from now when I trust them more. Hmm….this is sounding scarily similar to my history with men. Given this, you would think that I’d be all, “Cats just seem right to me for some reason. I don’t know why, but I just love them so much.” But no. My heart belongs to doggies.

Dogs are just as cute as cats, but they are unabashed in their adoration. They will wag and jump and seem absolutely crazed to see you, even if you’ve just re-entered a room you walked out of five minutes ago. Dogs will go on a walk with you and make you slow down (while they sniff and pee on stuff, it’s true) so that you actually see all the pretty trees, flowers, yard art and other people in your neighborhood. But you won’t have to talk to them, because dogs try to protect you. My crazy ten pound Josie will get in front of me and bark and growl ferociously at anyone who dares approach me when we are out walking. While I doubt that she has saved my life in this way, she has almost certainly saved me from countless uninteresting conversations. Dogs will happily play fetch with you or wade in a creek, but they are also happy to sit next to you and watch a Netflix marathon. And dogs look even better than cats in clothes. If they love you, they will totally let you dress them and take photos to send your friends and post on instagram. Dogs are not sneaky at all about wanting your food. They are never subtle. All I’m saying is that dogs are sweeter, snugglier, more helpful, more loyal and just generally better than cats.

I know that people will disagree and may try to change my mind, but ironically, my personality is more like a cat’s than a dog’s and I will not care at all. Maybe this attitude is why so many cats approach me. They know I’m a kindred spirit. An asshole who deserves a good chomp every once in a while. They probably aren’t wrong.

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I Don’t Know

04.24.2019

“I don’t know how you do it!” If I had a dollar for every time I heard those words, I could actually hire someone to help me do it. Or hire someone to do it for me and then I could lay in my bed and read (#goals).  I heard these words again this week and I find them oh-so irritating.  Because let’s be real: A) You aren’t actually impressed with what I’m doing and B)You don’t really want to know how it’s done.

Welcome to my latest rant!

At best “I don’t know how you do it!” is just one of those things that people spit out when they really don’t have anything to say, but feel the need to talk anyway.  As a lifelong introvert, I particularly dislike this kind of happy horse shit and fervently wish that people would stop polluting the air with meaningless words (yes, I’m also a bit of an asshole). It’s much like “You’ve got your hands full!” or “Is it hot enough for you?” or “How about that exciting sportsball whatever?” (not an actual thing, just what sports-talk sounds like to me).  I do understand the need for human connection, so I will try not to act like an asshole when I hear these things in their benign, friendly tones, and will probably just nod vaguely and move on with my life.  You’re welcome.

At worst, “I don’t know how you do it!” has a little snotty tone to it that betrays the not-very-well hidden message of “Your life sounds so shitty to me.  Glad I’m not you!” I’ve received way too much of this in the past 4 years, what with my surprise divorce and years of piloting a hideously ugly minivan, not to mention the constant presence of multiple boychildren, who belong to me and are always wilding nearby.  You’d think I’d be used to it, but much like those situations where people tell you that you “look tired” when they really mean that you look ugly or disheveled to to them, IT GRATES.  I get that “tired” one a lot too, because I’m a single parent in my 40s and hell yes I’m tired.  I usually just respond with, “I AM tired, thanks so much for noticing!” and raise my coffee cup to the asshole who said it, because really? Who doesn’t know they are tired?  Who needs it pointed out?  Nobody, that’s who.

I suppose “I don’t know how you do it!” is a bit better than “You look tired!” because faux admiration is surely better than faux concern.  But honestly they both suck.  Especially when said with a smug smile and little headshake.  Yeah, I saw that.  Thanks!

I guess it’s possible that some people are actually wondering how I accomplish some of the unremarkable things in my life.  Well I have answers to some of the “I don’t know how you…” comments I’ve heard recently.  Here you go:

I don’t know how you do that long-ish and trafficky commute to your job with the very inflexible schedule EVERY weekday!  I sure couldn’t do that!    

Answer:  Oh I bet you could do it, if you had the motivation of it being the only means of your getting health insurance and the paycheck that provides food and a home for you and your children.  And even though I do not love being in the car for 45 minutes in the morning and an hour at night to go 11 damn miles, it’s actually super easy to do.  I just get in the car (no longer a minivan!!) and put on a podcast like My Favorite Murder or a sweet (possibly yacht rock) playlist and then I drive while trying not to hit anything or swear too obviously at the other commuters until I get to work.  Then I do it again at 5.

I don’t know how you ran that half marathon!  Who has time to train?  Plus running is so boring…especially on a treadmill.  And aren’t you worried about your knees?

Answer: Running isn’t for everyone, but I love the way it makes me feel wrung out and happy and way less crazy.  I fit it in to my already packed schedule, because being less crazy is a high priority for me. So I turn down other things or get up really early in order to do it.  Bonus: the effects of running have (so far) kept me from throwing things at annoying people who tell me I look tired or ask me stupid questions while criticizing my choice of hobby.  It’s a win/win for society!  The actual doing it is a deceptively simple process of getting up out of a seated position, putting on running clothes and shoes and moving forward while listening to another awesome playlist that I compiled in my head during my long-ass commute.  My knees seem to be holding up fine.  I am not worried about them.

I don’t know how you handle parenting your three crazy sons!

OK, this one may be legit, because my children are nutsy and loud and they all talk at once and want my personalized attention at all times.  They also never walk when they can roll, flip or climb something and jump off of it and getting anywhere with them is exhausting and probably much like herding cats.

Answer:  I’m not very good at it.  That’s why I look tired.  Having three kids was not the smartest move for my temperament and if I’d known that I’d be alone with them most of the time and that they’d all be energetic boys, I might have rethought the whole endeavor.  But I’m lucky that I didn’t know what my future would hold, because I adore them in all their craziness. They are truly my life’s best reasons.  I may sometimes look like I’m not extra thrilled with it, but that is because I am so damn tired all the damn time.  But it’s good. We’re all doing just fine.

And that’s the point of my rant.  My life, while not everyone’s cup of tea, is very good and I’m fairly happy.  Nobody really needs to know how I do it.  I just do it, because it’s what needs to be done and who cares? It all works for me.  Everybody has things in their life that they don’t particularly enjoy and that other people would find distasteful or downright horrifying.  But they get them done because that’s what they need to do to make their lives work.  If you haven’t had to make the best of some shitty situations recently, that’s great!  But don’t get too smug, because life is unpredictable.

If you think that someone’s life looks unpleasant, you do not need to let them know.  If you must say something, you could try to be helpful with “This seems hard, is it?  Can I help in some way?”  Or if you are truly impressed with the way someone is handling the challenges in their life you could give them some encouragement like “You are doing a great job!” or “I admire the way you did that.” Those are nice things to hear.  Or you could send them a lovely Starbucks gift card! Tired people love those.

Thank you for reading my rant.

Posted on

Be Better

9.26.2018

I am raising three sons.  Man, just typing that made me tired. It is not easy and I worry constantly that I’m not doing it well or that I could be doing better.  I feel like I get things right about fifty percent of the time.  And I suppose the other half can be classified as “learning experiences.”   Oh yes, learning experiences a-plenty, every day!  And I’m not even halfway through their childhood.  There is no chance in hell that I’m going to give up caffeine in the next 10 years.  Please feel free to send Starbucks gift cards my way.

 I have an overarching goal in my parenting: I’m trying my absolute best not to raise assholes.  World, you’re welcome! My boys know I have high standards…not for cleanliness (don’t come over if a clean floor is on your “must haves” list) but for many other things.  For example, two of my children are able to communicate with me by text these days, and as everyone knows I do not appreciate texts with bad grammar and stupid texting language.  My boys know that they better fix their spelling and under no circumstances are they allowed to “K” me.  I know it’s not how everybody feels, but I do and that is the way I want to be treated. I have made that clear. Stupid texting language is a smack to my eyeballs.  Be better or don’t text me.  It’s a boundary I have set and so far they respect it.  

I’ve always set boundaries with them.  I think when you care about someone, it is important let them know how you want to be treated.  And learning to respect people’s boundaries is one of life’s more important skills. My kids were never allowed to demand things from me.  If they demanded, they did not receive.  From the time they were toddlers, I expected them to say “please” if they asked me for something and “thank you” after I gave it to them.  They might be loud and crazy little hooligans, but they damn well better be polite little hooligans.  I didn’t want them to think I was their personal servant, just because I was their mother.  I want it to be clear that I am a separate person from them and while I am happy to help them and do things for them, they need to show appreciation and not entitlement.   I’m also no nonsense when it comes to talking about or touching other people’s bodies.  I’ve made sure that my kids know that their bodies belong to them and other people’s bodies belong to other people.  That you don’t get into someone’s space or touch them without permission. That you can tell people when you don’t want a hug and they can tell you the same.  This does not prevent them from trying to beat the crap out of each other multiple times a day, but apparently they are more respectful of the space and bodies of their peers. It’s not a total win, but it’s not a loss!

I’ve also tried to hammer home the point that one’s commentary on someone else’s body or looks is unnecessary and not good conversation.  I am mindful to not make careless remarks about other people’s looks or weight around my sons.  They know that I think that jokes about someone’s looks are stupid and that people who make those jokes are trying to deflect from their own poor self esteem.  And that poor self esteem is probably warranted because they don’t know how to carry on a good conversation or tell a funny joke.  I want them to be better than that. 

I’m thinking of all of this as I try to figure out how and why so many men seem stunned that women’s bodies are not there for the taking or for their inspection and critique. And they are shocked and dismayed that women are speaking up about this and deeming it unacceptable. How on earth did they not know this?   And what does this mean for me, when raising sons?  If so many men are surprised that we women do not enjoy being groped in the middle of a conversation or that we wouldn’t be thrilled to see their penises at work or that hearing denigrating comments about women’s bodies is insulting to all of us, does that mean that at some point my sons will be shocked by this too?  Or is society changing so much that they will see girls and women as equals?  There are still school dress codes that are geared toward female students’ attire, under the assumption that even today’s boys have so little self control that they will not be able to learn if they see a girl’s collar bone or too much of her leg or *GASP* a bra strap.   I expect better from my sons.  It is natural to want to look at people you find attractive or interesting, but then you need to move your eyes to your school work and get on with it, because that’s what you are there for and your classmates do not exist for your ogling.  Don’t be a creepy asshole.   

I’ve been hearing about a lot of people who feel that #metoo has turned into a witch hunt and that it’s ruined romantic interactions between men and women.  Obviously, I don’t agree.  Women don’t want to be treated in a subhuman way. This doesn’t mean that all women no longer want to interact romantically with men, it means we don’t want to be considered prey anymore.  We are not targets, we are people and we have our own boundaries, needs and desires and we’d like them to be heard and respected.  Instead of whining about the unfairness of it all, a mature response might be to look at your own behavior.  I wish that everyone would ask themselves some key questions: How have you treated other people when you wanted something from them?  How do you talk about other people and their bodies and their sexuality?  Has the word “slut” or some other derogatory term come out of your mouth when you were talking about a girl or woman? (I suppose you could say this about a boy or man, but let’s be realistic, these terms are meant to denigrate women.) Have you touched someone in a way that was unwelcome?  Did you immediately stop at that point or did you continue?  Have you tried to coerce someone into sex when they were telling you verbally or non-verbally that they were not interested in having sex with you? Were you paying attention to what they wanted?  Did you care? Because you should, if you don’t want to be an asshole!  

If you aren’t a predatory creep (and let’s throw caution to the wind and assume that most people aren’t) then it really comes down to: 1) Treating everyone as if they were a separate human being from you and therefore knowing that they have their own needs and desires that may not match yours. 2) Paying attention to that person’s words and actions and responses to you.  3) Caring about what that person’s words and actions mean, even if it disappoints you and is the opposite of your wishes.  4) Respecting that other person’s boundaries and walking away if that is indicated.  Four step process, guys. You can even skip the Step 3 “Caring” part if you’re kind of an asshole, but not a complete one.  You can even do this if you’re drunk.  If you find that you are too drunk to do this, you can call a car service to come get you and take you home so that you don’t assault or harass someone.  What a time to be alive! It’s just that easy.  It really just comes down to noticing what the other person in your interaction wants and making that as important to you as fulfilling your own desires. If you have a question about what that person wants, you might have to come right out and ask.  But then you will have a really good chance of knowing the answer.  It’s a win-win.

But you know, you can even be better than that if you are brave enough.  I think a lot about those guys who were out biking and stopped the assault Brock Turner was committing.  They saw something wrong and they stopped it.  I wish this wasn’t so surprising to me.  They didn’t choose to mind their own business, because a guy was getting “twenty minutes of action” and it would break some sort of guy code to prevent that from happening.  And I bet there were people who watched creepy Brock leave with a woman who was too intoxicated to walk steadily.  Just like there were probably people at that house party 35 years ago who watched two drunk and aggressive guys follow their female friend up to the bathroom.  And apparently there were people in a dorm room watching  and saying nothing while their shitty drunk frat brother waved his dick in their drunk female friend’s face and told her to kiss it.  And I hope that this is changing and that people (men specifically, but women too) aren’t afraid of being called a cock blocker if it means that they can help prevent an assault.   I think there will always be entitled garbage people in the world who see other humans as conquests and who will do whatever they can to get what they want. They are not looking for a mutually satisfying interaction with another person, they care about their own needs, only.  If this is you, then you are at best an asshole and at worst a predator and you probably should hate #metoo, because it’s going to put a crimp in your lifestyle.  I certainly hope most people are not like that.  But you don’t have to be a bystander, either.  And you could even be a stand-up person who says something when you see terrible behavior taking place.  I’m hoping to raise stand-up men.  The world needs more of them.