Bonding Time

My 21-year old son had had a sore throat for a few days, and Friday morning he miraculously agreed not only to get checked out so that we could rule out strep, but also to let me accompany him.

After he signed in and we sat down, he immediately checked his phone. I looked around the waiting room and every single person was on his or her phone. Every. Single. One. Enjoy the following mom-son conversations he has agreed to let me publish on my blog today:

Me: Look at everyone staring at their phones. Good lord.

Him: Hmmph.

Me: Why don’t you put your phone away, be a rebel, look like a real man.

Him: What else is there to do? What do you do when you’re waiting in an office?

Me: Stare at people until I make them uncomfortable.

Him: (Laughs)

5-minute pause.

Me: Sore throats are the worst.

Him: Yeah. I had tonsillitis for two weeks at school.

Me: Excuse me?

Him: My roommates said my nodes were swollen. I definitely had tonsillitis.

Me: Why didn’t you go to the health center?

Him: I got through it.

Me: Are you saying you cured your own tonsillitis?

Him: That’s what I’m saying.

Me: That could offer hope to millions of people a year paying to get their tonsils removed.

Him: (Laughs)

5-minute pause.

Him: I miss my cat.

(He refers to the cat that lives in his campus house).

Me: We still haven’t had a turn at holiday babysitting.

Him: I know.

Me: Bring him home at Thanksgiving.

Him: Maybe.

Me: It would be worth the look on your brother’s face when he walked in and saw a cat in the house.

Him: (Laughs). He hates cats.

Me: I know. I don’t know why.

Him: He says he’s allergic to them.

Me: He’s not. He made it up.

Him: Why?

Me: Because Dad was. He thinks it’s genetic.

Him: (Laughs)

Long pause. Mother and young girl enter ladies’ room, young girl begins dry heaving and crying. You can hear the mother comforting her.

Me: That’s a shame. It’s scary to throw up.

Him: It’s the worst.

Me: Did you get sick the night of your 21st?

Him: No. I threw up earlier that day though.

Me: So you engaged in preemptive vomiting?

Him: You could say that.

Me: (Laughing).

He receives a text that we are 9th in line, which we estimate is a minimum of one hour. We tell the receptionist we will be in the car until it is our turn. Once in the car, he shows me a BreezyGolf video of a toddler using his plastic golf club to hit a plastic golf ball out of tall grass. After 20 or so attempts, the baby finally throws the club in frustration. We laugh. After only one minute of waiting, he receives a phone call that he can come in for his appointment. Happily, he comments:

“We should have done this sooner.”

As I watch his six-foot tall athletic frame amble its way into the medical center, looking both strong but vulnerable, I can’t help but think:

Yes, we should.

(Strep test was negative).

Filth and Squalor

I’m so happy my youngest son lives in filth and squalor.

Last Sunday I went to visit his college campus, to bring him some groceries and see the new house that he shares with five roommates. All I knew going in was that he lives in one of the “lacrosse houses” right off campus, and he needed provisions.

I pulled up to a dilapidated house with an overgrown lawn, and while I’m no Pollyanna, I was still shocked at its condition.

“This can’t be it,” I said to Google Maps Lady, as I peered toward the property.

“Fuck yes, it is,” Google Maps lady replied, with a trace of superior satisfaction.

Egads. And I had arrived just in time to witness a conversation one of the boys was having with two older pissed-off looking men. All I heard was the tail end.

“It’s up to you guys,” one man said, getting in his truck. “The city is issuing tickets, so get it cleaned up.”

Hm, I thought. Get what cleaned up? The yard? The house? Their act?

This absolutely can’t be it, and as I began to text my son, there he suddenly was, standing in the doorway with his lopsided smile. All 6’1” of his cuteness, and my heart went pitter-pat, as it always does when I see my sons anywhere, even standing in our own kitchen.

I gave him a hug and asked what the altercation was about.

“I have no idea. And of course you pull up at that exact moment. We haven’t seen him since we moved in.”

The inside looked as I expected. Use your imagination. Really think about it, now. Six juniors in college, athletes. Got the image?

Yep.

There was barely enough room in the refrigerator to fit the groceries I had brought him, so we loaded some back into my car to be brought home, frozen, and brought back on my next visit. A tour of the house revealed more funk and wildness, but I was happy to see that his basement bedroom reflected his personal fastidiousness and penchant for order. Comfy bed, neatly appropriated desk, belongings stored away, posters of rap stars giving the middle finger to the photographer, and inevitable strobe lights lining the walls.

“Nice bedroom, honey,” I said. “Could double as an S&M dungeon.”

“What’s that?”

“Never mind.”

“Wait until you see this,” he said, leading me to a set of six ascending stairs. “I have a door right to the backyard.”

How nice, I thought, and he opened the door to reveal another overgrown lawn, this one littered with no fewer than 6,000 red Solo cups.

“You say you didn’t know what the landlord wanted you to clean up? Perhaps the back yard?”

“Could be,” he said. “We had a mixer yesterday.”

“That sounds fun.”

“It got broken up pretty quickly, but we managed to keep it going for a few hours.”

“Who called the cops?”

“Hard to say.”

I looked up over their rusted metal fence at a very upscale apartment building that looked directly down at their house.

“Maybe the tenants of that apartment building?”

He looked up.

“I never thought of that. Could be.”

As we left the house, a young man appeared at the door.

“The backyard cleaned up?” he asked Tommy.

“No, you can get to it,” my son answered.

Seeing my confused expression, my son revealed to me that the boy was a freshman on the lacrosse team who had arrived for yard clean-up duty.

I drove home with a big grin on my face.

My youngest, the STEM genius of the family. The boy who was given such a generous scholarship package for college that he will graduate debt-free. The boy who was accepted into West Point. The boy who has made Dean’s list for four straight semesters. The boy who has always been self-motivated, self-disciplined, self-regulating and self-governing. The boy who sets his own alarm clocks, never needs reminding, does what needs to be done, and is not prone to emotion or sentiment. The boy who has never studied more than a minute in his life, because it comes so easily to him. The boy who has always said, “I can do it myself.” The boy who majors in cybersecurity and does schoolwork that we can’t even explain, much less recognize. The boy with the purest heart you’d ever want to meet.

That perfect neat boy lives in filth and squalor. He’s living his life, in his own little chaotic orderly life.

It’s all we should ever want for any of our children.

Scusi?

(Only post this week, sorry, and thanks for checking in)

So fine, I was bored. Does it excuse it? Maybe not. But he had it coming. Or did he?

I get a LOT of DMs and follow requests in my Instagram account. I’m sure you do, too, right? And tbh, I’m not even sure what’s considered “normal.” Five a day? Ten? A hundred a month?

I won’t tell you how many I get. It’s unseemly.

My IG account is very very private, and very very boring. I only have like thirteen followers and eight posts on there, and I haven’t even posted anything since Alaska. When a DM pops up from a stranger, of course I immediately delete it.

But one day I was at work, and I was bored. So when a DM popped up from this silver fox, I did the unthinkable, for me at least:

I replied. And instantly, ohhhh, the regret. Why do I do this to men? Here’s a smatter:

Him: Hello Mary

Him: How are you doing?

Me: Fine

Him: How’s your day been so far?

Me: (Heart sign)

Next day:

Him: Hey

Me: Hi

Him: How are you?

Me: Good

Him: Where are you from?

Me: Earth

Him: This is lovely- what part?

(This, my friends, indicates that he is a foreigner, and has only the limited English-speaking capacity for basic greetings).

Me: The western part.

Him: Is that west or the east coast?

Me: The eastern coast of the western part of the Earth.

Him: I love this, are you from LA?

Me: Yes, actually, how did you know?

Him: I have much friends out there.

Me: I wonder if any of them are living in tents outside my house in Beverly Hills.

Him: You live in Beverly Hills?

Me: Of course

Him: Would love to come visit (creepy winky emoji)

Me: Sure come on out

Him: When would you like me?

Me: How about tomorrow?

Him: That is very soon.

Me: Let’ start our lives together as soon as possible.

Him: I don’t understand?

Me: I’m aware of that.

THE END

Home Again

As someone who has enjoyed a certain amount of peace and quiet in the past year, the arrival home of my boys has been, to say the least, jarring. It’s not even Memorial Day weekend, and I have already contended with strange boys sleeping on my couch, people peeing against my garage, lost boat keys, lights and fans left on, empty towel closets, and a looming Memorial Day Monday barbeque, which I am dreading.

If you are also expecting the return of family members as summer closes in, here are a ten suggestions to make the transition as smooth as possible.

  1. Get rid of any idea you used to have about how your house should look, or has looked in the past. That’s over. Redefine your terms.
  2. Have family meetings. They can’t know what you expect if you don’t tell them. Give them chances to succeed.
  3. Don’t scream. What good does that do?
  4. Make everyone do his or her own laundry. If they want clean clothes, they’ll learn.
  5. Post reminders around the house about chores, trash night, and Do-s and Don’ts. They’re a visual generation.
  6. Be thankful when they help. Don’t say, “That’s the least you can do,” or “’Bout time you earned your keep.” Gratitude goes a long way.
  7. Buy plenty of paper plates and Solo cups. That will cut down on dirty dishes and broken stemware.
  8. If they have people over, make sure they cap it at a number, and give you a defined end time. That way there is no confusion.
  9. Remind them that you pay their phones and car insurance, and that could end immediately if they don’t respect your rules.
  10. Remind yourself that one day your house will be clean and orderly, and you will miss these times.

Really.

Whodunit

There’s a sexual predator loose in Philadelphia, so please be careful to and from work.

If you get pulled over late at night on a highway, wait to pull into a well-lit area. It may not be a cop pulling you over.

Don’t go getting into white vans just because someone needs help with their furniture.

After I send text warnings like these to my sons, the response usually goes something like this.

“O.k. Mom, what true crime drama documentary did you just watch?”

It turns out fascination with true crime is quite normal, as long as it’s not an obsessive compulsion. Why else do we love true crime?

Evil fascinates us. It’s normal to be fascinated with the balance between good and evil.

If it bleeds, it leads. 25 to 30 percent of most television news today [deals] with crime particularly personal crime and murder.

And because we can’t look away from a trainwreck. Criminals can only fulfill their social function if the rest of the world knows exactly what outrages they have committed and how they have been punished—which is to say that what the public really needs and wants is to hear the whole shocking story.

It helps us feel prepared. A study published in 2010 found that women were more drawn than men to true crime books that contained tips on how to defend against an attacker.

There might be an evolutionary benefit. People are interested in true crime because we’ve evolved to pay attention to things that could harm us so that we can better avoid them. 

We’re glad we’re not the victim. A big factor in our true crime obsession is something sort of like schadenfreude—getting enjoyment from the trouble experienced by other people.

We’re glad we’re not the perpetrator. It allows us to feel our compassion, not only a compassion for the victim, but sometimes compassions for the perpetrator.

It gives us an adrenaline rush. The euphoric effect of true crime on human emotions is similar to that of roller coasters or natural disasters.

We’re trying to solve the mystery. People can play armchair detective and see if they can figure out ‘whodunit’ before law enforcement authorities catch the actual perpetrator.

We like to be scared…in a controlled way. Stories about serial killers are fairytales for grownups. There’s something in our psyche where we have this need to tell stories about being pursued by monsters.

Storytelling is good and comforting. While living in a world where there is rapid social, political, economic, and technological change, true crime comforts people by assuring them that their long-held ideas about how the world works are still useful.

So the next time you’re drawn to that John Wayne Gacy documentary, remember you’re normal for doing so. Just don’t rent a clown for your kid’s birthday party, cuz, well, you never know…

Mentee

Out of sheer morbid curiosity, I clicked on a LinkedIn article entitled, “Are You Mentorable?”

The sheer audacity of the question made me laugh. Am I mentorable? I wasn’t even mentorable when I was 25. Now at 55, I would assume I am any team leader’s worst nightmare. I can play nice when I have to, don’t get me wrong, but my inner rebellious asshole is always simmering very close to the surface. If I had a list entitled, “Things I Am Done with Forever,” team meetings would lead the top five.

(The other four? Jeans. Dating sites. Coach. Burpees)

I have always been an excellent teacher. What I have never been, however, is an excellent employee. I am the employee who says (formerly quietly, then by the end of my career out loud) stuff like this during meetings and in-services:

Who gives a shit?

Are we done here?

May I be excused?

If I know this already, can I leave?

This could have been an email.

We had this same in-service last year.

Couldn’t this time have been better spent preparing our classrooms and lessons?

Just fucking kill me.

Oh Christ, not another icebreaker. We’ve been teaching here for twenty years, the ice is broke.

Pssssst, Joe. You got any of that vodka still in your desk?

My classic was glaring at that annoying pale person with no life outside of work when she raised her hand to the question: “Before we leave for the day, any questions?” and then whispering, “Ask that question and I will kill your whole family, or all fifty of your cats, whichever comes first.”

Yes, I got in trouble. A lot. And of course I failed the quiz. It should come as no surprise to you that according to LinkedIn, I am not mentorable.

Bummer.

Question 1: Would you appreciate the value of your mentor’s time?

Answer: No.

Q2: Would you be able to be clear about what you’re looking for in a mentor relationship?

Answer: No.

Q3: Can you accept input, advice and criticism from your mentor?

Answer: Christ no.

Q4: Is your answer “Yes” to the question, “Am I a good mentee?”

Answer: Hell no.

Q5: Is your mind open to learning from your mentor?

Answer: Fuck no.

Final Grade: Hi Mary. Thanks for taking our quiz. Looks like you need some more time to figure out what you’re looking for in a mentor/mentee relationship. Try again in a few years.

Yeah, that’ll happen.

Bad Squishy

(Let me start by saying I love Philly. The following is just an amusing and ACCURATE anecdote. Please don’t email me and tell me “Why don’t you just move if you hate it so much.” Or email me, whatever. “Squishy” is a term of endearment from “Finding Nemo.”

So as I was walking to the fifth row of my flight, just two rows behind first-class, it was clear that the only space for my carry-on was a tiny spot above a geriatric man. And since I was tired, the space was small, and my bag was heavy, I caught the flight attendant’s eye. For this story I shall her Squishy, and she shall be my Squishy.

“Can you help me?” I asked her, struggling with the weight of my bag.

“No.”

Bad Squishy. I quickly caught myself and mumbled out loud as I tried to shove my bag in by myself.

“Shit, that’s right, I forgot.”

Squishy stared at me.

“Forgot what?”

My mouth opened to say, “That this is a Philly flight crew,” but thank you dear lord, I caught myself. I made some excuse and quickly took my seat. The other flight attendant was haggard and worn, with a unibrow and really really bad hair. I wanted so much to take her for a makeover to show her what she was doing wrong.

When Squishy came around taking beverage orders, silly me, I asked for black coffee.

“There is no coffee.”

I paused, and watched first-class passengers being served coffee.

“No coffee? You mean no coffee here, or in the whole world?”

“Here.”

No coffee for me.

I knew what would meet me when I landed in Philly. Gotham-like darkness. Underpaid and overworked attendants pushing around thin brooms or sitting around on golf carts. Stores closed and barricaded with metal gates. Deserted baggage claim turnstiles going around aimlessly in circles, people waiting desperately to claim their luggage and get out of the dystopian nightmare that is the Philadelphia International Airport late at night.

As we were all walking to baggage claim, which had switched to Terminal B, an unkempt man came up behind me, claiming he had been on my flight. He began to joke with me that since he was following me to baggage claim, if I screwed up, he would be lost too.

I tried to be polite, of course. But I was tired, cold, hungry and angry at my Squishy, and to top it all off, I still had to find my car in the cavernous parking garage and then drive home. I suppose he interpreted my initial smile as encouragement, so he began to tell me his life story. Traveling since 4 a.m. from Milwaukee, hungry and exhausted. Then he asked me if I wanted to stop at an airport café and buy him a cheesesteak. He laughed after the request as if he were joking. But he wasn’t.

How. The. Fuck. Do. I. Attract. These. Kind. Of. Men. I demand an answer. NOW!

I’m not subtle. I literally stopped walking next to him, without excuse. He stopped too, at first, then realizing his faux pas, continued on by himself. I did not continue walking until he was out of sight. And while this may not be socially correct, here it is: I once read a quote that said something like, “Be nice to outcasts, you never know what they’re going through.”

My answer? Sometimes they’re outcasts for a good reason. And when you’re a single woman traveling late at night, assume that all you want.

 

This ‘n That

For the record, I don’t HATE anyone. But the feeling I have for people who are landing in the same vacation destination that I am sad about leaving is a feeling that hovers in the gray area between annoyance and murderous rage. When I’m waiting at my gate for my departure flight so that I can return to Gray Jersey, and people are walking off the plane into 85 degree sunny weather, full of hope and joy and expectation to be in this beautiful place, well…I just hate them. Despite the fact that I am tan and rested, I hate them.

There was one day in Tampa where I made a beeline to the patio bar after my days’ conferences, and replied “Just f*** me up” to the bartender’s question, “What can I get you today?” I have always wanted to say that and mean it, but I knew I had to wait for the right time and right bartender. Friday was the day, and Joe just smirked and nodded, and with the seriousness of a chemist, began concocting. One drink and a four-hour nap in my villa later, I returned to Joe, congratulated him on his libation skills, and stated “Thank you sir, may I have another?” Killer poolside drink.

There was this bald guy waiting to board in front of our gate in Philadelphia, and he looked like a 1D guy. I’ve written about the freaks in 1D already. This bald guy started singing “You’ll Never Find” by Lou Rawls, just jamming and dancing to the noise that was traveling from his pods to his brain stem. And I said to myself, “He’s going to be next to me, I just know he’s going to be next to me, I just know it…” Yes. He was. Never fails. He turned out to be an o.k. seatmate in the end.

I did not make it to the Pirate Ball. I know you’re disappointed in me, so were my mates. But I had an issue that was out of my control. My presentation had ended at five, and I went right to the pool, and promptly fell asleep in the sun, mostly from relief that it was over and had gone well. Not great. Just well. When I returned to my room to get ready for the banquet, I went to charge my laptop and realized I had left my charger in the meeting salon plugged into the projector. It took security 90 minutes on a busy Saturday night to track that puppy down, but they finally delivered it to my room at 9:00 p.m. Since 9:00 is my bewitching hour, I called it a night.

Bummer. No pirate’s booty.


Kimchi

Sorry there was no post Tuesday, I fell asleep. Travel be being arduous. Usually I have some posts saved to publish at a later time, but I’m all out.

So I was sitting at a bar while waiting for my flight the other night, and I was lucky enough to sit near a strange man waiting for his Tinder date to show up. He made a big deal out of it to the bartender, announcing that “I’m meeting someone,” and that “she should be here any minute,” and that “I’ll bet she’ll have a martini.”

There was great fanfare when she showed up. She was very plain, and just as strange as her male companion, but they were very excited to be in each other’s company. His banter was cringe-worthy, and he ran out of game by approximately 5:46 p.m. I know this for a fact because when the silence hit, I texted it to myself so I wouldn’t forget.

I’m not trying to be mean spirited. We all have to do what we can now to meet people, but I have never heard a man work so hard to impress a woman as this man did.

He spoke of where he docks his yacht. His investment portfolio. The fact that his friend has three cars, two motorcycles, and “100k” in the bank. He literally said, “he got 100k in the bank.” After laughing off to the side so he wouldn’t see me, I could only assume he is not aware of the current state of inflation. Or the condition of the stock market. Or the value of the dollar. And while I’m not turning my nose up to “100k” (far from it!) any man trying to impress a woman might want to choose a number bigger than 100k.

I found the whole interaction sad, to be frank. Just what men and women have to do to get together now. I’ve written about it before. That woman sat there for over an hour, while this man just…vomited his sad game all over her. She never stood a chance, and I don’t think I ever heard her say one word.

I wonder if he got a second date. When I left, they were ordering kimchi. I think his chances were slim.

Mea Culpa

I needed to refer to my old blog post “Mea Culpa” for a quote, but when I looked it up, it turns out I never published it. The post titled “Cover Me” announced “Mea Culpa” for the following week, but I chickened out posting it. It seems so silly now, so I will post it along with a couple of other apologies:

My big mea culpa:

I was never on dating sites. I mean, my profile was on dating sites, and sometimes I scrolled through pictures and read some conversations, but it was never me messaging, swiping or choosing. Never once. I was working with a marketing team and doing research for my book, and they were posing as me, messaging as me, talking as me. They conferred with me daily, providing updates and potential matches. They posed as me on Tinder, Match, eHarmony, Hinge, Silver Singles, Bumble and OK Cupid.

I didn’t do it for meanness. We were testing the algorithms and methodology behind connecting with potential matches on dating sites. What men want, how they speak, how women can catch a man’s attention, what pictures they like, what responses make them interested. You get the idea. If you’ve been on dating sites, you know it’s more of a silly algorithm than anything you take seriously.

The main question we were trying to answer:

Can an attractive, accomplished woman find the same kind of man on a dating site?

I can’t speak for other women, but our final findings ended with a resounding:

NO.

So there it is. My Mea Gulpa. Sorry. Any man who ever thought he was talking to me was talking to a hired marketing professional who was either directed to turn a guy off or turn him on. I got a lot of good material.

Keep in mind that once I gave my team approval to give a guy my phone number (which was RARE), then of course it was me after that. But it was never me on the dating sites. Not once.

A journalist has to do what she has to do, and it’s going to be a great piece one day for the right outlet, and a great chapter in my book. And I obviously would never use real names. I barely remember their names, anyway.

Apology to Expedia:

I blasted them in my blog, in email and over the phone because I thought they were scamming me and not letting me use my flight credits. I had it wrong. I just booked my first-class flights to and from Tampa, and it cost me nothing. And since I am speaking at a conference, my hotel, food and beverages are complimentary, as is airport transportation. So my entire spring break will be free. Sorry I doubted you Expedia, but remember that you still owe me for those unused Hawaiian Airlines credits.

Apology to AT&T:

I hope no woman reading this ever becomes a widow and has to go through what I have gone through getting my late husband taken off of utility bills, cable bills, and cellular phone plans. It has almost been FIVE YEARS, and I think I am officially done.

I hope.

AT&T tortured me the most and the longest. You’ve probably read the posts. It took dozens of trips, appointments and phone calls to set it straight. I begged, pleaded, cried, yelled, argued, to get it set straight. I wrote letters to local, national, and corporate executives, complaining. And it took my local AT&T, just in the next town over, to finally set it straight. Thank you Larry. Our family phone bill is done and settled and figured out.

The apology is for the years of accusations- when you are a widow society does its best to screw you over, in every way. You don’t have anyone to fight for you, so you must fight for yourself. People think you will eventually tire of the game, and give in.

It is tiring, indeed. But Hell hath no fury like a widow scorned.