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Not so hot for teachers: guns in the classroom #ThursdayThoughts

March 22, 2018 by Beth

Dear Trump, GOP and NRA assholes representatives,

I am a teacher, and I DO NOT want to carry a gun to class. I’m there to instruct, not take down a “bad guy.” (Armed teachers = unusually bad idea, even for you)

I have one goal in class: Teach. I work with college students, so they are paying my salary. My goal is to give them their money’s worth and more. I want to be the life-changing (life-saving in a different way) professor like Dr. Brightman was for me.

Part of my job is figuring out what each student needs (and I guarantee that it is not an AR-15 in their hands or mine).

Students usually come in a handful of personas. Here’s a field guide:

The Tracy Flick
Hand up first. Already has an A, but wants extra credit. “Overachiever” doesn’t even begin to encompass this student. Also can dissolve quickly if mastery doesn’t come easy.

The Ferris Bueller
Seems like he doesn’t care and isn’t paying attention, but he is smarter than the average bear. Often turns in the best work in the class without even trying.

The Jeff Spicoli
Sigh. What do you do about a student who is paying money to go to college, but is just a complete slacker? Love them anyway.

The Summer “Tinkerbell” Hathaway
This student is suspicious of you from the get-go, but you will slowly win her over if you do, in fact, know what you are talking about. And then she will try to push you to see how far she can go.

The Will Hunting
This student may appear to hate your guts during the class, but he will surprise you later on when he tells you that he learned so much from you. It is an unexpected, but joyful moment.

The John Bender
Hard candy shell with a liquid center. Seems confrontational, but is masking a deep-seated vulnerability. I love to see these kinds in five years when they are all well-adjusted and shit.

The Regina George
This student often is the most challenging because she has created a particular persona, and may resist your efforts to get her to think about anything/anyone other than herself. The trick is to help her figure out how to make assignments interesting enough to her so that she will enjoy doing them (thus learning in the process).

The Steve Stifler
Every female faculty member has this student’s number (meaning we know exactly who he is). No, we cannot have a meeting with my office door closed. No, we are not going together to the fraternity party Friday night. It’s great to see this student mature and even <gasp> get married.

The Sam Baker
This student is smart but can be quiet and thus overlooked. Pay attention to this one. Still waters run deep, as they say. This student often ends up being as close to you as students in the next category.

The Todd Anderson
With this student, you know early on that he/she will be in your life forever — and that is a good thing. You “get” them, they “get” you, and it is a lovely, symbiotic relationship. You start out as professor/student and morph into colleagues and friends later on. Some people in the aforementioned categories will end up in this one, and that is a lovely thing too.

I live to make a difference. And I live for notes like these:

That’s from a student who graduated five years ago. No surprise that she was a Todd.

I want to learn how to better reach every student. I do not want to learn how to better reach my gun.

I want to be accurate with grading. I do not want to be accurate with aim.

I want to get paid to carry full classes. I do not want to get paid to carry a gun.

Please, please, please find a different way to achieve the one goal we all want: peace in schools (and everywhere, for that matter). The answer is not arming teachers.

Thanks,
Beth

Posted in Advice, Politics | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment »

St. Pat’s Captain’s Log: Brought to you by the letter “o” for “oof” #nodtoSesameStreet

March 18, 2018 by Beth

Ladies and gentlemen, I present “How I spent my first St. Patrick’s Day back in Atlanta.”

7:46 a.m. Wake up to the doorbell. Apparently, it is playtime in the neighborhood. The hooligans I live with head outside to terrorize each other and assorted friends.

11:30 a.m. Finish watching the last episode of the last season of “Game of Thrones.” I’m excited, aroused, worried, repulsed, mad, sad — all in equal measure. I need to talk to someone about it. I’m so far behind in finally seeing it, though, no one wants to talk to me.

2:10 p.m. Nap while watching recorded episodes of “The Voice.”

5:30 p.m. Make the soup that we like for dinner. Compliments all around. Pregame. Realize it is too early to pregame.

7:10 p.m. Take Nap Two. (I’m elderly. Leave me alone.)

8:50 p.m. Dominic notices that I’ve put myself together. The following conversation ensues.

Dominic: “Are you going out tonight?”
Me: “Yes. Rene and I are going to some thing called ‘Psycho Disco.'”
Dominic: “Well, don’t get murdered by a psycho. If someone comes up to you, turn your usual reporter mode off and run.”

8:51 p.m. Document the conversation on Facebook (because if it is not documented, did it even happen?).

8:55 p.m. Tell René I’m on my way. He tells me I’m early; he is not ready. I tell him I’ll cool my jets. Men.

9:02 p.m. Amuse myself by reading responses to the FB post.

9:15 p.m. Call for Lyft. Help Tarrant find me as I am on the side of the road (getting into apartment complex is a pain). Fetch René.

9:44 p.m. Arrive at The Music Room. It’s not open yet, but the barbecue place next door is. 9:49 p.m. Celebrate St. Patrick’s Day like I always do: by drinking an Irish Car Bomb. It’s tradition. Usually, this tradition involves The Royce, but he is in Savannah with Mike Pence and Mother (barf), so I had to carry on without him.

10:22 p.m. Go next door (now open) and meet René’s friend, DJ Tracy Levine. She is tiny, impeccably dressed and energetic. She also plays amazing house music for the seven people in the bar. It’s still early.

10:30-11:45 p.m. Listen to DJ Tracy upstairs. Go downstairs where there are more people to watch, but then have to endure a DJ that is not as gifted. Go back upstairs to dance. Go back downstairs to watch. Lather, rinse, repeat.

11:54 p.m. I’ve lost René.

12:30 a.m. Take Uber to Atlanta Eagle. I am the only one of my kind there. Also, it’s leather night. So.

1:11 a.m. Wait for Uber outside because now we are going to Blake’s. A woman rushes up to me: “Hi! So good to see you!” I don’t know her, but I see a guy right behind her. I quietly ask her if she is OK, or if she is trying to get away from this guy. Girl code. Then I see another woman with them. I ask her if everything is OK. She says, “Oh yeah, they’re together. She’s just drunk and friendly.” Aha. Then our Uber chariot appears.

She’s adorable, right? And extra.

1:24 a.m. “Do not pinch me. I’m wearing green,” I say to the fellow who has just tried to pinch me. I show him my shamrock. (My necklace. Come on!)

1:35 a.m. Blake’s is THE place to be, apparently. Let the mingling, chatting, dancing and whatnot commence! No, I do not want another beer. I’m good. Thank you very much.

2:21 a.m. Surprise stop at Waffle House on the way home. Scattered, covered, diced and capped, please.


3:11 a.m. Shower and go to bed. I’m too tired to take the towel off my hair.

8:53 a.m. Not taking the towel off last night was a mistake. My hair looks like a fright wig.

9:13 a.m. Text my friend Brian to tell him I went to the two gay bars he’s been telling me about. Without him.

9:30 a.m. Brian decides I’m going with him to see “Love, Simon” this afternoon. But that’s hours away.

Next weekend, René and I are supposed to go to the Northwest Georgia Bantam Club Winter Classic —  a poultry show. No, I’m not kidding. I can’t wait!

Stay tuned,
Beth

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My adopted lexicon: Rated #TVPG for coarse language, sexual situations and mild violence #allhailthequeen

March 15, 2018 by Beth

Dear loyal readers,

If you have been with me here for a while, you know that grammar and punctuation often are topics for posts. Many moons ago, I wrote a few posts about words I hate. I also wrote the antithesis post. Two, actually.

But I have a new list with a theme.

Always an anglophile, I’ve become even more obsessed with all things England after my recent trip. As you all know.

[Before you get your knickers in a twist (explanation below) about this obsession, just know that my fixations come and go, roughly lasting two weeks to a month (memory refreshers here, here and here). Bear with me; it’s almost over. Also, I’ve been bingeing “Game of Thrones.” Cut me some slack.]

Hence: British words I love (in alphabetical order, because I’m proper like that)

  • ace and, sometimes, aces (adjectives): excellent

Use it in a sentence, please: “That’s ace!” Trish said when her telephonophobic friend finally called her back instead of texting.

  • barmy and barking (adjectives): mad, crazy

Use it in a sentence, please: Eddie thought his wife had gone barmy for going out every weekend.

  • bollocks and bollocking (nouns): nonsense, verbal trash; trashing, telling off

Use it in a sentence, please: Si spent way too much time talking bollocks. Meanwhile, Clair gave Karl a royal bollocking for sleeping during the set. (In his defense, he did have to get up at 6 a.m.)

  • candyfloss (noun): cotton candy

Use it in a sentence, please: Her late grandmother’s hair was blue and spun into an orb like candyfloss at the circus.

  • caravan (noun): RV

Use it in a sentence, please: Hannah is contemplating a caravan rental for the music festival.

  • car park (noun): parking lot/garage

Use it in a sentence, please: Terry didn’t like to go to new places because he worried about finding adequate car parks.

  • cheeky (adjective): impertinent

Use it in a sentence, please: Gideon is becoming quite the cheeky monkey.

  • chuffed (adjective): pleased

Use it in a sentence, please: Hazel was chuffed to little mint balls.

  • dodgy (adjective): sketchy

Use it in a sentence, please: She fled to the ladies room to avoid the dodgy fellow at the bar.

  • faff (verb and noun): to waste time (v) or a time-waster (n)

Use it in a sentence, please: Dominic felt that any interaction with his family was a bit of a faff.

  • gutted (adjective): really upset

Use it in a sentence, please: Beth was gutted about what that asshole Ramsay Bolton did to Theon Greyjoy.

  • hoover (verb): vacuum

Use it in a sentence, please: She accidentally hoovered up the slip of paper on which she wrote an important email address.

  • jacket potato (noun): baked potato

Use it in a sentence, please: Do I really need to?

  • kit (noun): clothing

Use it in a sentence, please: “Come on then, get your kit off,” she had her hero say to the heroine in the sex book she was writing.

  • knackered (adjective): exhausted

Use it in a sentence, please: Cris was knackered Sunday morning after staying out so late the night before.

  • knickers (noun): panties (yes, I love this word too)

Use it in a sentence, please: I already did (see above). (Knickers in a twist = panties in a bunch)

  • pinched and nicked (verbs): stole

Use it in a sentence, please: René pinched some candy from the jar on Beth’s desk.

  • rogering (noun): sex

Use it in a sentence, please: Once the heroine had gotten her kit off, the hero gave her a good rogering.

  • rubbish (should be a noun, but Brits use it as an adjective): worthless

Use it in a sentence, please: I’m rubbish at this Twitter malarkey.

  • skip (noun): dumpster

Use it in a sentence, please: The teenager’s mother got so angry at him that she threw all his Xbox games in the skip.

  • shambolic (adjective): very disorganized, confused

Use it in a sentence, please: The shambolic mess of a woman straggled home after a night out way past her bedtime.

  • shirty (adjective): bad-tempered or aggressive

Use it in a sentence, please: Barry reminded his old girlfriend that the night of the first Tommy Stinson experience was also the night she got into a scrap at the front of the stage because some girl got shirty with her.

  • the tits (adjective): fantastic

Use it in a sentence, please: That shit is the tits.

  • wee (should be a verb, but Brits use it as a noun): pee

Use it in a sentence, please: “I went for a wee,” the crazy American shouted to everyone within earshot at the club.

I have heard or read all of these in just the past month. I’ve used some of them. It’s made conversations more interesting.

(British friends, if I have got it all to cock, please make sure I’m sorted. I promise I won’t throw a wobbly.)

 

Side note: This was in the British aisle of my local international market. Pretty sure it should have been Marmite. (I was looking for mushy peas. No, they’re not gross. Shut up.)

Cheerio!
Beth

 

 

Posted in Grammar, etc. | Tagged , , , , , , | 1 Comment »

The bassist, the blend and the bizarre: A tale from Saturday night

March 12, 2018 by Beth

Dear Tommy Stinson,

You now have the distinction of being the star of two of the weirdest nights of my life.

One was back in The Replacements days in the ’90s. You and I shared a moment, but that’s a story for another day.

The second was Saturday night at the Atlanta show of your Cowboys in the Campfire tour.

My usual partner in crime was indisposed, so I drug my long-suffering husband out to the luckily very early (7 p.m.) event.

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this:

There’s a reason I don’t like Bob Dylan. WTF are you singing, Tommy? You were a bass prodigy. Besides The Replacements, you were the bassist for Guns N’ Roses and Soul Asylum. What are you doing? I do appreciate wanting to try something different (I’m president of that club), but …

Sigh.

When the merch selling began, I knew what I wouldn’t be buying. (I’m so sorry; it’s just not for me.)

You know what I did buy? Your Co-Cowboy Chip’s spice blend.

That’s right.

I went to a concert and bought Uncle Sippy’s Seasoning Blend. And because this wasn’t strange enough, I decided to get it signed too.

Apparently, Chip used to be a chef.

Here is Chef Chip telling me that this is NOT a rub, and I should not use it as a rub.

While you were signing my souvenir, one of your people said I should let you take a selfie of us.

“He takes the best selfies,” the guy said.
“OK. Sure,” I said.

So you took a selfie. This is the result:

It certainly was not what I anticipated. But you were so nice to amuse a long-time fan.

Anyway, thanks for an odd night. We are two for two.

And Eddie and I were home by 9:30.

See you in another 25 years or so.

I’ll expect the unexpected.
Beth

P.S. Tell Chip the seasoning blend is delicious!

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Hard to say I’m sorry* (confessions of a #baseball mom)

March 10, 2018 by Beth

Dear Gideon,

Youngest fruit of my loins, you may never hear this again, but you were right and I was wrong. Of course, you don’t know that I ever disagreed with you on the point of baseball, but I have to come clean.

When you said you wanted to try out for the team, I said:

Sure, baby. Whatever you want.

But inside, I was like:

I thought the coach would be a douchey frustrated former ballplayer.

I was wrong.

I thought the other moms would be cliquey mean girls.

I was wrong.

I thought I would hate trekking to the field and sitting outside to watch your games and practices. (OUTSIDE!? What is this concept?)

I was wrong.

Maybe I’m in a period of personal renewal where I am actively seeking new experiences, but THIS HAS BEEN GREAT!

I’m proud of you for trying something new to our family. (Basketball would have been the expected choice because of your dad’s history, but no. You have to be different.)

I’m still trying to figure out all the rules. (Sorry I got excited today when I thought you got that kid out at third. I didn’t know you had to tag on a steal. I’m learning too.)

Plus, I’m meeting new people, thanks to you. (See that woman in pink on the left? That’s Suzanne. She is fantastic.)

You know what also helps? Coolers are allowed at the park.

Hando and I enjoy the game. We were so proud when you scored.

Again, you were right. And so was Yogi Berra.

Love ya, kid. You’re the best.

Go Rockies!
Mama

*Thank you, Chicago.

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Soundtrack for my weekend: The PG-13 version

March 5, 2018 by Beth

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life. Let me share mine through music.

FRIDAY

“Out Tonight“
From “Rent“
René and his partner Cris accompanied me for more recon for my PR project. I actually changed out of work clothes this time to go out. That’s commitment.

“All Night Long“
Buckcherry
There were three bands scheduled for this venue: The Sagas, Dank (formerly Dank Sinatra) and Casual Cadenza. We had an interesting conversation on the Lyft ride over about the word “credenza,” which would have been a better band name. The ride to the bar also featured this quote from Cris about my college drink of choice:

There’s nothing good at the bottom of a bottle of Boone’s Farm.

So true. Did you know they still make it? (Did you get a case of the clap from just thinking about those days? Just kidding. It was herpes. KIDDING. Maybe.)

The Sagas

The Sagas: The best band of the night. I’m bummed I didn’t take the photo before the singer took off his gold tablecloth.

“Deadbeat Club“
The B-52’s
I really didn’t understand the audience for many reasons. They paid to see these bands, yet they stood like recently reanimated corpses, dressed like they were going to a casting call for L.L. Bean catalog work. The men outnumbered the women at least 10-1. And all of these guys seemed like they were one drink away from switching sides.

“A Toe Needs a Shoe“
The Replacements
Apparently, Dank was the main attraction. I couldn’t see why, but all the stiff white people were THRILLED that this band had gotten back together after a reported six-year hiatus. In that time, they clearly did not give much thought to their stage wear for the big reunion. Or maybe they did. (That’s worse.)

IMG_1022

What is going on here? This is a true wardrobe malfunction.

“Mean“
Taylor Swift
When I read “Southern rock sound” in the Casual Cadenza bio, I thought I would like them. I did not. They sounded like a bad lounge band. Like I could smell Nick Winters‘ Brut by Faberge. René should be happy he had to leave early because he had an early-morning flight.

“Little T & A“
The Rolling Stones
At some point in the evening, I got the booking manager’s email on a napkin (for the aforementioned PR project). I stuffed it in my bra for safekeeping. Somehow, it went missing. (I don’t know how; I promise the only hands in my bra were my own.) I got the email rewritten on a piece of register tape. It also went missing for a bit. It turned up the next morning. When I relayed this story to my “client,” my friend Simon, he called it “the Narnia Bra.” That’s bloody brilliant!

Seen in the ladies room. Nicky will what?

“Look Out (Here Comes Tomorrow)“
The Monkees
For the second time in a month, I was still in the bar when they turned the house lights on. No one looks good when the house lights come on. No one. Cris and I scuttled away like roaches.

SATURDAY

“Morning has broken“
Cat Stevens
Sweet mother of God, that came quickly. Got to get up, because …

“Take Me Out to the Ball Game“
Jack Norworth
My youngest son is into baseball. I’m not into baseball. Yet there I was at his AAA game. Early morning. So early. Bundled up, sipping coffee, hiding behind sunglasses, and waiting for the Tylenol and English muffin to kick in. The game was a nail-biter. His team was up 6-1 going into the fifth inning of six. Then the wheels came off the cart. They went into the sixth down 7-9. My son managed to score the eighth run, but then the tying run was called out at home plate. The kid looked safe to me, but what do I know?

Gideon gets ready to score.

During the game, though, the coach used that classic line from “A League of Their Own” with a couple of the kids:

Lay off the high ones!

“Pumped Up Kicks“
Foster the People
My sons went to a paintball party for a neighbor friend. I dropped them off then dropped my top (of my convertible — come on!). Loud singing commenced.

I love my home town.

“Don’t Leave Me This Way“
The Communards version
When I got home, I resumed binge-watching “Game of Thrones” with Eddie, who had just gotten home from work. I know I’m late to this party; I’m only up to season five. I said to Eddie:

I really like Davos. I guess I’d better not get too attached to him.

I’m still attached to Jon Snow. I know, I know.

“Chicken Fried“
Zac Brown Band
I’ve lived in the South almost my whole life. I cook all the time, yet I’ve never made chicken and dumplings. Until now. Damn it was good.

“Temptation Waits“
Garbage
On Friday night, the bartender’s friend told Cris and me about another live-music venue we needed to try. Cris is only in town for a few days, so we decided to check it out. We agreed to go easy; our “check liver” lights were still on. The bar looks super shady from the outside, real dive-y on the inside, but we knew immediately it would be fun.

I love this photobomber.

“Don’t Stand So Close to Me“
The Police
Cris and I carved out a great space for ourselves off the dance floor, protected by a long table and a load-bearing column. We could dance in peace and still watch the excellent band — the Wasted Potential Brass Band — and people in the bar. So many interesting humans. It reminded me of the George Clinton concert: a medley of shapes, ages, colors, proclivities. We heard an older man say to a younger woman, “Can I pay you?” We watched a lady pull a whole wad of money out of her own Narnia Bra. We observed one fellow creep on every single female in the place. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my waist. Guess who!

Him: You have a way of galvanizing the troops.
Me: What?
Him: You are fantastic.
Me: Um … thank you.
Him: Do you want to dance?
Me: No, thank you.

And I slid closer to Cris.

Props to Creeper for creativity in opening lines, though. Here he is with his final score and her poncho.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said to him. Yes, SHE said that to HIM. And he had just grabbed her by the hair, all caveman style!

“Closing Time“
Semisonic
After the band’s second set, the atmosphere changed. It happened quickly. Suddenly, patrons were sloppy and desperate. Cris and I had enough. So had these guys, clearly:

Go home, fellas.

SUNDAY

“Sunday Morning“
No Doubt
Oof. That is all.

“The Luck You Got“
The High Strung
Brunch with Brian and Cindy, two friends from high school. There’s such joy in being with people who have known you since you were a wee lass and still like you (I think).

“Back in Black“
AC/DC
“Black Panther” lives up to the hype. Top-notch acting, strong women, great costumes and storyline. Go see it. Drop everything.

“Atomic Dog“
George Clinton
Gideon and his friend Miles started a dog-walking business in the neighborhood. My older son, well … unless you can get paid for playing “Fortnite,” he’s not going to be flush any time soon.

K-9 Kids Dog Walking, $5 per dog

“Celebrity Skin“
Hole
Oscar party at the home of the president of my university. I’m so fancy (Iggy Azalea) that I wore a fake fur scarf I picked up at a Leek thrift shop for £2. I had a great time catching up with a friend from college (even though we got shushed by a woman who didn’t realize she was in the fun room). The host kept score from our ballots on huge pieces of paper he taped to his French doors. (Have I mentioned how much I like my job?)

Can’t wait to see what next weekend has in store. Anyone up for a mission with me? Eddie just rolls his eyes as I revert to my 20s.

Don’t “Call Me” (Blondie) because I hate to talk on the phone (Right, Trish?). Text, tweet, FB message me or comment here if you want to “Stand and Deliver” (Adam and the Ants).

See you next weekend!
Beth

Posted in Parenting, Random | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments »

‘We have taken control as to bring you this special show’: A dispatch from the Mothership

February 27, 2018 by Beth

Can you hear me now? Oh yes.

Dear George Clinton,

Thank you for a great show Sunday night at the Buckhead Theatre. While I was giving up the funk, some questions came up:

  1. Where does one find the sparkly mother-of-the-bride tunic you were wearing?
  2. Is this tunic available at the same place where this accountant-by-day found these pants?
  3. Does your concert rider specifically request a swivel desk chair for your onstage breaks? (Note that I do not begrudge you your breaks. I know you are 76. I’m just asking about the chair. I think you need something more befitting a legend such as yourself, Dr. Funkenstein. A throne, maybe.)
  4. Why do you need 55 people on stage? Only 16 were singing or playing an instrument. The others were taking selfies and videos.
  5. How many songs did you actually play? I know that you started around 9 and by 9:25 you had only played two. I do love that you give the audience their money’s worth. And I can’t say that I wasn’t warned.
  6. Why was Santa in this South Town audience? Don’t you perform any farther north (or any closer to Christmas)? Shine the spotlight on him to help him find the funk. (Or am I missing something?)
  7. Why can’t music be the conduit to end racism and other social ills? Your audience was made up of black, white, old, young, straight, gay, North Pole residents, Atlanta residents  — all smooshed butt to back. We were having a party, y’all.

Still feeling supergroovalistic, thanks!
Beth

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Channeling Margaret Mead: Sex and Temperament on Three Floors of a Bar*

February 25, 2018 by Beth

Dear Patrons of the Bar I Visited Friday Night:

You are the reason I don’t go out much (though there are other reasons too). I needed to do reconnaissance for a PR project, so I willed myself to exit my home, collect my friend René, and head to Metalsome Karaoke: karaoke backed by a live band.

René and I get ready to rock.

 

This was our view during the karaoke extravaganza.

The night started out great, but quickly went downhill. Why?

The Drunk Girl
I’m sorry (not sorry) I had to hip check you. René nicely asked you to stop flinging yourself against me. You would not stop. And then you took the stage, and we saw that you were way past the point of reason.

The Bouncer
This guy took himself very seriously. It was like he was guarding U2. “Come on, dude,” I thought. That is, until the above tried to rape the guitarist onstage. And then I understood why the bouncer was on high alert.

The Predator
The girl in front of you clearly wanted to watch the band and “singers.” She did not want you humping her. I promise.

After a badly botched rendition of “Bitch,” by a friend of Drunk Girl, René and I decided to leave the comfort of our Stage Left perch and explore the rest of the bar.

That was a mistake.

We waded through the beer soup on the ground floor up the stairs to find two more floors of sweaty bodies. All the guys were short, aging, puffy frat boys. Exhibit A:

Yet the women were Size Zero model wannabes. Exhibit B:

The men outnumbered the women three to one. And there were so many people! There had to have been fire code violations.

Me trying to get out of the bar

When we finally made it through the press of bodies and landed outside on the sidewalk, I apologized to René. He looked over his glasses at me and said:

And that’s why I don’t go to straight bars.

Got it.

Still drying out my shoes,
Beth

* Reference for title

Posted in Cultural differences, Random | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments »

Now playing: A sensory exploration of the ’80s (#IfJohnHughesDirectedMyLife, #WayBackWednesday)

February 21, 2018 by Beth

Dear 1980s,

I’ve been thinking about you lately. It should be no surprise as I just wrote a post about growing up as your child. For those who did not experience you (or don’t remember because of all the crack cocaine), let me walk through your decade via all five senses.*

SMELL: Love’s Baby Soft and Polo by Ralph Lauren

Love's Baby Barf

Love’s Baby Soft, made of the tears of girls who realized they could never be real princesses, smelled like baby powder and desperation, roses and acne medicine. Every female wore it. How could our teachers stand it?

 

 

 

Polo by Ralph Lauren, made of the seeping testosterone of pubescent boys, smelled like cat piss in pine straw. Every boy wore it except my friend Rob. He wore Lagerfeld, I think. At any rate, it was something different, and I loved him.

 

 

 

SIGHT: Jessica McClintock and Bugle Boy

Little House on Central DriveFor any event — school dance, church, confirmation, scheduled pining for John Taylor, etc. — you were not a real girl unless you had a Jessica McClintock for Gunne Sax dress. Every dress had lace or florals — often both. I don’t know what kind of fever dream we all were having, but we looked like we were trying to channel Laura Ingalls Wilder. These concoctions went well with the Love’s Baby Soft, and the hope by our parents that our vaginas would stay hidden forever. I think I had the dress to the left. I remember it itched.

 

Every boy in my school, fat or thin, tall or short, wore black parachute pants. No one looked good in them. No one. So many pockets. Yet you couldn’t put anything in those pockets because the pants were so freakin’ tight. I think the boys had to tuck to get them on.

 

 

 

SOUND: Pac-Man and Rush

There is no sound as distinctive as the sound of the game in action. That and, of course, the sound of the meet-cute cut scene with Ms. Pac-Man on her version. It was what was playing in the background of every attempted hookup in the arcade when we girls had shed our Gunne Sax dresses and slid into high-waisted acid-wash jeans. The boys remained encased in their parachute pants, probably until they could be cut out of them at night by their parents (who likely were thrilled that the sperm count had to be way down).

 

Every boy in my social circle went apeshit over Rush. “Moving Pictures,” “Signals,” “Grace Under Pressure” — they dissected each album like an archaeologist examines microscopic fossil fragments. Granted, I hung out with band geeks. In this dark period, we girls were left to our own devices, mooning over Rick Springfield, Duran Duran and George Michael (we didn’t know) until the boys started paying attention to us again in 10th grade.

 

TASTE: Jell-o Pudding Pops and Cool Ranch Doritos

At this point in time, the world loved Bill Cosby, and he loved to shill Jell-o Pudding Pops. We just added it to the rest of the sugar we were inhaling every day, all day. We started off with Smurf Berry Crunch cereal, gnawed on jawbreakers, Twizzlers and Nerds all day, then ended with Jell-o Pudding Pops. No wonder we loved neon. Our mood matched.

 

When Cool Ranch Doritos came out, our collective heads exploded. We had no idea such flavors existed in the world. And God help you if you had a party and did not provide the Cool Ranch Doritos. You would feel a cool breeze from former friends come Monday. (And yes, boys and girls, that is Jay Leno hawking them.)

 

TOUCH: Aqua Net and private parts

For our hair to reach such death-defying heights as expected, we needed Aqua Net. It would coat our hair with a layer of lacquer that repelled rain, hands, sonic blasts, etc. Pity the fool who would try to touch our perms crowned by sky-high bangs.

Here’s a wee little photo of me during the Aqua Net era (because any larger would make your eyes bleed). I think I’m wearing a half a can of Aqua Net. I could have fallen on my head from a great height and been totally fine.

 

 

In addition to getting to know our own parts, we also were getting to know the parts of others — at the arcade, on bleachers, in the back of movie theaters, in cars, in AP History class. (What’s that you say? Just me? Well then.) What a wonderful time to be alive! All the bits a tingling.

 

Some say there is a sixth sense. I can assure you that we did not have it then. For example, I thought I might have a chance with Mike M. When my friend Kari asked him, though, she was told to bring me back the news that I was a “dog.” Oh. OK. Back to Andrew McCarthy for me.

Anyway, I miss you sometimes, but I don’t miss the angst associated with growing up.

Thanks for the memories.

Love,
Beth

 

*I apologize that these reflections are gender- and heteronormative. These are my personal recollections as a cisgendered straight person.

 

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Is that the Grand Canyon etched on my face? (Post enhanced with expected @JessesDivide plug)

February 18, 2018 by Beth

Dear People of a Certain Age,

My dad used to say, “Old age ain’t no place for sissies.” Later I found out he pinched* that from Bette Davis.

Anyway, I’d reply, “Yeah, yeah,” and go on about my business.

So now I’m old(ish), and I see.

Except sometimes I can’t see without my glasses.

And that’s new.

Eddie calls this my sexy librarian look. What does he know? He’s old(ish) too.

Let me hear an “Amen” on these other surefire signs of aging:

  • The mind says, “Yes!,” but the body says, “Not so fast.”
  • You agree to events in the moment, and then are thrilled when there is a reason you can’t go:

Yes, I’d love to go to your cousin’s friend’s yard party, but (insert name of first family member you see) just isn’t feeling well.

  • What used to be a punishment as a kid — “Go straight to your room, young lady; you’ll be going to bed early!” — sounds like a perfect night.
  • When you do go out, you lose your mind. It’s like you have to make up for months of the above. At least you get to talk about “that time when … ” After all:

Bad decisions make good stories.

  • You wake up at 3 a.m. No reason. And that’s your ass, because you can’t go back to sleep.
  • Your friends text at 6:30 and 7 in the morning, and you’re not even mad. You’re up. You get mad at the ones who text at 10 p.m.
  • You have (or have thought about) beginning a sentence with the words, “Kids today … ” I swear to God I called some student a crazy whippersnapper Friday when he nearly hit me in his Mustang. (In my head, I called him this. I’m not quite into audible “Get off my lawn!” territory.)
  • Songs suddenly hit a nerve. Take, for example, the lyrics from “Live Tomorrow” by my new favorite band, Jesse’s Divide.

    Work today, work tomorrow.
    Before you know it, you’re 83
    Living life inside a memory.

    Work today, live tomorrow.
    Before you know it, you’re 63
    And living life was just a memory.

    That’s not depressing at all. I’m not crying. You’re crying.

  • No more catcalls on the street. That could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on your ego/past/tolerance level.
  • The top thatch is thinning a tick (or a ton maybe). This is not my problem, though. Mine has gotten thicker. Downside: shedding (i.e., clogged drains, hairballs in corners, strands all over everyone’s clothing all the time). Gideon reports:

Somehow I found one of your hairs in my notebook!

  • Waistline creep. Large fries from McDonald’s now cut down to just one you steal from your kid and eat like a squirrel with an acorn. (Or is this just me?)
  • You may think you are young and hip but your pop culture references say old and outdated. Actual conversation from mere days ago:

Me, opening the classroom door: I have so many keys, I feel like Schneider from ‘One Day at a Time.’ (looking at student next to me) Uh oh. I guess that doesn’t mean anything to you.
Student: Oh I get most of your references. I watch Nick at Nite and other throwback channels.
Me, aging 10 more years instantly: Ouch (said internally where it’s dark and sad).

  • All of a sudden, parts of your body start speaking to you in an unpleasant tone of voice. I woke up the other morning, and my hip was barking at me. Why? I don’t know.
  • You see someone old and unattractive in a window and realize it’s your reflection. Rude.
  • Gray hairs appear in new places seemingly overnight.
  • If you have dry skin, like I do, then you suddenly are spending your retirement savings on various potions to beat the lines and crepiness into submission. If you have oily skin, you are good to glow (literally and figuratively).

  • For women: There’s a vast wasteland between Forever 21 and Coldwater Creek.
  • For men: Don’t complain to me. You age and get “distinguished.” Never a shortage of women of all ages who are interested. (Two old ladies felt up Eddie in the grocery store this week. He now has a #metoo story.) Women? Sorry. You’re just old. Suck it up, Buttercup. (Yet it still beats the alternative of NOT getting to age.)

In just a few short years, I think I’ll be the living version of Maxine. Horrifying.

Send a cryo pod, STAT.

Laughing to keep from crying,
Beth the Aged

 

* Yep. I’m still British.

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