Youve Got To

I want to discuss butternut squash. Tomorrow.

I’m going to cheat today. Because occasionally I read something and walk away from it just shaking my head in wonder, because the words are already my thoughts. There is nothing I could write today that could be any more beautiful than the following from an unknown male author. I wish I could meet him. The lessons and advice are in there for you to pluck out at will, or ignore. Butternut squash tomorrow, I promise.

“And kid, you’ve got to love yourself. You’ve got

to wake up at four in the morning, brew black

coffee, and stare at the birds drowning in the

darkness of the dawn. You’ve got to sit next to

the man at the train station who’s reading your

favorite book and start a conversation.

You’ve got to come home after a bad day and burn

your skin from a shower. Then you’ve got to wash all

your sheets until they smell of lemon detergent

you bought for four dollars at the local grocery

store. You’ve got to stop taking everything

so personally. You are not the moon kissing

the black sky. You’ve got to compliment someone’s

crooked brows at an art fair and tell them that

their eyes remind you of green swimming pools in

mid July. You’ve got to stop letting yourself get

upset about things that won’t matter in two years.

Sleep in on Saturday morning and wake yourself up

early on Sunday. You’ve got to stop worrying

about what you’re going to tell her when she finds

out. You’ve got to stop over thinking why he stopped

caring about you over six months ago. You’ve got to

stop asking everyone for their opinions.

Love yourself, kiddo. You’ve got to love

yourself.”

-Unknown

Flip Those Bricks

(Preface: There are some updates on my website. The lead-ins are now in my words, and I have a few pictures in my gallery. I’ve been told to not load too many pictures or it will slow down the efficiency of my website. Let me know if you have any trouble. Announcement: I have made the decision to take travel out of the The (Not) It Girl, and run a separate travel blog. More soon).

There’s this little flippy desk calendar on my kitchen windowsill which gives me a new positive affirmation every day. Last Monday’s was:

Whenever anything mediocre or lame happens to you, meet it with the statement, “This is good, because…” and fill in the blank.

I don’t believe in mediocre or lame; rather, I believe that there are things that happen in life, and things that don’t. I figure we either encourage upheaval in our lives, or we accept that unfortunate events are just descending bricks in a game of Jenga. Bricks that sometimes need to be…flipped around.

Remember the pressure of Jenga? The bricks move down so fast, and you have to quick figure out how to play around with the shapes in order to make them fit. And if you hesitate, panic or overreact, suddenly you’re left with an ill-fitting brick that ruins the entire structure.

Overreacting. We all do it. We know it only makes things worse, but we overreact anyway. We jam lame bricks into ill-fitting spaces, and then wonder why our life balance is off. Expensive car maintenance? Jenga brick. Bad report card? Jenga brick. The loss of a job, a crashed website, unexpected bills, vacation traffic, addiction, work conflict, a break-up, death or illness of a family member, brick, brick, brick, brick and more bricks.  Instead of flipping the bricks accordingly to fit into our lives, we just let them drop indiscriminately where they will.

And then the bricks hit the fan.

Suddenly the problem that could have been dealt with calmly, even diffused reasonably and efficiently, balloons to a twisted caricature of its former self. Then we involve the people in our lives in the drama, and get them all good and worked up so that they will go home and involve even more people, who will then involve even more. All for a problem that should have remained our problem and our problem alone.

So now the problem isn’t just our problem, and finally, FINALLY, we are satisfied. Because we are no longer alone in our suffering. We’re not the only ones pissed, or stressed, or aggravated. Misery, after all, loves company.

What craziness.

(Reader note: of course there are some problems in life that need to be shared with friends, family or colleagues so as to figure out the best solution. Jammed copiers. Family strife. Cancelled flights. My point is to keep the drama as minimal as possible).

As I completed this exercise all last week, it wasn’t the big stuff that got to me, surprisingly enough. It never is. It’s the small little minutia. Stupid shit. Like my AT&T bill, for example.

I know AT&T wants me to pay electronically. All the companies do, because it takes human effort to rip checks out of the envelope, and they don’t want to pay humans to rip checks out of envelopes.

But I’ll never give it up.

If snail mail makes me old-fashioned, then so be it. I like going to the post office to buy cool stamps. I like affixing cool address labels onto unique envelopes from the Paper Source. I like dropping my outgoing mail into the mailbox. I like using my big chunky (free!) calculator from the VFW to balance my checkbook. I like using my favorite pen for my checkbook entries. I find the whole experience very satisfying. So if they think they’re going to convince me to give all that up, they’re deluded.

The payback is that they make it as difficult as possible for me to open my bill.

Most bills you can open up and peek in to see when they’re due. Not the AT&T bill. The AT&T bill needs to be taken completely out of the envelope. Then flipped around to the other side. Then opened up and fanned out. Then and only then can you access the small perforation that displays the due date in size 2 font.

For some reason it enraged me more than usual last week. So I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and wrote down:

This is good, because…it’s a small price to pay for the liberty of paying my bills with a real check.

Hey, I thought. I feel better. Let me try another one.

When I physically missed the ball while golfing with my son:

This is good, because… I was considering trying out for the Senior LPGA and now my low self-esteem will prevent me from doing that for yet another year.

When I spotted dog doo-doo in my yard:

This is good, because…now that I know summer people are back, they can’t sneak up on me. And besides, I love dogs more than grass.

When I have to drive behind slow-driving confused tourists and snowbirds driving 12 mph while looking at rentals or running errands:

This is good, because…It’s fucking not good. It’s annoying as shit.

Try again.

This is good, because…

This is good, because…

This is good, because…I am not currently getting carjacked nor am I on fire. My car is not riddled with bullet holes as a result of warring factions. I don’t dig drainage ditches. I don’t live in L.A. No one has toilet papered my house in years. I am able to steer with my hands and break with my feet because I do not have necrotizing fasciitis.

Yeah. This is good.

Sawgrass

(Publishing this on Sunday afternoon because there is a prediction in here)

I’m not sure how to fit my history with the game of golf into one blog post, but I guess the day after TPC Sawgrass is as good a time as any. At the writing of this, I’m predicting a Lee Westwood win. (PS on Monday- great show JT congrats~)

Just as Catholicism, the Eagles, the military and big Italian Sunday dinners defined my childhood, so did golf. My father was an avid player, on the golf course most weekends. I don’t remember my mom complaining about it, but then again, it was a different time. When he wasn’t working or on the golf course, he was hitting whiffle-ball golf balls in the yard, letting me shag for him. Our household was filled with Golf Digest, and the names of my father’s favorites are burned into my brain forever: Arnold. Jack. Tom. Lee. Greg, Payne, Hale, and my personal all-time favorite, Freddie Couples.

I started playing golf in my early twenties, but really learned the game well while on my honeymoon in Hawaii. My husband was an extremely good golfer, and while in Hawaii, we often played 18 holes a day. And it was in Hawaii that I learned the most important part of the game.

Golf etiquette.  

When you play 18 holes a day for two weeks with a strict and highly proficient teacher, you learn quickly, or you get in trouble. One day in Hawaii while we were waiting in back of a foursome of men to tee off, I decided to head up to my red tees, which were way off to the side.

“Don’t do that,” he warned. “If someone slices, he’ll take your head off.” But filled with newly-wedded bliss, I cluelessly headed up to my tees anyway, hearing him mutter something along the lines of, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Well. Someone sliced it. And the ball deflected off one of the golf cart posts, narrowly missing my skull by mere inches. He laughed so hard all day that I’m pretty sure I was pouty by the time we went to the luau. He was a “told you so” kind of guy, and milked it pretty hard.

But I learned my lesson that day, and many more since then.

Never move up to your tees until the people in back of you are done hitting. Never hit up on anyone. If you and your partner’s balls are in different areas, take all the clubs you need so you don’t have to walk back to the cart and inconvenience people behind you. Don’t walk in anyone’s putting line. Keep your shadow out of someone’s putting line. You putt first if you’re far. Mark your ball. Tend the flag. Hit two inches behind the ball if you’re in a sand trap, and always follow through. Rake the sand. Fix your divots. One mulligan is all you get. Hit it where it lies. Take a drop. Pitch it out onto the fairway from the woods with a four-iron. Ninety-degrees with the golf cart. You can look for your ball for three minutes, and three minutes only. If you don’t want to hit it in the water, aim for the water. Hood it. Close your clubhead. Open up your clubhead. Pitch it up. Pendulum swing. Study the line. Choke up on it. Swing through it. And for God’s sakes, Mary, KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN.

I can still hear his voice in my head. Ready golf, Mary. Ready golf. Ready golf. I may not be the best golfer, but I am the most considerate. That’s because I was taught by a considerate golfer. And as spring arrives, and the golf courses become more and more jammed (especially due to people picking up the game in droves due to COVID-boredom), it is easy to spot the golfers who understand golf etiquette and the ones who don’t. For those of us who have been playing and improving and honing for thirty or more years, it is very frustrating.

But no matter, because golf is an inclusive sport, not an exclusive one. Besides, the old axiom holds true: Golf is like sex. You don’t have to be good at it to enjoy it.

But it helps.

I sit here on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, as I did Saturday afternoon, without having played one minute of golf, not even on the driving range, all weekend. This is an anomaly. I’m never home on weekends. But I have not been able to take my eyes off of TPC Sawgrass. The leaderboard is just too impressive to miss one minute, and with only one hour until the leaders tee off, the fight to the finish today is what many people expected:

A Bryson-Westy Sunday rematch.

I honestly don’t know who to root for. My son is all about JT, and even though I’m a huge DJ fan (a huge fan of his whole Gretzky in-law family, to be honest), DJ is long gone. Sergio moved down. Phil is nowhere to be found, Ricky didn’t make it past the gate, and poor Rory. He’s so awesome, and what a gentleman. But what did the announcers say?

Bryson lives rent free in Rors’ head.

I like Bryson. A lot. He reminds me of Mike Trout in an Irish linen cap. He’s young, and virile, and cocky and arrogant, with a million-watt smile. What’s not to like? He may be brash, but he’s young. He looks like a nice, sweet, spoiled smiley-boy with a mom who loves him. I’ve watched enough this weekend to know that his work ethic is unparalleled. After a day of golf, when all the other golfers retreat to the club lounge, or to their lavish hotel suites, Bryson is practicing in the dark long after others have bid good-bye to the day’s activities.

Can’t fault the kid for that.

And then there’s gorgeous Lee. Lee with the dimples. Lee, whose fiancée Helen is his caddie. Lee the silver fox, whose time has come. He is primed to win a major. But is Sawgrass a major? Golf announcers say it should be, and if Lee wins it, they should make it one, so he has it on his resume.

So it’s the seasoned veteran vs. the Newbie. England vs. United States. Lee leads to start the day at 13-under. 72 to shoot par at Sawgrass, and Lee hasn’t made a bogey since his tenth hole on Thursday. Can he continue to hold steady and consistent, or will Bryson exert pressure? I will make a prediction here and now that Lee’s experience will outlast Bryson’s powerful drive and brash youth.

No matter what happens, one thing holds true: All paths to victory begin and end at 17.

Let Me Explain…

This post was initially supposed to be a: List of Things I Do That Make Me Feel the Need to Explain Myself to Others

I thought it was funny, since I don’t explain any of my choices to anyone, ever. I have reached that fabulous age of 54 at which I am happy to report I give no fucks what people (save my children) think about me or my choices. Literally none. I never really did, to be honest. I did the dog-and-pony show when the boys were younger, but that show has left the fairgrounds, to be honest. I have reached a beautiful dangerous level of freedom.

Here’s the original list.

Feeding change into the coin dispenser in the supermarket:

Me explaining to an acquaintance who is walking by: “Whenever our piggy bank gets full, I change the coins and give my sons gas money. It’s not like I’m using it to pay the electric bill…”

Driving anywhere when a police officer appears anywhere near me:

Me talking subliminally to police officer: How do you do? I’m doing well. I’m not speeding, and I’m wearing my seatbelt. Look how upright my posture is, and how I make a complete stop. I want you to be proud of me. Are you proud of me? Thank you for your service.”

Bringing clothes to Salvation Army:

Me talking to surveillance camera: Just some old clothes. Nothing to see here.

Getting a table for one so as to get some work done out of the house:

Me to hostess/waitress: “Well, Starbucks seating is closed. I just need to get some work done, and I want to have a drink. I promise to leave in the 90-minute seating limit.”

Buying six candles in Yankee Candle because they’re Buy Three Get Three Free:

Me to cashier: I like candles. A lot.

So eventually, my research on not giving a fuck eventually led to Mark Manson. Anything about giving fucks leads to Mark Manson. Here’s one of his best quotes:

You and everyone you know are going to be dead soon. And in the short amount of time between here and there, you have a limited amount of fucks to give. Very few, in fact. And if you go around giving a fuck about everything and everyone without conscious thought or choice- well then, you’re going to get fucked.

If you’ve never read Mark Manson’s The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck, don’t take it the wrong way. He’s not suggesting you begin to rob banks, neglect your children, or tell people off in the grocery store. No. What Manson is saying is that you should choose your fucks carefully.

Times when saying “I don’t give a fuck” is the wrong response:

“Yo, dude, you’re getting audited.”

“Mom, my car broke down on the side of the road in upstate New York.”

“There’s a rat in the kitchen.”

“I love you.”

Since I’m eager to begin my weekend, I’ll leave you today with a few more Mansonisms and move on. If you want to learn more about how not to give a fuck, pick up his book. And as you go into the weekend, remember: choose those fucks carefully. I know I do.

The desire for more positive experience is itself a negative experience. And, paradoxically, the acceptance of one’s negative experience is itself a positive experience.

Life is essentially an endless series of problems. The solution to one problem is merely the creation of another.

When we give too many fucks, when we choose to give a fuck about everything, then we feel as though we are perpetually entitled to feel comfortable and happy at all times, and that’s when life fucks us.

Maturity is what happens when one learns to only give a fuck about what’s truly fuckworthy.

And finally:

There is a simple realization from which all personal improvement and growth emerges. This is the realization: that we, individually, are responsible for everything in our lives, no matter the external circumstances. We don’t always control what happens to us. But we always control how we interpret what happens to us, as well as how we respond. Whether we consciously recognize it or not, we are always responsible for our experiences. It’s impossible not to be. Choosing to not consciously interpret events in our lives is still an interpretation of the events in our lives.

There Goes My Life

On Tuesday I saw an email from my satellite radio inquiring about my mood.

How nice, I thought. I clicked on it.

“What’s Your Mood Today, Mary?” it asked. “Let us help match music to your mood! Just click here!”

“Well, to be honest,” I thought to myself as I clicked, “I’m feeling a bit bemused. Befuddled. Quixotic, at times. Disgruntled earlier, and smarmy a little while after that. Now I am settled into a nice solid mood of disorientation.”

Wondering if there was a playlist for any of those moods, I scrolled and was disappointed to see that none of my moods were represented in the list.

There was “Nostalgic,” the winner at 28%. “Totally Chill” at 26%. “Mixed-Up” at 23%. And “Pumped” with 23%.

I clicked “None of these.”

“Ok,” Sirius said. “What would you like to be doing right now? Sitting at a beach bar, wandering through an empty museum, sitting in a quiet room with a book or dancing on a loud dance floor?”

Normally either the empty museum or quiet room would win, hands down. But Tuesday gave me a touch of spring fever, and I found my mind wandering to thoughts of my favorite beach bar in Cocoa Beach. You can walk off the sand, walk up a set of stairs, and in a matter of minutes be holding a mojito and listening to reggae.

I’d love to be there right now, I thought. I clicked “Sitting at a beach bar.” Sirius told me, “Mary, here is your personal playlist!” I clicked “Play,” and settled in to work and enjoy some music.

The playlist began innocently enough with some Luke Bryan and older upbeat Josh Turner, like “Why Don’t We Just Dance” and “Hometown Girl.” Then came Jack Johnson’s “Banana Pancakes” and some Michael Franti and Spearhead. Good vibes.

Then Jason Aldean showed up, that musical sorcerer, with “Dirt Road Anthem” and “Laughed Until We Cried,” compelling me to pull out my high school yearbooks and my sons’ baby books to mourn the passing years. I also called my 93-year old father for the third time that day, to see if he wanted me to bring him a milkshake.

Then Trace made an appearance and pummeled me with “You’re Gonna Miss This,” and Rascal Flatts dropped in to drub me with “Bless the Broken Road” and “My Wish.” I group texted my sons, telling them I made a tee time for the four of us after Easter brunch, and cleaned all of their rooms and made their beds.

Before I knew it Kenny was warning me to not blink, Garth was telling me to enjoy The Dance, Tim was reminding me to stay humble and kind and live like I am dying, and Carrie was suggesting I let Jesus take the wheel.

Then out of nowhere that little angelic-faced Hunter Hayes walloped me with “Wanted,” and the dreamy Mike Reid crooned “Always Gonna Be You” in that sexy flinty way he has. Unable to work and already tied into emotional knots, I figured Mike was the worst of it.

But the playlist wasn’t done with me yet. Beautiful Miranda still needed to rip me to shreds. By the time she finished “The House That Built Me” and “Tin Man,” I was curled into a fetal ball of angst on the floor, completely destroyed and reevaluating all of my life’s choices.

This is a playlist for a beach bar? A beach bar where, in the Siberian Arctic? In a Gulag prison? On a Yemen archipelago? What drinks are being served, Rum Runners with antifreeze floaters?

Waaaaahhhh, I cried on the floor. I’m so ungrateful, I don’t appreciate the elderly and the young enough, and I miss my mom and my dog and my childhood house and my babies and my high school friends, and high school and college were the greatest times of my life why didn’t I know it at the time, I loved my childhood so much, why oh why didn’t I appreciate what I had when I had it????!! What is wrong with meeeeeee waaahhhhhhhh!!!!!

I crawled across the floor, despondent over not having taken enough videos of my boys’ birthday parties and pictures of my dad, ate peanut butter and bawled. I listened to “My Wish” again, and wished that my sons would marry for love, give more than they take, show the cold world the warmth of their smiles, and never need to carry more than they can hold. I wished they were home so I could hug them and kiss them and put them in footie pajamas and make them banana pancakes and tuck them into bed in the house that made them so they would always be warm and loved and comfy.

When the time came to leave for golf, I felt undeserving of pleasure and recreation, so I decided to sit in the house, look at old photos and atone for my life’s sins while staring despondently out the window.

Super fun playlist, thanks. At the prompt “Mary, Name Your New Playlist!” I typed in:

Self-flagellation.

Known But to God

The VFW in their corporate offices:

Guys, sorting through gifts.

One guy: “Let’s send Mary something different, what do you think she’d like?

Another guy: “How about a big calculator?”

One guy: “Nah, we sent her that a few months ago.”

Third guy: “She might like these socks.”

One guy: “She doesn’t really wear socks.”

Another guy: “How about these knit gloves? She could use those on chilly fall days.”

Third guy: “Yeah. Let’s send her two pair, blue and red, so she has back-up gloves.”

One guy: “Yeah.”

What can I say? The VFW and I are in a serious committed relationship.

They send me gloves. I send them money. They send me labels. I send them money. They send me greeting cards, tote bags, socks, hats, pens, calculators, shirts, I send them money. Whatever they want, I give them, because they give me so much in return.

It’s the most mature and reciprocal relationship I’ve ever been in.

I have had a deep reverential crush on the military ever since I was a young girl. Both my maternal and paternal grandfathers and great-grandfathers were in the military, as was my father. All of my brothers were involved in the military in some form, and my late brother William attended West Point and is interred at the local military cemetery. He fought in skirmishes all over the world, most notably in Desert Storm.  

I plan to visit my college roommate for a week in Virginia after Easter, and I am also planning a side trip on the way home to pay my annual homage to one of my favorite places in the world.

Arlington National Cemetery and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

What a humbling and awe-inspiring ceremony is the changing of the guards. I love when the relief commander conducts a detailed white-glove inspection of the M-14. I love when the commander and the Sentinels salute the Unknown Soldiers who have symbolically been given the Medal of Honor. I get goosebumps when the Sentinel executes a sharp “shoulder-arms” movement to place the weapon on the shoulder closest to the visitors, signifying that he or she stands between the Tomb and any possible threat.

 I know it by heart.

 We brought our boys to see the changing of the guard once, and the solemnity of the ceremony cowed even them. We never once had to tell them to be quiet and respectful, because the Tomb itself lends an air of reverence and awe that would normally only be found in the most venerated of places.

I remember standing behind the boys as they watched the ceremony. They were frozen, only their heads moving as they watched the guards. They didn’t budge. They didn’t speak. They looked like they were afraid to breathe, most likely because their father had threatened them with sure death if they did anything at all to embarrass him in this place that he loved. Even little boys know not to mess with Dad when he has that expression on his face.

He wasn’t fucking around.

The changing of the guard happens in an elaborate ceremony every hour on the hour from October 1 to March 31, and every half hour from April 1 to September 30. Twenty-four hours a day soldiers from the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment known as “The Old Guard” stand watch over the Tomb as they have every day since 1948.

When not marching, Tomb Guards, also known as Sentinels, spend their duty time in quarters below the Memorial Display Room of the Memorial Amphitheater, where they study cemetery history, clean their weapons and help the rest of their relief prepare for the changing of the guard.

Sentinel Facts:

  • Being a Sentinel is a volunteer post
  • Sentinels are considered the “elite of the elite” of the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment.
  • Sentinels must be in superb physical condition
  • Sentinels must possess an unblemished military record
  • Sentinels must be between 5’10” and 6’4” for men, or 5’8” to 6’2” for women.
  • Would-be Tomb Guards must undergo an interview and two-week trial.
  • They must memorize seven pages of Arlington National Cemetery history, which must be recited verbatim in order to earn a “walk.”
  • If a soldier passes, Sentinels learn the history of Arlington National Cemetery and the grave locations of nearly 300 veterans for their badge test.
  • Sentinels must pass their badge test with at least 95% accuracy.
  • As a badge holder, a Sentinel can serve honorably at the Tomb for nine months. At that time, the Sentinel can choose to have his or her award become permanent, which may be worn for the rest of a military career.
  • Each relief of the guard has one commander and about six Sentinels. The three reliefs are organized by height so that those in each guard look similar in appearance.
  • Sentinels wear the Army dress blue uniform, which is the style and color worn by soldiers during the late 1800’s.
  • The Sentinels take twenty-one steps, alluding to the twenty-one gun salute, the highest honor given any military or foreign dignitary.
  • On the 21st step, a Sentinel will turn and face the Tomb for 21 seconds. He will then turn to face back down the mat, change the weapon to the outside shoulder, mentally count off 21 seconds, then step off for another 21 step walk down the mat. Then he will face the Tomb at each end of the 21 step walk for 21 seconds. The Sentinel then repeats this over and over until the Guard Change ceremony begins.
  • When a relief commander appears to announce the change, a new Sentinel leaves the Tomb Guard quarters and unlocks the bolt of his or her M-14 rifle. This signals that the ceremony should begin.
  • Here is the dialogue of the Changing of the Guard:

Relief Commander orders the relieved Sentinel: “Pass on your orders.”

Current Sentinel commands, “Post and orders, remain as directed.”

Newly posted Sentinel replies, “Orders acknowledged.”

Hell, I don’t know what you’re doing for spring break. Probably Florida, or Hatteras, a fancy resort or some obscure island. We’ve all earned our down time this past year. But allow me to say this, and I don’t care how tired it sounds:

Never forget the men (boys!) who died to make it possible for you to enjoy such a life. And how lucky we are in the Northeast that visiting these heroes is only a short drive away. Maybe carve out some time to pay your respects. Grab the kids, pack some juices boxes and sammies, and make a day of it. Honor the heroes the way they deserve to be honored.

That’s the least they deserve.

https://www.arlingtoncemetery.mil/Explore/Tomb-of-the-Unknown-Soldier

This Ol House

After college I drove to Florida for spring break with some friends, and I’ll never forget the excitement of finally arriving to South of the Border.

If you’ve never done that I-95S drive to Florida, you’ll know you’ve arrived at the South of the Border when you see colorful billboards announcing it. “You Never Sausage a Place!” and “Pedro’s Weather Report: Chili Today and Hot Tamale!” and my personal favorite, “Fill Yo Trunque With Pedro’s Junque!” We did the drive as a family once (once), and when the boys saw the sign, “Keep Yelling, Kids! (They’ll Stop!”), of course they began yelling. Because the sign told them to. My youngest could not yet read, but the twins could, and they got him riled up too, chanting…

“WE WANNA STOP, WE WANNA STOP, WE WANNA STOP…,” for twenty miles. I thought my husband was going to crash the truck on purpose. I, of course, thought it was cute. If you could have seen my youngest with his little balled fists trying to emulate his big brothers, you would have died of the cuteness. But Pops had been driving for twelve hours, and nothing was cute to him anymore.

And of course we stopped. And definitely regretted ever sending them to school to learn how to read.

But I digress.

So my friends and I ended up in some divey Mexican cantina, and proceeded to get inebriated on dollar margaritas with some sketchy locals. It was a blast. Unable to drive, we paid the waitress ten bucks to drive us in our car to a seedy highway motel. I distinctly remember dragging my sorry-ass carcass across the worn orange carpet in the morning, looking at myself in the mirror above the bathroom vanity and pleading with almighty God to help me survive the hangover. I also remember looking down at the vanity and thinking it was the ugliest thing I had ever seen.

Goddang, that is an ugly vanity, I thought as I prayed to the porcelain gods.

As ugly as it was, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t as ugly as the one sitting in my front room right now, ready to get installed into my master bathroom.

(Didn’t know where I was going with that story, did you?)

See, last week I dropped my blow dryer in my already cracked master bathroom sink when I was getting ready for work, and I heard a sound like,

Thwock.

When I looked down, the sink was no longer intact. Rather, there was a large gaping maw, a huge chunk of, gee, I don’t know, whatever material makes up a bathroom sink, missing from it. I could see down into the vanity cabinet. We covered the gaping hole with duct tape as best we could, and I sent my oldest son and his friend to Home Depot to get the cheapest vanity he could find.

“Just make sure it’s not too ugly,” I told him as he walked out the door.

He called me from Home Depot to show me choices. I asked him about the brown one, because it was kind of mid-priced.

“Well, it’s brown,” he said, as he zoomed into it with Facetime, “with a cabinet on the bottom, and a white sink, porcelain I guess, maybe granite.” I could hear his friend in the background, “I think it’s marble!”

I told him to get it. And it is not porcelain, granite or marble. We’re not sure what it is.

Yesterday morning my other son was grabbing his jacket off of the coatrack, looked down at the vanity and said, “That’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. Tell me that’s not going in our bathroom. Who picked it out?”

Yours truly, honey. Listen, I’m getting my master bath redone in the fall, and I only need a sink for six months, so I don’t see the sense in putting out a whole bunch of money for something that’s going to get ripped out anyway and replaced with something beautiful that someone else who knows how to pick out vanities will pick out.

Which brings me to the point of this post. House decorating. I hate it. I have no knack for it. I have conceded the necessity to get the bathroom redone, but only through duress. I wouldn’t know how to pick out a drape, a shade, a sconce, wainscoting, or a countertop if my life depended on it.

That’s what God made interior designers for.

I’ll never forget many (many) years ago an acquaintance came over to pick up her son, and she looked around my house and smiled. She lived in one of those McMansions with eight bathrooms, six living rooms, three wings and an elevator. She was the kind of woman who entertained company every summer weekend, never left her porch, and bought furniture every few months the way the rest of us buy bras and underwear.

This day she looked around at my clean, well-lit and cozy house, and said, “Your house is so….cute. It reminds me of the first little rental house I lived in when I graduated from college.”

Ah yes, the old “insult disguised as a compliment” trick. A tool used by the semantically and intellectually weak. She was literally too pretentious to even insult back.

And “To Each Her Own,” I always say. Someone has five grand and hours to burn, and she wants to replace her already adequate living room furniture with equally adequate living room furniture? Then that is exactly what she should do, if it’s what makes her happy. Life is short.

But my five grand is getting spent on a trip to eastern Europe. Or to pet baby elephants in Kenya. Or to attend golf school at Sedona Golf Resort. On to loll around on a houseboat on Lake Powell.

Fuck, I have majorly meandered. This post was initially supposed to be about spring to-do lists. Mine is relatively simple. Assorted boat stuff. Water turned on. Yard work. Power washing. Deep-clean of house interior. Patio furniture scrubbed and hosed down. New flag, burn the old.

Voila, we are ready for summer. At least domestically.

So this vanity is getting installed on Wednesday, and we are preparing ourselves to love it as best we can. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all. And since I don’t know how to end this post and Memorial Day weekend is nipping at our heels, do you know flag rules?

  • You should not display your flag in inclement weather unless it is made of all-weather material. Most flags are.
  • When a flag has served its useful purpose, it should be disposed of in a dignified way, preferably by burning, but not in the form of protest or desecration.
  • A flag should NEVER touch the ground. But if it does, you are not required to destroy it. Just keep it off the ground, will ya?

If you want to read more rules, see https://www.legion.org/flag/faq.

Occam’s Razor

This past weekend the planets were aligned in such a way that all three of my sons were home, but at different times and at strange intervals. One would leave, the other would show up. Then that one would leave, only for another to show up. Then they were all gone, leaving only clues. And only by piecing together the clues could I figure out who was home when, and where, and under what circumstances.

The simplest answer is usually the best way to go.

Fourteenth-century Franciscan friar William of Ockham gave the world a rule called Occam’s Razor which states: Non sunt multiplicanda entia sine necessitate, or “entities must not be multiplied without necessity.” In other words, the simplest answer — that is, the answer that requires the fewest assumptions— is generally the correct one. 

Scenarios:

No boys expected, suddenly hallway light blazes on late at night accompanied by loud bangs outside my bedroom:

Likely: A boy has decided to show up with his dirty laundry in the middle of the night to “surprise me.”

Less likely: I am about to get murdered.

My razor is missing:

Likely: A boy has forgotten his razor and is using mine to shave

Less likely: When I get murdered, it will be with my own razor.

Vehicles moved or gone, or entirely different vehicles I’ve never seen are in front:

Likely: Boys are at girlfriends’ houses, girlfriends are here, boys got driven to a party, boys drove to a party, boys left cars at friends’ houses, friends left their cars here and then everyone walked, or no boy remembers where vehicles are at all.

Less likely: All cars are self-driving. Or my would-be murderer is also a car thief.

Ski and snowboard equipment fill my foyer:

Likely: Ski season is over.

Less Likely: General maintenance is being done on equipment and then it will be stored neatly away in the sporting goods section of the garage without any undue force from me.

Truck tire is noticeably flat:

Likely: Boy’s tire PSI is still low after two years of pretending that it’s not.

Less likely: His tire has been slashed by a nail, or by the murderer to daunt escape.

No answer to my group text request that I need help storing boxes in the garage:

Likely: They are ignoring me and using text silence to get out of manual labor.

Less likely: Their batteries all died at the exactly the same time.

Trash bags sits outside their Man Cave:

Likely: They tied up the trash but could not summon the energy to walk it ten extra feet to the trash cans.

Less likely: They strategically left it there so as to put it away properly in the light of day.

No boys home, but lights and fans blazing in all of their rooms:

Likely: They don’t give a rat’s ass about the electric bill.

Less likely: They leave their lights on so as to do their part in alleviating what they interpret as my loneliness in their absence.

I have a headache:

Likely: All three boys have been home

Less likely: All three boys have been home.

By Sunday night not only am I not totally sure that they were even home, but even less certain that I ever even gave birth to them at all. I mean, maybe they were just a dream?

Only Ockham knows for sure.

Forever Banned

So banning of books hit a raw nerve? I think that’s wonderful. Let me tell you a quick story:

Picture it. 1979. I am thirteen, and all that that implies. I close my eyes now and remember the following scenario like it was yesterday:

In Language Arts class. Friday. Watching an interesting filmstrip about Harriet Tubman. Two of my best friends in seats in front of me, whispering together. They glance back at me with wide eyes, smiling. I knew those smiles. Something good was about to go down. I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulders.

What?

I watched my friend write something down on a piece of paper and then fold it up. She stretched her arms behind her and dropped it on the desk of a boy, who then passed the note to me. Trying to keep from being seen by the teacher, I opened the note labeled “Mary’s Eyes Only” carefully and quietly. I read it.

Sleepover at my house tonight in the basement. I have it!!!!!!!

Oh. My. God. I covered my mouth with my hand, barely able to believe it. My friends looked back at me and nodded.

Any 13-year old girl in my school in 1979 knew what “it” was. The book. The one our parents didn’t want us reading. The book about sex, and birth control, and penises and vaginas. No girl’s parents would buy it or let her read it. But there were a couple of copies floating around, mostly belonging to older, more mature girls. Copies belonging to the older girls who let their little sisters read them. Copies that were treasured, protected and idolized. Copies that moved from girl-to-girl, and no matter how hard parents tried, they could not figure out how all of these girls were reading this book.

The book was Forever by Judy Blume.

(Forever delves into the experience of a teenager losing her virginity, and it was groundbreaking when published in the late 1970’s. Blume wrote it for her teenage daughter, who asked her famous author mom to write a book where sex wasn’t punished. The book focuses on birth control and both the practical and romantic details of teen sexuality. The novel is still frequently banned and was actually shelved in the adult section when first published). 

It was tricky getting your hands on this book in my school in 1979. Our school didn’t even allow us to wear jeans. A girl had to have connections, and those connections had to have connections. And even with all those connections, sometimes girls were still not lucky enough to be in the “privileged” group of girls deemed “cool” enough to be able to handle such a scorchingly and sexually “subversive” book as Forever.

We were lucky.

We had worked hard to get our turn at “The Book.” Furtive whisperings at lockers, notes written and passed almost constantly in lunch and in gym class, phone calls made that had to be disguised from nosy parental ears (before cell phones, we had to conduct private conversations in the middle of our houses in front of our whole family- can you imagine?), and long bike rides taken to older girl’s houses where bribery commenced- we brought them milkshakes, makeup, magazines. We brought them whatever they wanted and whatever we could afford.

Because they had The Book. And we wanted It.

I will never forget that sleepover. Wrapped up in our sleeping bags, snacks and drinks ready and the Bay City Rollers playing on the record player, I watched as my friend slowly and dramatically removed the book from her backpack. The cover has changed since 1979, but I remember vividly the way the cover looked back then- a young girl’s face inside of an opened locket, the thick black font of the word “Forever” blazing aggressively and diagonally across the cover.

This copy was dog-eared and worn, and I remember we stayed up until 3:00 a.m. reading passages to each other. Time was of the essence. When a girl was given the book, she had one evening to read it, because the next day it had to be given back to an older girl who would then pass it to the next girl on the list. If it was a weekend, the older girl would show up in front of your house to retrieve it. If it was a school day, she would find you as you were walking into school. The most important thing was to never, ever, ever let a parent or teacher know what was going down. The exchange was always surreptitious and quick, and involved absolutely no discussion whatsoever.

It was our own Underground Railroad.

On that night we read the whole book out loud. We took turns with passages, sometimes reading them over and over, and then discussing the parts that confused us. We laughed, we cried, we nodded our heads. We finally understood.

So this is what it is like to be a girl!

Afterward, coming face-to-face with grownups, especially parents and teachers, was always awkward. We were in their world now. They seemed like our contemporaries, not our adversaries. We knew what they knew. We understood sex. They no longer held anything over us. Male teachers became interesting to us, no longer reminding us of our fathers. Boys became annoying- whereas the day before their chasing and hitting and farting might have seemed charming, now their antics just seemed dull and immature.

The book had opened doors for us.

We now knew what boys had. We now knew what boys were capable of. We now knew what men and women did together in the dark without clothes on. We would roll our eyes at their pathetic little attempts to charm us, and just wished they would grow up and become men, like the men in the book.

The book was published in 1975, so ten years later, when we were juniors in high school, the book seemed silly and precocious. We laughed when we thought of what we had gone through to read it. But at thirteen, that book was the hottest thing going. We would have done anything to get our hands on it. Anything. Because that book held knowledge and power. That book held answers to questions that burned in our brains while we slept, answers that we couldn’t get anywhere else.

I think that’s a pretty good illustration of how well book banning goes.

Professor Piffle

Dr. Jordan Peterson’s new book Beyond Order: 12 More Rules for Life is in stores. I’ve been waiting impatiently for the March 2nd release date.

When I walked into Barnes and Noble to purchase it, it was not on the front display. This did not surprise me. Peterson is, after all, considered “alt-light” and subversive. The Obamas figured prominently in the front display, as did books on the environment and fiction by authors Janet Evanovich, James Patterson and Dean Koontz.

Neither was it in the New Non-Fiction section. Not in Sociology, Self-Help, Psychology. With my brow furrowed, I could feel my heart racing with literary injustice. It’s a brand-new release from an incredibly popular and brilliant professor, writer and lecturer, I thought. Where the fuck was it?

I kept walking around, but it simply was not displayed. This is impossible, I thought. I sought out an employee and asked politely if she could help me find Dr. Jordan Peterson’s new book. With just a millisecond of dubious hesitation, she smiled and led me to the display.

We walked. And walked. And walked. All the way to the back caverns of some obscure sociological section I would assume is reserved for books written by and about the criminally insane. It took so long to get to the display that I began wishing I had packed a lunch. Finally, we arrived at a table in the far corner of the store, behind a display of candles, journals, and odd literary sundries.

That is where Dr. Jordan Peterson’s book was displayed. On a narrow wall, obscured by a display of scented pencils. That would be akin to Dr. Peterson himself running the Dumbo ride at Disneyland. I mean, how dare they? I turned to the associate and asked, “What, your store doesn’t have a basement?”

She was not amused. She looked strangely at me the whole morning as I worked in the café, maybe thinking I was going to pull out a firearm and force her to read Green Eggs and Ham.

Listen, I don’t know why Jordan Peterson’s book was in a corner. Maybe it was just coincidence, maybe it will be placed in front at a later time. It’s not the point anyway. Book store owners can put books wherever they want. It doesn’t matter. Because the people who want to read them will find them no matter where they are.

While I may not know how to navigate automatic doors and soap dispensers, I am an intellectual. I read everything by everyone. I don’t choose a book based on the author’s political beliefs, sexual orientation, or stance on global warming. On any given day I could be reading a memoir from Michelle Obama, a sociological study by Malcolm Gladwell, a biography on Joseph Mengele, an autobiography by Matthew McConaughey, a treatise by Gloria Steinem, something by Robert Greene, a book about the black arts, *a chronological history of the nipple, a suspense novel by Gillian Flynn or a work of comedic genius by David Sedaris. I once even plowed through Greta Thunberg’s self-indulgent No One is Too Small to Make a Difference in the time it took me to chug a small caramel macchiato.

I felt it was an important book to read. Isn’t this what staying informed and educated is about?

I follow Dr. Peterson on Instagram, and I enjoy the daily discourse and back-and-forth. But in the past few years, it has been suggested to me that I should not be reading his books. That he is subversive. That his followers are dangerous.

We are? I am? But why? I need these answers.

The first thing I have decided to do is to re-read 12 Rules for Life to see if there is something I missed. Something dangerous, as critics purport. Are there Satanic rituals in there? I also decided to do some more rudimentary research. Yesterday I found an article from The Guardian by Dorian Lynskey. Maybe Dorian can clear this up, I thought.

Yikes.

Here are some ways the article referred to Dr. Peterson:

“The culture war’s Weapon X. Heavyweight intellectual armature. Tough-love stern-dad.  Doughty truth-teller. The most important and influential Canadian thinker since Marshall McLuhan. The most influential public intellectual in the western world, ‘a kind of secular prophet … in an era of lobotomized conformism.’ The Professor of Piffle. The stupid man’s smart person. A dangerous goof. An old-fashioned conservative who mourns the decline of religious faith and the traditional family.”

Is that right, Dorian? Well, then, you can step off. Because he’s MY Professor of Piffle.

According to Lynskey, Peterson’s fan base is so popular and strong that requests for interviews from public figures who have ever crossed swords with him decline those requests. Supposedly they don’t feel like getting death threats from Peterson’s fan base, a fan base described to be so zealous that the only way they can be brought to their senses is by Peterson himself. He must tweet them to “back off.”

Who knew?

But this is not me, and I’m certainly not prepared to launch into discourse about post-Marxism. The crux of this post is simply this: Are we what we read? If you look at the books I listed above, and you decided to judge me based on that reading selection, you could easily infer that I am a liberal, a sociologist, a feminist, a climatologist, a Satanist and a Nazi.

Using that logic, isn’t that right?

I am none of those things. I am simply a reader. A lover of words, and thoughts, and concepts, and of the English language. Does Barnes and Noble honestly think that obscuring a new release by a best-selling author is the right thing to do? Moreover, does B&N really think they can keep it out of readers’ hands?

I used to tell my students to never let themselves be defined by geography. Not by salary, not by zip code, not by ethnicity, gender, workplace, income or speech pattern. Who cares where you live, where you work, how you talk? Work on yourself. Because in America, anyone can be anything. That’s the glory that is America.

You can be anything you want to be, we tell our young people. But when we expose them only to the books we deem influential, we send them a different message:

You can be anything you want to be. But only if you’re reading the right books.

I’m not clear on what is going on with Dr. Seuss, because I’m strategically avoiding the news until I can gather my thoughts about it. But I know I’m distressed. As an English teacher, it pains me that any book would be banned or taken out of publication simply because one day someone in a little room with too much time on his hands decided it contained “subversive thoughts or images.”

Any image or thought can be made subversive by an individual who has decided to make them so.

*There is no such book. I looked it up. But it has great potential.