I know I promised a big reveal today, but I’m going to have to disappoint you. No matter how hard I worked on the original post entitled “Mea (Gulp)a,” I couldn’t get the tone right. I worked on it for three days, but all I managed to sound like was a big fat pompous ass. So I deleted it. I’ll keep working on it, but for now, it’s far from ready.
If you haven’t heard Justin Timberlake and Chris Stapleton jamming together yet on the song “Say Something,” enjoy the video below. And sorry about the post, but I’ve always believed that sometimes in life, the greatest way to say something is to say nothing at all.
A fly found his way into my bedroom yesterday morning at about 5:30 a.m. This was an egregious error on his part.
In this house my bedroom is called “The Fortress of Solitude,” mostly because that is the name I have given it. The word “solitude” is not in any way a reference to my currently vacuous sex life. It is called that simply because it is my only sanctuary away from the boys’ noise and mess.
I wake up early for the day, usually by 5:30 a.m. (occupational hazard), and immediately make my bed. I go downstairs, make some coffee, write a little, post my blog, and leave for the the gym. After breakfast I get ready for the day, and by 10:00 a.m. my bedroom door is shut tightly. Unless I need a change of clothes, I don’t go back in until bedtime. I don’t eat in my bedroom, I don’t take naps in there, I don’t work or read or sort laundry in there. I don’t even have a television in my bedroom. It is a tidy white plush-carpeted soundproof chamber with a marshmallow bed that (for now at least) is used only for sleep.
When I travel, I even lock my bedroom door (and hide the key) just in case my sons’ drunk friends make a wrong turn and decide they’ve found a nice comfy place to sleep. All my boys know how strongly I feel about them staying away from my bedroom. One day not too long ago I was watching the news, and I heard odd murmurings and a suspicious silence upstairs. If you’re a parent, the term “suspicious silence” does not need to be explained. I yelled up.
“What’s going on up there?”
Pause. Then my youngest son’s voice.
“Noooooothiiiiiing.”
Yeah, right. A few minutes later my phone dinged, and there was a selfie of my oldest and youngest illegally sprawled out on my bed with the caption, “Your bed is soooo comfortable.” By the time I raced up the stairs to kick them out, the door was shut again, they were playing video games and my bed was tidy. They acted like they didn’t know what I was talking about.
“You’re going nuts, Mom.”
Hilarious.
That said, this time of year when houseflies are back, I am extra vigilant about my door being shut at all times. I don’t want to hear them buzzing past my ears when I sleep, and I certainly don’t want them laying larvae on my windowsills. I’m afraid of waking up one morning to Jeff Goldblum staring at me from my linen settee.
The fly that managed to get into my bedroom yesterday morning must have gotten in in the three seconds it took me to open the door and then close it again. Like a Black Friday shopper waiting outside Walmart at 4:00 a.m. for an 84-inch flat screen t.v., he must have thought there was something pretty good behind that door.
Unfortunately, the only thing in there for him was his sure and absolute demise. His inevitable extermination. A swift and sure death at the hands of ME.
I did what had to be done.
I must say, for being so sluggish, he gave me a run for my money. It took me three swats to bring him down. I did things I cannot ever fully tell you about. Near his little corpse, I found a written log he must have been keeping. He was only in my bedroom for five hours, but you know, an hour to a fly is like a year, so there are five entries. Allow me to share them with you:
Year 1: I have made it into the pressurized White Chamber. There are no provisions and no humans. I see no way out, but I remain hopeful.
Year 2: I cling to the Warm Light, hoping that a human will enter and provide me with an escape. No luck yet.
Year 3: A human entered the chamber, and looked at me for some time. Maybe she is considering providing me with Some Food. They do this sometimes. Wish me luck.
Year 4: I am weakening. What a strange and empty place I am in. No food, no noise, no humans. I have passed the time reading, as the room is filled with books. I just finished Brothers Karamazov. Dostoevsky kills me. I am now beginning War and Peace. Tolstoy soothes my soul and provides me with hope.
Year 5: The human has returned and seems aggressive. She is carrying the Wand of Orange Death. I am too weak to hide, and there is nowhere to escape. Tell my family I love them and that I went out fighting.
(I have a big reveal coming on Friday, a major mea culpa if you will, so make sure to tune in!)
There are two types of people. What those two types are varies, depending on whom you talk to.
There are coffee drinkers and tea drinkers. I once stopped returning a guy’s phone calls because he didn’t drink coffee or alcohol. I just kind of figured he was a sociopath. I mean, no coffee? What do you do with him at 7:00 a.m.? Well, I mean, AFTER that. And how would he ever understand my devotion to my French press?
(I didn’t stop returning his phone calls just for that, I was JK. He WAS a sociopath. That story is in the book).
There are conservatives and liberals. If you were as fully ensconced in the online dating world as I was (WAS- never again) for two years, you would know that liberal men usually state in their profiles: “Trump voters please swipe left.” Whoa. Alrighty then, don’t mind if I do.
There are night owls and early birds. Having been married to a night owl, I personally don’t see this as a major obstacle except on vacation. I would be up at 5:00 a.m. working out, reading, and exploring, and he’d be stumbling out of bed at 11:00. But it was doable- I liked the morning alone time, and he enjoyed sleeping in.
Then there are Introverts and extroverts. These two could not be more opposite, but for reason, they seem to attract one another, don’t they?
But after a recent lovely evening in front of a friend’s patio firepit, as I watched her cover her patio furniture, I’ve come up with another category:
People who cover their patio furniture at night, and people who don’t.
Patio furniture coverers are prudent. Sensible. Mature. Regimented. They can foresee disaster, and plan accordingly. They go to bed feeling confident that they have done the right thing, and wake to a new day filled with successes and dry furniture.
Patio furniture non-coverers are irrational. Immature. They fly by the seat of their pants, and barely remember when they last ate much less care about what the weather is doing overnight. They go to bed plagued with doubt at their own shortcomings but still whistle a happy tune, figuring that things will work out, because haven’t they always worked out in the past?
(Funny, I’m a non-coverer, but both descriptions fit me. Strange).
(Disclaimer: I refer, of course, only to patio furniture that is exposed to the wet elements. Spoiled coddled patio furniture that lay under a protective awning or a similar enclosure is not included in this category, nor is uppity furniture in a bone-dry place like Arizona).
I don’t like high maintenance anything. I’ve done my time with that part of life, and I’ll never revisit it again. I don’t want to live in a fancy high maintenance house, where I have to worry about white carpets and expensive furniture. I don’t want a high maintenance job, where I have to expend any more of my life force in a position where I could be satisfactorily replaced in three minutes. I don’t want to deal with high maintenance people, or listen to their constant complaining, gossiping and belly-aching until I can feel their toxicity seep into my bloodstream.
And I certainly don’t want to worry about needy high-maintenance patio furniture.
“My name is Mary and I am a non-coverer.”
There, I’ve said it. While I store my patio furniture in the winter, it is exposed to the elements all spring, summer and fall. I do my best to keep it clean and presentable, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to revolve my life around chairs. I know it will last longer if I am more vigilant, but I just can’t work up the energy to care anymore.
The thing is, I used to be a lot more worried about my jaw-droppingly expensive patio furniture than I am now. When I first got it, every time I saw a weather report predicting rain, I would store the cushions inside until the storm passed. I would be very pleased with myself as I placed the dry cushions back out, knowing guests could sit on them without getting a wet bum.
Now it’s every man for himself.
It got exhausting, always worrying about those cushions. There were times when I would bring the cushions in before a storm, replace them dry, and then wake up to see that they had been soaked anyway from a freak storm cell that blew in while I slept. There was simply no way to protect the cushions and live a full and fruitful life. I became obsessed, always wondering how my cushions were doing, and scanning the weather reports endlessly.
(Yeah, I know furniture covers are easier. I just never got around to it. I’m actually considering the purchase).
My cushions are holding up well. They are high-quality outdoor furniture cushions and live up to the hype. But every Mother’s Day weekend when we put out the patio furniture and cushions, we can see that they are slowly succumbing to wear-and-tear. And no matter how hard I scrub them twice a year, here in hot and humid New Jersey, some of the mildew stains simply cannot be eradicated.
Hey, we all weather. And no matter how hard we try, we cannot live our lives trying to protect something that simply cannot always be protected. Sometimes, we just have to let the elements have their way with us.
(Thanks for asking about my diet. It’s still going. Trying to stay within 1200 calories a day, which gets tougher as it gets nice out and next to impossible when I travel, because you know I love my Michelob Ultras and gin-and-tonics. All we can do is our best, right? The countdown to the green bikini is, er, five weeks? I’ll be putting it on when I get back from Alaska. In private, not public. Pray for me. But for now I’m gonna talk about yogurt.
I’m not a fan of yogurt, TBH. But I know it’s good for gut health, and it’s an easy way to get probiotics and protein in me. I choose a brand that is the least repulsive and most palatable, and eat it with breakfast. I open it, grab a spoon, and shove it down my gullet in five bites before I come to my senses and change my mind.
Of course there are yogurt purists who eschew flavored yogurt due to the added sugar. Plain only, they say, just throw some fresh fruit in it.
Ew. No.
Isn’t the retch-worthy act of eating yogurt enough? Isn’t the very altruistic act of not making myself a 500-calorie gastronomically-orgasmic breakfast sandwich in my kitchen enough? For God’s sakes, I’m not eating a donut, or a breakfast burrito, or a full-stack of cinnamon-bun French toast covered in butter and syrup, so haven’t I paid my debt to society? It’s a crappy sixty-calorie container of blueberry yogurt. Leave me alone to eat it and be sad.
It’s like when I make myself these beautiful salads. I wash the lettuce lovingly in my salad spinner, cut all of my fresh ingredients, and make sure it’s super colorful for maximum nutritional benefits. And then someone is going to tell me I have to to spritz lemon juice on top of it? Really? I can’t use ranch dressing? If I use my homemade balsamic, I can only use a tablespoon? Really?
Dang, I’m eating a salad! Cut me some slack! I could be eating a cheeseburger and French fries! I hereby declare that salad dressing should never be used as an arbiter of weight loss. I promise to not overdo it, but excuse me if I use the type and quantity that makes me happy.
Back to yogurt. My yogurt purchase takes, oh, about five seconds. I grab a six-pack and go. But have you ever noticed how crowded the yogurt section always is? People stand there for hours, chatting and looking at their phones, like they’re at a concert waiting for the opening act. I’ve never understood what is so interesting.
Sunday at Wegman’s, I decided to find out. Through repeated stalkings of the yogurt section, I managed to eavesdrop on some pithy conversations. These three were my favorite. People kill me, I love them so much.
Conversation #1:
Man: (Picks up a Fage yogurt, turns to woman). Want to get this Fage?
Woman: Fay-yeh.
Man: Huh?
Woman: Fay-yeh. It’s not pronounced Fage, like the word “cage,” it’s pronounced “Fay-eh.”
Man: (Puts back Fage) Fuck it then.
Conversation #2:
Man: (Studying a label on a container of Chobani). Wonder how they make plain yogurt.
Woman: They don’t.
Man: What do you mean they don’t.
Woman: Well, all yogurt starts out plain, moron. It changes to flavored when they add ingredients to it.
Man: Well, I knew that.
Woman: Then why’d you ask.
Man: I didn’t. I was thinking out loud.
Woman: Can we go buy pizza and chips now?
Man: Yeah.
Conversation #3:
Woman: (Consults Oikos label)
Man: Can you just choose already?
Woman: I’m checking the sugar, hold on…
Man:
Woman: Lots of good live cultures in this.
Man:
Woman: Think we should go with Greek?
Man:
Woman: Twice as much protein.
Man:
Woman: (Puts it back) No, you’re right, Stonybrook Organic is the way to go.
Man:
Woman: (Considers flavors) Banana or Strawberry?
Man:
Woman: Banana. (Places it in cart)
Man:
Woman: (Pushes cart away, he follows). What kind of ice-cream do you think?
I saw a video on Instagram that depicted two perspectives of the same incident shot from two different security cameras in a convenience store.
The first camera shows two people standing in line and waiting to purchase their items; suddenly, what looks like a speeding bullet rams harmlessly past them, slamming into and shattering the plexiglass. If not for the plexiglass, that cashier would have been creamed.
The second camera angle shows the viewer that it was not a bullet at all, but a depressurizing bottle of soda. The camera records a man removing a liter of soda from the refrigerator, fumbling with it for a second and then dropping it. As it hits the ground the lid pops off, the force of the pressure from carbonation transforming it into a flying projectile that slammed into the aforementioned plexiglass.
When contents are under pressure and then forcefully released, there is nowhere for those contents to go but out. They shur ain’t gonna stay in. Pressured things, when released, explode.
(Must I make the obligatory sexual reference here? You know where my mind always is. Sigh).
Moving on. Let’s say you’re angry at your mate for eating your favorite yogurt. The first time you open the fridge to see that your raspberry-caramel Yoplait isn’t in there, you brush it off. “No big deal,” you think, as you leave the house to buy more. “There’s plenty of yogurt to go around.” But no matter how much you buy, you find that at least two to three times a week, when you open the refrigerator, there’s no Yoplait.
There’s Noplait.
What you should say to your darling but clueless spouse is this: “Hey hon, when you finish the last yogurt, would you mind going out and getting some more?”
Situation resolved.
But you don’t say anything. You don’t do anything. You let it fester. And the resentment, the anger, and the hurt feelings all build up until one night the two of you are at a friend’s cookout, and you see your buff hunky yogurt-eating Hub innocently talking to a beautiful young girl. You watch them laughing together over the potato salad, and you become enraged. You stalk up to him and insist he take you home, You give him the silent treatment in the car as he tries his darndest to understand what-in-the-Sam-hill he did wrong for you to have caused the scene you just made at the barbeque. As soon as you get in the house, you let him have it.
How could I have ever married someone insensitive like you? Do you ever think how it makes me look when you flirt? You made me look like a fool back there. You never think of anyone except yourself. We go to these parties, and you talk to everyone but me. Why are you such a flirt? What were you two talking about? Were you laughing about me? Are you dating her? What’s the deal, because if you want a young girl like that, go right ahead, just prepare me so I can hire a divorce lawyer. It’s like the yogurt. You help yourself to my yogurt, and never even think how I will feel when I reach in and it’s not in there. You never go to the store and replenish my yogurt when you know I need it for my diet. You can eat anything you want, but you eat my diet foods. You can sleep in your car tonight.
Yikes. He stands there, flabbergasted at this turn of events, because he had no idea that you got angry when he ate your yogurt. He wishes you would have just told him. Because he would have gotten you more.
Contents under pressure may explode.
So we’re on what, month 14? Month 14 of fear, or worry, or boredom, or medical issues, or unemployment, or financial hardship, or depression, or alcoholism, or drug use, or academic regression, or social isolation, or internet dependency.
Sure, many of us are fine. But many are not. Tensions are high, and the news is toxic right now, globally, nationally and locally. Contents under pressure have been boiling and building, and now there is nowhere for these problems to go but OUT.
And the media is enjoying the hell out of it.
The media right now is like the weather in the movie “The Perfect Storm” (video embedded below). The boys on the boat have been fighting the storm for days, but as they watch the sunrise finally peek through the storm clouds, they celebrate. Finally, they think, better days are ahead, with the storm behind them. They fought, they battled, they gave it their all, and now they will be rewarded.
But Billy Tyne knows better. He looks at the weather in front of him, and as dark clouds once again obscure the sun, shadows cover his face, and he shakes his head.
“She’s not gonna let us out.”
The media won’t let us out. It continues, day after day, to pummel us with rain and lightning and thunder, and every time we think we see a clearing on the horizon, however small, the media makes sure to set us straight.
No, it says, you are not in the clear.There will be no celebrating today. There is still plenty to be afraid of. They spin their narrative of fear until we are tossed around in it like whirling dervishes- any hint of optimism it is quickly squelched, and any small victory instantly mitigated and diminished.
Sure, the vaccination is available, BUT….
Well, yes, cases are going down, BUT…
Of course schools are open, BUT…
Sometimes masks aren’t necessary, BUT…
Feel free to eat in restaurants, BUT…
Well, no, small children cannot spread it, BUT…
Obviously herd immunity is close, BUT…
I guess travel is safe, BUT…
Even the local Patch got in on the fun yesterday.
Well, yes, admittedly there are only 106 bobcats in New Jersey, and yes, they are introverted and shy, and of course they do not seek out confrontations with humans, but you know, there was this bobcat in Colorado that stared at this little girl for a few seconds, so you know, they ARE around. What? Oh, the girl is fine, you know, the thing just stared at her, BUT you know, it COULD have been worse...
What the fuck? So why bring it up? Why give it attention? The Patch wants us to be vigilant about something that is mostly not deadly, mostly minds its own business, mostly doesn’t occur often, mostly doesn’t affect 99.9 percent of the population, and mostly is not threatening when it confronts a human.
Sound familiar?
They’ve told us, over and over, and we’ve listened. Get tested, social distance, wear a mask, social distance, sanitize, social distance, wear two masks, social distance, wear a plastic shield, social distance, get vaccinated, social distance, still wear a mask, social distance…
“Oh,” they say, “you say you’ve done all those things? Wonderful! But I’m sorry, it’s still not enough. We don’t care. Work harder.”
Jesus H. Christ. I can’t listen anymore. I’m off the news. I check it quickly once a day to see what’s happening, then I don’t listen or watch or read again. I don’t want to get creamed by an exploding soda bottle.
I’m not implying that we should stick our heads in the sand. But it is important to not feed the toxic media frenzy, and we can at least do our part in keeping it at bay, for our mental health. After all, isn’t the terror knowing what the world is about?
Readers, I have to confess. I’m in a pickle. But as good luck would have it, I have decided to break the ice, come what may. But bear with me, because even my writing can be too much of a good thing. I mean, what’s done is done, and I don’t want to lead you on a wild goose chase and make a laughing-stock of myself in the process.
The above was not supposed to make sense, my lily-liver’d readers. Those are all just common phrases we use every day that can be attributed to William Shakespeare, whose birthday is today, April 23rd, St. George’s Day.
I’m not going to bore you with his biography or his writing style, but I have to say: I’m tempted. I used to torture my students every April 23rd, but now that I don’t have students to torture, my readers are the next logical choice.
But I won’t. Let’s get on with the weekend, shall we?
I can’t possibly address my love for Shakespeare in one blog post. But I miss teaching him- boy, do I miss teaching him. The soliloquies in Hamlet. Paradox and personification in Romeo and Juliet. Character development in Macbeth. I’m surprised we don’t hear anything on the news about retired English teachers just randomly showing up in public squares and forcing people to analyze his sonnets.
The perfect crime.
Anyway, that’s it for me for the week. I going to grab my college Shakespeare anthology and immerse myself in his language for a few hours. Probably “Twelfth Night.” I’m attaching a small “South Park” video for your enjoyment, as I used to for my students. In this video, the South Park boys watch the last scene in Hamlet at the Canadian Shakespeare Company. Stan, as always, can be counted on to be a total dick.
How much do I love “South Park”? Let me count the ways. That’s William as well. So have a great weekend, you starvelling, elf-skinned, dried neat’s-tongue, bull’s-pizzle stock-fish.
Nothing like a good Shakespearean insult to start the weekend off right. XXOO
I didn’t even see the pattern until my friend pointed it out.
“What pattern?” I asked her.
“That of you not being a rule follower. It’s been showing up in your blogs.”
Ah. Yes. Well, that’s partially true. I am kind of a rule-breaker, and it’s getting worse as I get older. I am easily bored, and breaking rules jars the monotony of life, and brightens my inner child. Rules suck, and they’re boring. I don’t like being a goody two-shoes, and I really really really don’t like being controlled or told what to do.
(Except in the bedroom. But that’s a story for another time. And another galaxy).
It’s like parking. I park in designated areas all the time, but if I can’t find a spot, and I think I can away with it, I park where I want. Ask my sons, because they’re usually my accomplices. If we go somewhere, and I can’t find a close spot, I’ll pull into some obscure zoned-off or yellow area.
“Ahem.” (Throat clear). “Mom, this isn’t a spot.”
“It is now. I park where I want.”
Sometimes I park so blatantly that I just assume I’ll have a ticket when I get out, but I never do. It’s not my fault there’s a flaw in the criminal justice system.
I’m not saying I’m right. But it doesn’t hurt anyone, and it’s not like I plunk my car down in handicapped spots. And of course I’m sorry about it afterward, and feel great shame for my transgressions (not). I mean, other than occasionally exceeding the speed limit, I think I’m a pretty good citizen.
I could tell a million stories about why I am constantly pushing the boundaries on rules- I’ve been like this my whole life. I’m sure there is a deep-seated psychological reason behind my rule-flouting, and it would be the same reason why I enjoy things like zip-lining, roller-coasters and spelunking. But at this point I’m too old to care. And you know what Katherine Hepburn said: “If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.”
Enjoy this silly video, but keep in mind that I would never dog-ear the pages of a library book. But as for the rest, yep. Life is just more fun that way, isn’t it?
At the end of a movie my son was watching there was a montage of nurses from the 1960’s wheeling newborns two-by-two through a hospital maternity ward. The sight of those babies in those bassinets made my heart skip a beat.
(This post is mostly about the fear and vulnerability of being a new mother of twins. My youngest was easy, and I was experienced when he was born. I was alone with him in the hospital and held him every second while my husband was home with the twins. He was just my buddy, and it all made sense).
Nothing made sense when my twins were born. Even now the memories come to me in flashes. I was swaddled up from surgery and loopy on pain medication. A blood vessel in my nose had burst, so my nose was bandaged (along with every other orifice), so I was like a big dumb swollen pustule.
My husband had left (with my blessing) to make the announcement at his cousin’s party that he was a new father, so I was alone. The nurses wheeled these little babies into my room and parked their bassinets just out of my reach.
“Now, no getting out of bed,” the nurse warned me. “If they cry, push the buzzer. We don’t want you ripping stitches and bleeding all over the floor.”
No getting out of bed? Leaving them out of my reach? What did she expect to happen? The second she left, they started squealing. Not crying, just mewing. For me. Their mother. They were hungry. I had to feed them. But I couldn’t reach them. But I had to reach them! I had to protect them, get to them, they were too far away! I couldn’t hold both of them at the same time, what should I do??
I think a word needs to be invented to describe this maternal emotion. Panic, maybe. Not fear, but closer to terror. Not just protectiveness, but closer to abject vigilance. Not just love, but closer to reverence.
Of course I got out of bed. I never listen. I heaved my post-birth girth out of that bed, and step-by-step, made my way to those bassinets. I remember looking into each bassinet and offering one hand to each of them. And that is where I stood, just gazing at them and holding their fingers as they looked up at me. I don’t know how long I stood there, but long enough to bleed all over the floor. Profusely. I didn’t even notice.
(Ew. I’m sorry)
I got in trouble. I got in so much trouble, with everyone, especially the charge nurse, who had to clean the floor.
“Didn’t I ask you to just push the button? I would have helped you. You can’t be any use to them if you don’t heal.”
I heard her speak, but I didn’t understand. Help me? Help me do what? It was like I was in some kind of trance, this love-fueled angst, that I couldn’t wake up from. I watched her handling them, confidently, and I wanted to tell her not to touch them. But I also had to admit that when she was done cleaning them and swaddling them, they always looked happy and content.
I hated when she would take them out of the room. I paced the floor, stared out the window, wild with worry that she wouldn’t bring them back, but also secretly relieved that someone experienced was tending to them. When she would wheel them back into the room and place them near my bed, I would look down at them and they would be staring up at me with these big eyes. Their faces would be clean, and they would be dressed in new onesies and swaddled in clean blankets. Their brand-new little baby hair would be wet and brushed to the side, and something about them just broke my heart.
I still don’t know why. But the sight of them being returned to me clean and calm was the first time I realized that I had to entrust them to the world. That I could entrust them to the world. And that they would come back. Obviously things had happened to them outside my hospital room, things I was not privy to. They were wearing different clothes, and they had their hair brushed a different way. But those things had brought them back. Even at a day old, they had undergone changes that didn’t involve me.
That was the scary part.
In our house, we still call it “baby hair,” and I still have all three of the boys’ baby hairbrushes. Once in a while they will brush their wet hair neatly to the side and then proudly show me.
So who really listens to podcasts? I mean, who are these people ? And how do they find the time to listen to podcasts?
This is not a rhetorical question, and I’m not being coy. I really don’t get how people have the time to listen to podcasts.
There are 24 hours in a day. Subtract six to eight hours for sleep, that leaves 16. In these days with C-19, maybe people are only working six hours a day. That leaves ten. Subtract an hour for health and wellness, an hour for preparation and consuming of meals, an hour for relating to other humans, and an hour (minimum) for communicating on computer devices. That leaves six hours in a day, and I haven’t even factored in play and recreation, commuting, watching television, dog walks, grooming, or trying to get your child in the bathtub or to bring his laundry down. Let’s allot three hours total for all of that.
That leaves three hours of unallotted time. Am I to believe that people are actually using podcasts as a way to pass these three precious hours?
Nuh-uh. I don’t believe it.
It’s like Netflix. I just watched a Netflix series of eight episodes with my friend last week in Virginia. Every night after dinner we’d make our drinks, get into our pajamas, snuggle into our beds, and treat ourselves to two episodes. By the end of the week, we had finished season one.
It was luxurious, but that’s what vacation is for. In daily life, where does the average person find a surfeit of time to listen to podcasts? There are, like, eight billion podcasts out there. How do you choose which one to listen to? Besides, you know the saying: Just because anyone can make a podcast doesn’t mean anyone should. Out of the eight billion podcasts out there, 7,999,999, 990 of them suck.
People say they listen to podcasts during their work commute or at the gym. That makes sense. It’s just that I can’t think of anything more tortuous and boring than listening to other people talk. Except for Jordan Peterson or the Joe Rogan Experience. I’d listen to Joe read the phone book. But even with JRE, I’ll often just catch the highlights on Youtube.
The podcast conversation always goes the same. Someone is all amped up, and sends me a text.
“Mary, you have to listen to this podcast.”
“Why?”
“Well, because it’s what you do, isn’t it? You discuss ideas?”
“Yes, but in writing. Why would I want to listen to someone else discuss ideas?”
“Well, to get more material.”
“That’s what books and magazines are for. And the news.”
“But you’re missing out on so much interesting discussion. And this podcast has millions of listeners.”
(Every podcast advertised anywhere has millions of listeners)
“I doubt it.”
“Just listen to one episode. For me?”
“Omg, FINE.”
I invariably listen, but this is what I hear:
Waw waw waw waw. Waw waw waw waw waw.
You know, the Charlie Brown teacher.
Trust me when I say the podcast universe is oversaturated. Even I bandied around the idea of starting a podcast. I have the books, my son has the equipment, but I just don’t want to add to an already vomitous number of untalented hacks who think they are interesting.
I even had a title for my podcast. Drum roll, please…
“But That’s Just Me”
(Rudimentary research turned up a podcast with this exact title, but alas, the podcasters haven’t posted a new podcast in three years. Shouldn’t they have to give up the name if they aren’t, you know, podding?)
My daily “But That’s Just Me” podcast would introduce a human foible, a cultural disparity, or a societal issue. I would then tell all of my listeners why they are wrong and I am right, and that it is high time they change their minds to suit me. Then I would invite them to call or comment and tell me I should take a long walk on a short pier. It sounds fun, and cathartic.
There are taboo subjects I’d love to tackle more than I can on the blogging page. Legalized marijuana. Gender and race issues. Transcendental meditation. Success through creative thought. Intermittent fasting. Sex. Plastic surgery. Homelessness. Health care. Child abuse. Why we live in the richest country in the world, but there are still babies in certain parts of the U.S. with Mountain Dew in their baby bottles because the parents can’t afford milk.
Ah, the guests I would have. Pete Davidson. Kristin Wiig. AOC. Post Malone. Halsey. Gabrielle Union and Dwayne Wade. Megan Rapinoe. Judd Apatow. Joe Rogan. Jordan Peterson. Megan Thee Stallion. Dustin Johnson and Paulina. The Barstool Sports guys. Ben Shapiro. Charlie Kirk. Ruth Madoff. Tomi Lahren. David Sedaris. The list just goes on and on…
But again. For now I refuse to be just another talking bore in a vast sea of talking bores. For now I will simply bore you in writing.
Wasn’t the weather scrumptious yesterday? I’m still smitten.
Friedrich Nietzsche once said, “You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star.” If that’s true, I should be giving birth to an entire constellation by June 1st. I’ll keep you apprised as chaos presents itself, but please have patience with me these next four weeks, because I’ll be posting a lot of Buzz Feed kind of stuff. You know, like 5 ways to know if you snore, 8 things you can’t live without, that ilk. Today is:
10 Things You Don’t Know About Me, or Maybe You Do
I play the accordion. My very Italian-father got an accordion as a gift from his very Italian-friend (who also happened to be our family dentist), and one night he called me and my three brothers into his bedroom. He stood in the middle of the room, crossed his arms, and asked us who was going to take lessons. My brothers scattered quickly, so since I was the only idiot left standing there, guess who he picked? I was in middle school when I won third place at some accordion championship; sadly, I can’t remember the name of the classical piece I played. I quit soon after the competition when it occurred to me that the accordion wasn’t exactly bringing all the boys into my yard. I’m asked all the time: if I gave you an accordion right now, could you play it? Answer: yes. Sadly, yes. With no problem.
I have two tattoos. A gecko on my right foot, and the Icelandic word for “adventure” on the inside of my left wrist.
I can sing and dance. I was in New Jersey All-State Chorus. And right out of college I tried out to be a dancing cocktail waitress in this bar in Staten Island, and some famous dance dude picked me to dance with him all night on top of a stage. It was quite an honor, I was told, because he only danced with “the best.” Anyway, I got the job, but never worked there. I don’t remember why, it was so long ago.
I love roller coasters. And water parks. When you travel as a family, one parent stays with the baby while the other parent takes the older kids down the big slides, right? I counted the days until I didn’t have to be the parent staying on the ground. I still love slides and coasters.
I’m deathly afraid of crickets. My parents had my bedroom redone when I was a teenager, and the construction let the crickets in. Their chirping and panicked jumping terrified me, and to this day, their noises make my skin crawl. I love my pest company so much because they keep the crickets out.
My favorite movie is “Jaws.” If I’m home and it’s on, I’m watching it, even if I’m working and it’s only on in the background. I will watch it three times in one day if it is on three times in one day. I have to. It’s tradition.
When they put Marley to sleep at the end of “Marley and Me” was the hardest I’ve ever cried at a movie. Destroyed me. Destroyed our whole family. I can never watch that again.
I took my three sons to the movie “Ted” when my youngest was ten years old, thinking it was a family movie about a teddy bear. A woman in our row kept craning her neck to look at me, and I thought for sure she was going to call DYFS on me. Even once I realized the inappropriate nature of it, I’m pretty sure we stayed for the whole thing. Great flick, one of our family favorites. Our sense of humor is quite twisted,
I’m currently injured. Never in my entire life has an injury actually physically prevented me from accomplishing mundane daily tasks, like reaching. I must have pulled something in my shoulder (or bicep or tricep, different parts hurt at different times) at the gym, then like the dummy I am, I did not rest it. Of course I should go and get it checked out, X-rayed or something, but ignoring physical ailments is part of what makes me me- you know, a pain in the ass.
I have a gargantuan life-changing trip coming up in four weeks. This is the kind of trip where once there, I will think to myself, “Why can’t you just be normal and enjoy taking a leisurely bike ride on the boardwalk?” My friend Carolyn and I are counting the days. I may come home, I may not. And if you hope I don’t return, why are you reading my blog? Sheesh. Anyway, I have four weeks to prepare mentally and physically, so again, bear with me.
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