I know you worked overtime with my sons. Each has a girlfriend.
Dominic has been with Anica a little while — long enough to get into trouble for skipping class to kiss her in the multipurpose room at school.
(The phone call with the assistant principal was mortifying for both of us.)
Now he wants to take it to the next level.
Um.
Not just no. HELL no.
I have to hand it to him: He was brave to ask.
But not THAT brave as he asked his father, not me.
Thankfully, Gideon is still in the kiddie pool. But he’s practicing his strokes.
Oh.
My.
God.
🙄
Right?!
This is new — very new — for him. In fact, it almost didn’t happen.
Him: There’s a girl at school who likes me. Me: Yeah? Do you like her? Him: Yeah. Me (Spidey senses tingling): So what’s the problem? Him: I don’t know if I have time for a girlfriend with jujitsu and baseball and homework. Me: Well, just talk to her about it. Let her know. Him: Okay.
(Waits a beat.) Him: I’m glad I can talk to you about relationship stuff.
Anyway, you did your thing. And now I have to do my mom thing — the thing where I notice everything but pretend not to, let alone say anything.
They’re feral cats: I have to let them come to me.
I still haven’t gotten a response to my May 2019 plea. I didn’t really expect one, but I DID hope.
Here’s the thing: What I really want are not material things.
Instead, I want experiences.
Like a blogger friend of mine (edyjournal), I’m not so concerned with status symbols. In fact, sometimes they come with more baggage than they are worth.
For example, I drove a BMW convertible for a while. I bought it used for $4K under the Blue Book value because the seller had already ordered a brand-new one for his kid as a replacement (!).
It was in great shape, and I take care of cars. That’s how my current car (a 2008 VW Eos) has managed to last and still look good.
Anyway, I got so sick of comments like this:
A BMW? Insert name of employer at the time must be paying you well!
[Eye roll]
It was a fantastic car, but I didn’t seek another BMW after it was totaled when I was broadsided at an intersection.
I feel myself growing apart from another friend whose job working with the 1 percent has her chasing the same Richie Rich tokens of success to keep up.
Edit: Having brunch and getting my hooves shaved down with a long-time friend.
When I travel nowadays, I tend not to come home with tokens. (I Marie Kondo-ed my life since moving to Atlanta.) I come home with consumables: snacks for the kids, chicken hoops for me (when I can find them), random condiments, etc.
I don’t add to my physical footprint (not even in weight as I’m still maintaining).
So I’m asking again, Lottery God: Please smile upon me. These experiences aren’t free.
Black Flag performs in Hell at the Masquerade in Atlanta.
Dear Show-goers,
Auntie Beth is here to make sure you have a good time at a punk concert. Your favorite aunt went to see Black Flag this week, and noticed that some of you need some guidelines.
Lest you think Auntie Beth doesn’t know what she’s talking about, be assured AB is an OG.
Here are some rules to follow to ensure a good time for all:
DO wear comfortable clothes, including shoes that can withstand stomping — yours and others. Auntie Beth was practically in her pajamas, but wore steel-toed boots.
DO dress for the crowd. Concert Ts from the band you are seeing and similar are fine. Auntie Beth saw bands such as The Cramps, Suicidal Tendencies and the Misfits proudly represented.
DO prepare for loud music and contact with other humans.
DO NOT go to the front if you don’t want to slamdance or be slamdanced on. Auntie Beth took her old ass straight to the balcony.
In this crowd is no place to be if you don’t want to be jostled and shoved.
Look how angry this girl is! She should have joined Auntie Beth in the balcony.
DO NOT throw punches. Look, the mosh pit is a place for folks to get out some aggression by flinging themselves at others. No need to get upset or start a fight. If you don’t like it, don’t go near it.
If you aren’t ready to crowd surf, DO participate by standing on the outer edge and pushing the “dancers” back in when they are flung out.
DO pick up your fallen comrades. It’s just the nice thing to do, plus you won’t trip over them.
DO take your children (and proper ear protection) to see bands that are important to you. Auntie Beth’s boys saw The Police when they were still in Pampers.
Some of you may disagree with Auntie Beth that it’s OK to bring kids to a concert. Of course it depends on the children and the concert, but Auntie Beth is a fan in general.
DO appreciate bands that start and end earlyish on a school night. Auntie Beth was home by 11. (That’s still past her bedtime, though. Look. Listen. She’s elderly and needs her beauty rest.)
DO support live music. It’s good for the bands, the venue, the economy, the arts and your soul. Think of it as community service!
ATLANTA — Though he could not see through the fringe of hair, Dominic C., 15, resisted the idea of a haircut. Clearly, his trepidation was warranted, as the resulting cut nearly ruined his social and academic life, according to him. What masqueraded as barely any cut at all to those around him, was, in the teen’s opinion, the worst thing that could have happened to him. In his life. Ever.
“He asked me if he could stay home from school,” said Eddie C., the teen’s father. “I hope you told him ‘no’ in a hot second,” the teen’s mother replied when she heard.
Beth C. exhibited no sympathy for the teen’s plight. The heartless woman even was reported as telling Dominic C., “I don’t understand how you can want a haircut, but want no hair to be cut at the same time.”
The shattered teen tried everything to hide the effects of what he called, “the worst cut of my life.” First, he tried a ski mask. Then added a hoodie. Then enlisted both parents in a campaign to use various hair products to regain some sense of style — exactly what style was unclear, however.
“Listen,” Beth C. finally said to the aggrieved teen, “I don’t know what the problem is. It looks exactly the same to me as it did before.”
His mother had the audacity to show him a photo of that time in third grade when she cut her own bangs. She then claimed her situation was worse. “I had an inch of hair on my forehead!” she said. “Yours still hits your eyebrows.”
The teen recovered in time to be able to make it to school the next day. The family is accepting notes of sympathy from other parents of teens.
I’m so excited that my badgering has paid off. Here’s another guest post. The Royce had a birthday last week, and it prompted some reflection.
I’ll be back next week with a story about the eldest. Parents with teenagers will relate.
Love,
Beth
This is The Royce in his natural habitat.
Aging vs. Old: A Rant
Guest post by The Royce
So, yesterday was my birthday. And that’s good because, hey, another trip around the sun, right? But somewhere along the way — in the last, oh say, few years or so (I don’t know whatever) — it occurred to me that, while I am not old (yet), I am, in fact, aging. Maybe I’m finally “of a certain age” — whatever the hell that entails — because, while I’m definitely still an easygoing person, little things are starting to grind my gears just a bit.
Like those damn neighborhood kids walking in my yard! LOLJK. (Note from Beth: I don’t think he is, in fact, JK.)
Though it’s commonly *cough* invariably *cough* attached to middle age and miracle creams, signs of aging actually applies to things other than crow’s feet and smile lines.
I’m talking about the less-obvious, non-physical signs of aging. Because like it or not, every day of every year, you’re aging. You just don’t notice it.
Until you do.
And then you notice it again. And again. It’s a lot like buying a new car that you thought was unique and rare until you drive off the lot and there’s three of the same vehicle waiting at the first intersection you get to.
On Jan. 13, 1974, the Super Bowl was on my seventh birthday, and I got to watch my favorite team, the Miami Dolphins, become two-time world champions against the Minnesota Vikings. Not a bad day for a kid.
In 2020, the game is three weeks later, two hours longer, and the pre-game show lasts half a day. WTH?
When did that happen?
You see, that’s not old. That’s aging.
Recently I went out with my lovely wife to meet some friends visiting from out of town. We arrived a few minutes early and looked over the drink menu while we waited.
I’m sorry, but WTF?! How did a cocktail get to be $14 in this town? (Note from Beth: They live in Savannah.) Did I teleport to Manhattan when I walked
through the door to this place?
Again: Not old. Aging.
You know why people don’t go out as much when they get a little older? It’s less about being tired and more because we don’t want to get bent over paying those ridiculous prices every time we feel like having a nice meal somewhere. Hey, how about we go out for dinner and have a couple glasses of WELL SHIT THERE GOES A HUNDRED BUCKS.
No, it’s not denial. Old will, with some luck, arrive eventually.
But for now … nah, not old. Merely aging, just like I have every day of my life. And considering the alternative, I’m fine with that.
Seriously, though. Would it kill the little cretins to stay off my lawn?
My playful ribbing of my friends has paid off. Nick has come through with a guest post about dealing with teenagers — a frequent topic of mine. His oldest is older than mine, so he’s been through it.
And for the rest of you (Julia, Royce, Kerstin, TJ), don’t worry about it being perfect. That’s what editors are for. Send it!
Love, Beth
Advice for harassed parents (or how I learned to stop worrying and love my kid) Guest post by Nick (aka He Who Has Been There)
My eldest son just turned 18. Here in the U.K., that’s it: All milestones hit. He’s now a grown man, even though if he buys beer he’ll still get challenged for appearing to be under 21, despite the drinking age being 18. Go figure. He can have a house, car, family — all that. First, he needs to get a job. But we’ll leave that particular bone of contention for another time.
Getting this far wasn’t easy. I can’t count the amount of times I’ve said something along the lines of “YOU’LL PICK UP THAT SOCK/PLATE/INDETERMINATE MATTER IF YOU WANT TO SEE YOUR NEXT BIRTHDAY,” which was normally met with an exasperated sigh or the dreaded eye-roll. See, the thing is, and this is important for anyone with a kid who’s in the middle of those teenage years to know:
You’ll always LOVE your kid. It’s okay to not LIKE them sometimes.
It’s easy when they’re small. For example, it’s cute when they get so excited at Christmas that they literally piss themselves. Or, when potty training is happening, they get their junk caught in a CD case and run into the kitchen shouting “ME NO LIKE!” (Both real, both SURE to mortify the boy if he ever reads this.)
Here’s Nick. Innocent. He has no idea what this creature will become in just 10 or so years.
But as they grow in size, they also get this disastrous condition called “their own personality.” Shocking, I know. And when they get to about 12, 13? That personality generally stinks. As do they, because puberty takes no prisoners where body odour is concerned (Note from Beth: “Odor” as we Americans shun unnecessary letters).
The smallest things become battlegrounds.
Concerned Parent: “Have you done your homework?” Insolent Child: *AUDIBLE EYE ROLL* CP: “May as well get it done now, kid Then it’s finished so you’ve got the weekend to yourself.” IC: “GOD.” (Stomps away)
A hill that we both picked to die on was a matter of hygiene. As in, brush your goddamn teeth. He’d wake up, have breakfast, and sit in the living room in his trademark sullen silence. When I would ask if he’d brushed his teeth, the look of horror and disgust was as if I’d offered him a lightly grilled stoat (Note from Beth: This is British-speak for weasel) as an aperitif. He’d eventually stomp away to the bathroom, but only after I’d shown him the Big Book of British Smiles. (Our teeth aren’t really that bad, but it made a point, and “The Simpsons” is gold.)
Then.
One magical day a few months before his 18th birthday, he all of a sudden stopped being this terrible-smelling, silent protagonist in his own Greek tragedy, and became a larger version of the kid I used to know. Hairier, with a deeper voice (no seriously: He’s like a skinny white version of Barry White, fer chrissake), but actually nice to be around. I look forward to our movie nights. Sharing a beer with the kid. Actually having a human conversation.
Here’s Nick with his son, who has regained human form. Neither has the capacity to smile for a selfie, apparently.
So, parents of teenagers: Hang in there. It gets worse before it gets better. But when it gets better, it’s great!
Every time we stay with you, we have something to laugh about. From Petra trying to fatten us up like Thanksgiving turkeys to Patrick disappearing in the middle of the conversation to go to Home Depot, it’s always an adventure.
On Thursday, I walked into your house with the family. Patrick took one look at me.
Him: What’s on your pants? Me: Serial killers. Him: Is that a band? Me: No. Real serial killers. You know. Like Charles Manson.
After I tagged along on the guys’ outing to see “Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker” Friday (the bros and a bra), we discussed the finer points of some key deaths. (No spoilers.)
Ryder went back into the vault to describe Obi Wan’s death like this:
His towel dropped.
I laughed so hard, I was wheezing.
(Ryder then asked if he was going to make it into my blog finally. Yes, my young padawan.)
Mia, who has a competitive streak like her father, did not want said father to win the Uno game Friday.
She turned to me, sitting next to Pat as I always do.
Her: You got something for him? Me: I do.
She plays a color she knows I have. I throw down a reverse. She wins the game. We high five, because she won and not Pat.
Evil. I love it.
Saturday, Petra and I were having a serious conversation about the deaths of our fathers and subsequent guilt.
Here comes Pat to vacuum right behind her.
Petra and I looked at each other. Shocked. Then started laughing because OF COURSE HE HAD TO DO THAT RIGHT THEN.
Then last night, we all played a Pictionary-like game called “Buzz Draw.”
Naturally, someone yells out “penis” if anything is remotely phallic. (Like there is ever going to be a penis prompt on a family game card.)
Gideon drew “winter.” He thought at first that no one got it.
Mia: I said ‘winter’ a long time ago! Pat: But I yelled ‘penis’ at the same time.
Speaking of penis, your dog Angus took an unusual interest in me.
I feel like I need a restraining order. Counseling at the very least.
Here he is rubbing his slobbery toy all over me under the table.
It’s better than what he usually rubs on me. (Hint: See theme of the game above.)
Perv.
Anyway, thanks for letting us stay with you this weekend. And thanks especially for the laughs.
Though you didn’t come through with anything on my previous list (in fact, my eye is worse), you worked through my family to ensure I had a great Christmas.
Just look:
I coveted this shirt. Eddie has one from his pals at CrossFit Steadfast in Savannah. I donate to Goat Yoga Lisa‘s fundraising campaign every year. Now I have a shirt of my own!
This is the gift that will keep on giving. Not only am I excited about learning how to do this art at the February class, but I can write about it. I’m going with Revell, the guy who cuts my hair. So that should be a hoot.
So I decided to see for myself. It was indeed slimy. And cold.
Observe and report 