Prefers Her Fantasy Life

Getting STONED with my Teens

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 24 Jul 2015 14:34:00 +0000

The first love of my life was Donny Osmond. An “expensive” love my mom would say after our weekly trips to Rexall Drugs for the latest fan magazines. Donny was plastered all over my room, 27 posters to be exact, and “One Bad Apple” was the soundtrack of my 7^th grade existence. I thought Donny was it.

All that changed one day in 1972. A crisp, new copy of Life Magazine arrived in the mail, smelling that soft, waxy Crayola smell. When I pulled it out of the mailbox, the cover revealed a young man in a rhinestone-studded jumpsuit, cut low to his waist. His hair was shaggish and sweaty, his lips gorgeous. My heart throbbed as I flipped through the pages. Of course, I’d heard “Satisfaction” on the am radio, but little did I know how much Mick Jagger would bring me. All of a sudden the clean-cut Donny lost his appeal. Mick was it. He was One Bad Apple. My Bad Apple.

Just a short time later, I became Mick. Our 8^th grade class held a karaoke-style musical for the school. While other students were imitating singers like Carole King, I pranced around the stage, hand on my hip mouthing “Jumping Jack Flash.” I even spread rose petals on the floor and threw water at the student drummer like I’d seen Mick do in Gimme Shelter (thanks older sister of my bff for sneaking us into the drive-in).

I relayed this story to my two teens on the ride to the Zip Code concert in Detroit. They listened intently, and then Daughter asked, “Did the other kids say your act was cool?” “Of course,” I replied (in truth, they had used the word strange).

Ironically, as the stadium lights dimmed and the fireworks ignited, the first few chords of “Jumping Jack Flash” broke out. My heart stopped. There he was strutting the stage, skinny black pants, sequined jacket, head jerking from side to side…My Mick Jagger. I was swept up in the frenzy immediately, acutely aware that my kids and I were witnessing not only the most popular band in the world, but in the history of western music. You have your perpetual top of the charts— Beethoven, Mozart, Miles. But none of these beloved masters have been translated into thousands of languages—all of them rock and roll. This genre—an adolescent in the 60s--has been intertwined with fashion, politics, rebellion, and mostly, freedom of expression.

I once read that at some point in the near future, all of the people in the world would have had a rock and rock adolescence. Rock and all its spinoffs—metal, punk, hip-hop--is the common denominator of multiple generations.

And who exemplifies rock more than The Rolling Stones? Elvis is dead, The Beatles have dissolved, and other iconic figures have simply not had the globetrotting 53 years legacy that the Stones have. Try asking your mother about The Who and she’ll say, who?

The Stones are household words. Their songs raised us and now they’re raising our kids. I wont say they are more popular than Jesus, but their guitar riffs are embedded in our DNA, their high voltage performances set the template for live music. The Stones’ hits have pumped it up at ball games, crossed over races and cultures, and have inspired mothers and daughters, swaying side to side together in giant arenas, to screech rape, murder…it’s just a shot away!

This type of experience would not have been possible with my own parents. Their music, Judy Garland, Bing Crosby, did not transfer to a younger audience—one that embraced sexual energy, driving rhythms, and controversial lyrics. It simply didn’t speak to a generation that questioned authority, war, and middle class values, that demanded equal rights for blacks, equal pay for women, and purple haze for all.

The music and the world of my parents were insular. Rock and roll was a game changer. A game my parents couldn’t play.

I felt a pang in my chest thinking about the missed opportunities to bond with my folks in this way. And even more, at the great divide that the cultural revolution of the 60s and rock and roll had created.

But then I turned to my teens. They were mesmerized by Mick as he skipped down the catwalk, punching at the air. His teasing and taunting, his Tina Turner moves were weaving their magic. My Mick Jagger. The Rolling Stones. The band who’s the very fabric of the world’s most dominant form of music. We were one.

And when Mick put the mic to his gorgeous 72-year old lips and began singing a favorite anthem, Erin, Michael and I, and a crowd of 40,000 devotees joined in: “I-I-I know, it’s only rock and rock, but…”

But… really, it’s so much more.

P.S. If my son or daughter tell you that at one point in my fury, I screamed at the top of my lungs, “I’d pay $1000 to be sitting near that extended runway,” don’t believe them.

I’d pay more.

Showers, Beer, and Social Networking--Oh, My

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Tue, 01 Jul 2014 14:10:00 +0000

In my fantasy life, I dream of having just one normal day. Just one.

While I was in the shower yesterday, reaching for the shampoo I saw this:

Being a parent of two college-aged kids, I found this inappropriate on more than one level. First, Yuengling is a crappy beer. As an IPA Enthusiast, I thought my kids knew better. Second, glass in the shower, not so smart.

So then I did what any normal mom would do in this situation: I snapped a photo and posted it on Facebook.

When Older Son was in the kitchen making his morning coffee (at 1:30 pm), he told me to remove the photo from Facebook.

Me: Sorry. I have the right to freedom of speech.

Him: Freedom of speech is a privilege. Take it off. It’s embarrassing.

Me: Sorry. It’s a right for the woman who pushed you through her body. I mean, think of shitting out a bowling ball.

Him: (looking at me, sadly) This conversation reminds me of a scene in a movie that’s trying to show just how crazy the mom is.

Me: Point taken. But it was like pushing out a 10 pound bowling ball! That means I’ve earned some rights and privileges in this family.

Him: (looking at me, sadly).

Conscious Uncoupling Schmuckeling

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Thu, 12 Jun 2014 21:52:00 +0000

It’s early in the evening and we’re seated across the table from one another. Our laptops are open, our glasses of Stone IPA, full. For a moment, he lifts his up his Mac and shows me a viral photo on Facebook. We both laugh.

In my fantasy life, the man across from me would close his computer. He’d take my hand and gently lead me upstairs. We’d put on some Miles Davis, whisper to one another in the dark, and fall into a deep sleep. There would, of course, be other things in between.

But this is how it will be in reality: we’ll close our laptops and go upstairs, he to his room, I to mine. I’ll crawl in bed alone and watch an episode of Chopped on my laptop; he’ll crawl into bed alone and call his girlfriend on his cell.

This is not a bad thing. Nor is it a sad thing. It just is. The man sitting across from me, my housemate, is my ex-husband. We have a conscious uncoupling arrangement. Gwyneth may have popularized the phrase, but I started doing it first. ~~By default, if truth be told.~~

Six years ago, I decided we needed to separate. At that time, we hadn’t talked (besides information-gathering about our kids) for two years. We’d seen three different marriage counselors—none helped. While breaking up my family was something I abhorred doing, the situation had become intolerable.

Like most break ups, it was rough. Our kids were inconsolable and my mother was depressed. We faced financial hardships, we faced emotional heartache, and we felt anger and hatred that reasonable people should never have to feel. And even though I had lived on my own for a time, we ended up cohabitating again. This was due both to our commitment to co-parenting and out of financial necessity.

But neither explain these: I've gone with him and the kids to his family’s place in New York for Thanksgiving; he visits my mom and aunt regularly; we sit together at our son's sporting events; and, like tonight. we drink IPAs together in the evening.

In spite of our divorce, we do things together for our family. And perhaps, for ourselves. I know what you maybe thinking: they still have feelings for one another. We do. Unless there is lying, or cheating, or some type of abuse in a relationship, how could one not?

You see, in the past 20 some years, I’ve never spent a Christmas morning without him. We built a life together; we have a shared history. And we celebrate that.

But we’ve also moved on. This past December, we had my family over as usual on Christmas Eve. They’ve grown to accept this “unusual” situation, continuing to give my ex the same amount of money ~~damn them~~ as they give me. On Christmas day, we opened gifts with our kids, had breakfast, and then he took off to his girlfriend’s and I made dinner for my kids and my man friend.

It's true. I have a man. We’ve been together for five years now. My ex and his partner for two. Oddly enough, they understand the complicated nature of family and finances, and they’re okay with the situation. There’s even been numerous times when the four of us have been together at social events. One time last June while we were all together preparing for our daughter’s graduation party at the house, I accidentally said to my ex, “Honey, would you get the ice?” His girlfriend smiled.

Yes, Virginia, there can be more than one honey in this world. Just as the concept of family has grown to something larger than a nuclear one, so has the concept of divorce.

There are times, ~~too numerous to count~~, when I ~~pray~~ wish my ex would take his 1972 Cadillac and 3,000 vinyl albums and move in with his girlfriend. Stay tuned for those stories ~~where I won't be so kind~~.

But, tonight we’re here, together, in our house. And tomorrow when I’m too ~~hungover~~ tired to get out of bed, I’ll ask him to get up and drive our son to baseball practice. And he will.

Longing For Those Good Old (Sticky) Days

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Sun, 16 Jun 2013 16:37:00 +0000

Have you seen that scene in Bridesmaids where the mom of three complains about her boys mausterbating all over the house? I love that scene. It's a relief to finally hear someone tell the truth about kids.

At 17 and 15 mine are past that sticky blanket phase, but we got other things going on. Daughter convinced me that buying one of those tall cans of Arizona iced tea and getting one free was a good deal. I'm not really in favor of buying drinks with no nutritional value, ~~except beer,~~ but I agreed.

The following day, her younger brother expressed interest in the second can and I told him he could have it.

When Daughter discovered this she went .... well...wacko. Somehow she thought it had her name on it. But we checked and it didn't.

Her: (to her younger brother) That's mine. I put it in the fridge to get cold.

Him: Nope. It's mine now.

Her: Give it to me.

Him: (sipping) Ummm. It's good.

Her: Mom!

Me: (the sound of a mom ignoring)

Her: Give me half!

Him: Get a glass.

Her: You get a glass.

Him: You get a glass.

Her: Mom, bring me a glass!

Me: (the sound of a mom hiding)

Her: Give it to me now!

Him: (savoring) Ahhh. So refreshing!

Her: (the sound of her nearly 18-year old hands dumping a bowl of Fruit Loops* on her brother's chest)

Him: (the sound of his 6'2" frame covered with milk and cereal bits escaping out of the front door)

Her: (the sound of her 6'1 frame bolting to lock the front door. And then the back door)

Him: (no sound, just outside prancing like John Cleese in front of the kitchen window miming his complete enjoyment in drinking the iced tea. His iced tea.

Me: (out of hiding and holding my gut with laughter)

Her: (screaming at me) If you don't stop laughing I will...I will push you!!!!

Oldest Son Emerging From Basement: You really should do something about this, mom.

Me: Is it 5 o' clock yet?

Food and Drink addictions are serious things, folks. And so is living with kids.

*I didn't buy the Fruit Loops. My ex (who lives with us) got 2 boxes free and I had to hide one box from Daughter, as you can imagine. Clearly getting free stuff isn't worth it.

Micro Brews, Spinach and Ex-husbands

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 17 May 2013 20:54:00 +0000

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, encouraging my kids to eat drugs. Well, here's another subject I get a D- in: Arguing in Front of the Children.

As I mentioned, my ex-husband and I still live together. It's called birdnesting. The idea is, that since the kids didn't get a divorce, they shouldn't be shuffled from place to place. With birdnesting, the kids stay in the house, and the parents take turns staying with them. Only we don't take turns. Cause we ~~can't afford it~~ think it's better for the family. We each have our separate rooms, but occasionally have a micro-brew together.

The other day I joined him and Daughter on the deck. The two of them were talking about school and she said something to which he expressed doubt. And if there's one button that Ex can push, it's my Doubt Button. So to my utter and complete surprise...the PAST came up. It came up cause I brought it up.

The PAST (combined with a few micro-brews) goes something like this:

Remember when you told your old girlfriend that she was crazy and couldn't have possibly owned a particular make and model car? Remember? Cause you said they didn't make them that year. And so rather than drop the argument, she drove you to a dealership to prove it. And you were so wrong!!!!

Or the time you doubted me about my brother's first name. I looked at Daughter. Your dad once told me my brother's name couldn't be Jack. It had to be John. Jack was a nickname, he'd insisted. So I called your grandma, asked her what Jack's real first name was, and put the receiver to Dad's ear. Proves your dad doesn't know jack.

Or the time, I turned back to Ex, you wouldn't believe the take-out salad I got was spinach. You said it was too good to be spinach and that spinach wouldn't have such a bad reputation if it tasted so good. It could so not be spinach, you'd said. So I called the restaurant, asked what kind of salad I had just picked up and put the receiver to your ear. It was sooo spinach!!!

You know how when the PAST comes up, it has a way of snowballing out of control. And it did. It did cause I make it snowball out of control.

Or the time you refused to believe that some people wore pajamas to bed without underwear. I swear I'm not making this up (oops, I think I just stole that from Dave Barry). Do you recall how I polled my friends at the Barnes and Noble coffee shop and the results were 50/50. He'd chalked it up to the fact I have weird friends. I chalked it up to the fact that Irish Catholics are so out of touch.

Or how about that time, I went on, at the Hampton Inn in Dubois when you contended that queen size beds were bigger than king size. They had to be bigger, you'd said knowingly, because the queen has more power in chess than the king. That time the kids came to my aid with confirmation. They know a king size bed when they're jumping on it.

I mean, really, with all that ammunition what could he say?

Here's what he said:

Why should I believe everything everyone tells me? It's good to have healthy skepticism.

About Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq, I shrieked. Not spinach. It just shows that you don't have trust in people.

Have confidence in yourself, he retorted. You don't need to prove anything.

He was right. So I left Daughter and Dad and went inside to find out the latest scandal in Downton Abbey Season 3. OMG the baby will be christened a, a.... Catholic!

****

And so it goes. Another Day in the Life. I suck at not arguing in front of the kids. I suck at bringing up the past. I suck cause I just plagiarized Vonnegut and the Beatles.

But honestly... the fact that Ex has always doubted me and now seems to doubt Daughter... is probably the one single reason he is an Ex. To me, it shows a lack of trust. And how can you have a relationship without trust?

This is something that still hurts.

A lot.

Something that doesn't exist in My Fantasy Life.

How Not to Talk to Your Teen About Drugs

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Sat, 11 May 2013 13:17:00 +0000

Something is terribly wrong in my household.

Instead of me reprimanding my kids for what they say, they reprimand me. I'm constantly getting, "Mom, you can't mention your love of beer on Facebook. You're a teacher." Really? As if the two aren't part of a symbiotic relationship.

I'm also told not to talk to my kids' friends about my politics. "Please, mom. No lectures about factories in Bangladesh. Just drive us to the mall."

There is no backlash from teens in my fantasy life.

Like the other day. When I was watching a sitcom with all three of them and a character alluded to marijuana brownies. I turned to my 20-year old. "Have you ever had marijuana brownies?"

"Of course not," he replied.

"We'll have to make them for your 21st birthday."

"Mom!" the two oldest yelled, pointing their heads towards their 15-year old sibling.

"What's the big deal? I'm sure he's heard of marijuana brownies." I turned toward Youngest. "Have you heard of marijuana brownies?"

He nodded.

And then I get from Oldest, "It's the beer talking. You don't know what you're saying."

"I know exactly what I'm saying," I retorted. "I'm saying we'll have marijuana brownies for your 21st birthday. It's much safer than binging on alcohol."

"You won't remember this is the morning," Oldest Son said.

And sure enough, once I woke up I got a "talking to" from Oldest. "Mom, I don't mind you talking about marijuana around me, but you're being a bad role model for Youngest."

I feel rather indignant when people try to edit me, but I had to admit that maybe Oldest Son was right. I had a talk with Youngest.

"You know, last night, what I said about marijuana brownies?"

He nodded.

Well...we can't have them because marijuana is illegal. Now if we lived in Ann Arbor or Boulder Colorado.... Wait. I mean...it's not just that marijuana is illegal...it's a mind-altering substance. And if you were to eat the brownies, you'd be sprawled out on the couch with a bag of Doritos laughing your arse off at Saturday Night Live. Wait. Saturday Night Live isn't that funny any more even with a side of brownies. I mean...you'd be sprawled out on the couch with a bag of Doritos and laughing your arse off at Family Guy. Wait. You already do that. All the time. You see what I mean? We don't need marijuana brownies to have a good time!

He nodded.

I rock sometimes.

****

Full disclosure: I had to look up the word symbiotic to make sure I was using it correctly. I'm still not sure, but I'm not letting you tell me to replace it.

What They Don't Tell You About Divorce

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Sun, 05 May 2013 00:37:00 +0000

So, I am officially divorced now. But we still live together and he still doesn't do what I tell him.

No matter. I have a lover, he has a lover; it's all good.

Except when you see those bricks at a stadium, or a bench at a metro park--with inscriptions dedicated to spouses--and you now know you won't be seeing your name on one.

When I was at the Art Institute of Chicago recently and I noticed a gallery dedicated by a man to his loving wife, I felt sick to my stomach.

Damn.

Why couldn't I have divorced a rich man?

Reason #584 why I prefer my fantasy life.

Keeping Happy Holidays in Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 13:36:00 +0000

I don't get this War on Christmas. Seems like Christ was taken out of Christmas when reindeers began to fly and Pooh got stuck in a giant blowup snowglobe. For me, as with many others, Christmas is a cutural holiday.

There's the tree--which tests my OCD as I rearrange the bulbs every time I walk by; there's the mall--which tests my claustrophobia and makes me wish I had a cattle prod; and there's the cards--which test my procrastination-al leanings. The latter has consistently been a FAIL for me. My cards never get out on time.

Hence, the real beauty of Happy Holidays is the cards can arrive before New Years and I'm still good. The S in holidays saves me every year.

I am Harriet Nelson--Almost

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 16:57:00 +0000

Thanksgiving was weird.

I spent the day with my soon-to-be-ex, our kids, and my mom. My soon-to-be-ex's girlfriend had dinner with her soon-to-be-ex, their kids and his mom. My brother did nothing, depressed that his girlfriend spent the holiday with her soon-to-be-ex and their kids.

As a dysfunctional family, we win the prize for being the most functional.

Like Mother Like Meg?

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 17:22:00 +0000

Mom was up to it again.

“Dear Sir” was written on the top of page in the lost art of cursive. I didn’t have to ask. It was probably to a bank threatening to withdraw her money if they continued to address correspondences to her as Ms. (to address me as Ms. is to say I’m nothing).

Or maybe to a local charity who sent a thank you to her son for the donation when in fact it was she who signed the check (why do they assume the man sent it just because I share an account with him).

I knew better than to point out the possible contradiction of her feminism.

Recently, she wrote to the local food bank and stated that if that they wanted any more money from her, they were to address their requests to Margaret instead of Peggy.

What? Margaret? I asked.

Yes, that’s my name.

But you’ve been called Peggy for 80 years.

I never liked the name Peggy. I prefer to be called Margaret now. If people want money from me, they will address me as Margaret.

Stubborn German, my dad called her.

Turns out her latest letter was to the National Park Service. In appreciation for her donation they sent her a calendar.

That’s kind of nice, I remarked.

It's made in China.

Mum was the word.

I already knew that was a no-no. Even though she had enough nic nacs made in China to fill her own General Dollar, you do not ask my mom for money to support an American cause and then repay her with some thing un-American.

We had been through this when she cut the tag off a baseball cap and sent it back to the Olympic Committee requesting to be removed from their list.

Now with the calendar from the National Parks, her Dear Sir letter included a question. “Since you have a fondness for the Chinese, can I use Chinese money when I pay the entrance fee to Yellowstone?”

Yes, my mom can be illogical and even down-right crazy. But she does believe in exercising her First Amendment rights.

And she's been doing for a long time now.

When I was 16, I skipped school and my mom drove me the 60 miles to Detroit to get tickets for Paul McCartney and Wings. This was pre-Ticket Master days and one had to wait in line outside in the snow for 6 hours or more. A neighbor, who apparently was not interested in the Today Show like our other neighbors, saw us driving away and reported it to the school.

In my defense, my mother wrote a letter to the principal:

“If boys can take time off school on the first day of hunting season to kill poor baby deer, then my daughter can surely miss school to get tickets to see one of the greatest musicians of our time.”

Did I say I love this woman?

Teen's First Mammary

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 15:40:00 +0000

In almost 200 posts, I have only reposted once before. But in honor of Breast Awareness Month, I am once again sharing my son's first mammaries--outside my own, that is. He was 6 and excited about his first homework assignment in Kindergarten.
Spouse was sitting at the dining room table helping him. He was to cut out six pictures of things that begin with the letter "M" and glue them on a piece of paper.

"Let your child find the pictures himself," the instructions read. "Your role is to guide him."

Spouse had a pile of Newsweeks on the table.

"Here's an M-picture," he said excitedly. "M-M-Marilyn Monroe."

"Great, Dad, I'll cut it out."

"Ahem," I said from the kitchen where I was doing the dishes. "What is Marilyn wearing?"

"Something M-M-Marvelous," said Spouse.

"Nix that one," I said. "Remember these are kindergartners, after all."

"Mom! What's wrong with Marilyn?"

"Yeah, Mom," said Spouse. "What's wrong with Marilyn?"

"I don't think 'Mistress' is on the kindergarten vocabulary list yet, guys."

They turned the page. "Here's a man," Spouse pointed.

"All right, Dad!"

"Ahem. Kindergartner’s supposed to find the pictures," I reminded them.

"OK," said Spouse. "He can find the next one."

"Hey, here's a map," Spouse shouted.

"Ahem. Let Kindergartner find the M pictures."

"OK. OK. Next time."

"Look, here's another map," Spouse whispered.

"You can't have two maps. Try to find some other picture," I called from the doorway.

"Micromanager. That starts with M," he called back.

I vowed to keep my M shut. Men and women have different approaches to things. That's supposed to be good, right? And then I heard:

"Hey, look at these pictures. They're famous. See that man? That's President Kennedy. And he was riding in that limo with the top down and some guy shot him. And see, this is his wife. She's reaching for a chunk of his head."

“Spouse!" My vow went down the drain.

"Well, Murder starts with M," he declared.

And so does Mistake. “Nix it," I ordered. They turned the page.

"Hey, Kid, look, here's a machine gun."

"Spouse!"

"Mom!"

"Micromanager!"

I was out-voted. Thankfully, Kindergartner’s motor skills were uneven. He cut the gun in half and they decided to nix it.

"Here's a monkey," Spouse announced.

"Great, Dad. Thanks for finding it. I like doing homework with you."

I should have been minding my Ms & Qs, but I snuck a peek.

It was a monkey, all right. And a bald man next to him. Charles Darwin. "I hope the kindergarten teacher, Mrs. O'Reily, Mrs. O'Reily from St John's parish, you know, the former nun, doesn't think this is some sort of hidden message," I said.

M's the word.

By then, they have a man, two maps, and Darwin and his ape. And it only took 45 minutes.

But next: "Where have all the Ms gone, Dad?” Kindergartner asked.

"Oh, here's one, honey. Mammary gland."

It took me a minute to process this. Then I rushed into the dining room and saw my son had just cut out an illustrated picture of a breast.

"You can't use that." I ripped it out of his hand.

"I can, too."

"He can, too."

"He can not."

"Mom," my son began to cry. “That's my M, that's my M."

"This M is rated X," I said. "Sorry."

"But Mom..."

I decided it was time for the big M herself to take over the project. Spouse was just as happy. Now he could find his own Ms on the nightly news--murder, mayhem, and mammary glands.

I flipped through some pages determined to find some benign Ms. But the M-hunt was harder that I thought.

We found another man, another map, another machine gun, and more mammaries —this time belonging to the mistress M-M-M-onica.

Where were all those people with the milk mustaches when you needed them?
Kindergartner was quickly losing interest. Finally we hit a gold mine. "Look! Here's a monster, and a moon, and wow, Mickey Mouse."

"Hey, I thought I was supposed to find..."

"Just cut," I said, handing him the scissors.

Five minutes later, we were finished. I sent Kindergartner to bed and continued the M-Hunt myself. The M&M Hunt, that is.

I thought I deserved a reward for making it through Kindergartner’s first homework assignment!

Am I an Unfit Mom?

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 16:56:00 +0000

In my last post, the most recent in almost two years, I felt the need to disclose that I was having a bad year. I don't mean to continue with that kind of downer theme, but yesterday I was told that I'm unfit.

Me, Meg? It was all I could do not to yell at the 26 year-old trainer who consumes 4000-8000 calories a day 'cause his job is to work out all the time and make the rest of us look bad, "Unfit? I can substitue teach 2nd graders with a hangover like no one else in Northwest Ohio."

I said nothing. Because he was cute.

My daughter had the brilliant idea for us to join a gym and get a personal trainer. After a consultation in which we were below average in squats and lunges and above average in the mass body fat index (a number I cannot disclose because there are some things not meant to be floating around the internet), it was confirmed that I was out of shape--or at least a desirable shape.

I began to think that just maybe this hottie could help this mom be un-unfit. Until he came back with the numbers.

Even after cutting the price in half, even after consulting his manager for a better promotion, even after throwing in nutrition counseling and stowe and go seating, I realized having a personal traniner takes personal finances. And I'm super unfit in that area.

I purchased the standard model for now--until I become an un-substitue teacher. Would that be a superior teacher?

Anyway, because my last post dealt with the double-edged sword of writing and my need to be honest, I must confess: I've never subbed 2nd graders with a hangover. I've only subbed high school students. In truth, I'm afraid of the little ones.

So if you have any tips on fitness or classroom management, I'm in need.

A Most Peculiar Thing

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Sat, 15 Oct 2011 12:59:00 +0000

Blogging is a peculiar thing.

We all write for an audience, yet some of us, ME, are fearful that friends, relatives, our own teens in that audience will feel exposed from the postings. And worse, that I'll feel exposed. Truthfully, it's easier for me to expose myself in ways which usually involve a few Loose Cannon craft beers and an attempt to break up a political arguement than to be honest in my writing.

Once upon a time I thought a humor blog would solve that.

Yet the truth creeped out in sacrastic, cynical icing that wasn't appealing to those close to me.

And really...with a humor blog, you're always trying to go for the funny. Do you know how exhausting that is? And then there's the level of writing. You reread your draft and think, PECULIAR? Isn't there a stronger adjective I can use? CYNICAL ICING? There's got to be a better metaphor than that.

And the trap of trying to get people to follow your blog and comment. To comment, yes: WILL EXPOSE CLEVEAGE FOR COMMENTS!

It's a lot to go through when all you really want to say is:

I'm unemployed and living with my soon-to-be-ex and resentful that he sleeps in our queen bed while I sleep on a mattress stolen from my son's bunk bed.

I feel abandoned by friends since my separation.

The daughter of the man I've been seeing for two years hates me. When she's not flight attending, she lives with him and I'm not allowed in his place.

My own daughter has been hospitalized for anxiety and depression and as recent as yesterday, asked to go back.

Today, my daughter isn't up yet.

No New Years Cheer, I Fear

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 13:22:00 +0000

I know we're supposed to feel all positive about the new year. But 2010? I remember when 1984 seemed like the future.

The fact is: I'm old.

My own kids don't know about phone booths, the Walkman, or Bing Crosby. Thank Hollywood they keep remaking Dr. Seuss, or even he would obsolete.

Meg The Atheist Takes Pause This Season

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 15:23:00 +0000

As you may know I'm not the most religious person on the block. But every once in a while I hear something that makes me take pause.

My Irish stepdancing teacher, John, told me this after he returned from the "All Ireland/World Championships" in Dublin. Due to an unfortunate circumstance after a celebratory party, he found himself on the side of the road hitchhiking on a very dark night and in the midst of a big storm.

The night was rolling on and no car went by. The storm was so strong he could hardly see a few feet ahead of him.

Suddenly, he saw a car slowly coming towards him and stop.

John, desperate for shelter and without thinking about it, got into the car and closed the door... only to realize there was nobody behind the wheel and the engine wasn't on.

And no, he wasn't drunk. My teacher stopped drinking three years ago due to health reasons.

Anyway, the car started moving slowly. John looked at the road ahead and saw a curve approaching. Scared, he started to pray.

Then, just before the car hit the curve, a hand appeared out of nowhere through the window, and turned the wheel. John, paralyzed with terror, watched as the hand came through the window, but it never touched or
harmed him.

Shortly thereafter, John saw the lights of a pub appear down the road, so, gathering strength, he jumped out of the car and ran to it.

Wet and out of breath, he rushed inside and started telling everybody about the amazing experience he had just had.

A silence enveloped the pub when everybody realized he was crying, and that he wasn't drunk.

Suddenly, the door opened, and two other people walked in from the stormy night. They, like John, were also soaked and out of breath.

Looking around, and seeing John sobbing at the bar, one said to the other.....

'Look Paddy.....there's that fooking idiot that got in the car while we was pushing it !!!!'

Happy Holidays Everyone.

Why You Shouldn't Choose The Topic of Marriage For a Free-Write

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 23:15:00 +0000

Because during the debate, Girl Student in the front row will get into a fight with her Baby Daddy in the second row. With attitude, she'll keep repeating, "How you look. How you look."

In defense, he'll maintain his mantra, "Can I speak, now?"

Supporting her position of marriage, she'll pull out the "'Cause it say so in the Bible" card.

He'll retort, "Times is changed. You need to be able to take care of yourself."

She'll come back, "It's a union. About sharing."

He'll confess "I'm down with sharing, but I like to gamble. And my money is my money."

The rest of the class will try to simmer the tempers to no avail and you will wish to hell someone else would raise their hand and tell the class they have cancer.

Why You Shouldn't Allow a Student to Suggest "Cancer" For the Free-Write

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 01:55:00 +0000

Because obviously she has a story to tell. And that story will make her cry when she's reading it out loud. And it will make the other students cry.

And the teacher.

Yes, the BABYDADDY of my student has cancer. He's 27 years old and it's terminal.

Listening to her read the story out loud makes it extremely hard to move on to parts of speech or sentence fragments.

What's a community college teacher to do?

Silence bombards the room.

Finally, a student in the front raises her hand and volunteers to read her free-write. She has cancer, too. But she's a survivor. It's a happy story, and we all applaud.

Never in my life have I been so relieved to know that someone else has cancer...I mean, has survived cancer. Now I can move on to sentence fragments and forget--for the moment--that our lives, how little we know and share with one another--are fragmented.

Why I Prefer My Fantasy Life #78

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 03:16:00 +0000

In my fantasy life my sons wouldn't argue with one another.

And in my fantasy life, if they did, they'd adopt my brilliant methods of persuasion.

Younger Brother: Mom, Older Brother just told me there were 7 spider legs in each taco from Taco Bell.

Me: (giving Older Brother the Sustained Evil Eye)

Older Brother: Well, I had to think of a comeback. We were fighting over which was better Taco Bell or McDonald's, and Younger Brother said the chicken at Mickey D's was made from the gross parts of the bird and held together by edible meat glue.

Me: (wishing my kids ate health food like they do in my fantasy life and heading to the fridge for a beer)

posted at Humor-Blogs

Transvestites, Transgenders and Transitive Verbs

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 00:51:00 +0000

As I mentioned I'm teaching at a two-year college that offers an associates degree in Medical Administrative Assistance. We have a strict dress code where students are required to wear scrubs and white sports shoes. Their hair must be a "natural" color--no bright reds or blues--and they must cover all facial piercings and tattoos.

Our security guard gets a bit overzealous in issuing dress code violations to the students.

Funny thing is, he's a "by-the-books" security guard by day. But by night, he's a flaming red-haired cross dresser. Yes, he...ur...she's brought me my coffee at Big Boy on more than one occasion.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I've got nothing against our transvestite security guard

Or any of the six trans-genders we have at our small college.

The only issue we have with them is which restroom they should use.

Hey, it makes my job of teaching the parts of speech a wee bit more interesting.

posted at Humor-Blogs

An Open Letter To My One Finger-Typing Student

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 23:42:00 +0000

I am so sorry I leaned over you and began typing words to your email sign-up questions.

I felt it my obligation to get the class over with by Thanksgiving.

I also apologize for grabbing the mouse from you. I assumed everyone knew that you had to position it on a field and click in order for it to work.

And when you couldn't create your email address because of the common name "Floyd Jones," I thought you knew I was kidding when I told you to try "Pink Floyd Jones."

In spite of our getting off on the wrong appendage, I greatly admire you. You have 8 kids and two day jobs, and you're spending your nights back in school to better your life.

You're doing great.

And with a bit of Xanax, I will be too.

posted at Humor-Blogs

Nothing Comes Between Me and My Jeff Tweedy

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 02:10:00 +0000

Not even the fact that soon-to-be-ex took his girlfriend to the concert,

or that my date, 6 foot and gorgeous, was my 14-year old daughter.

Not the fact we had to sequester ourselves from our mutual friends at dinner so no one felt awkward. And if I sound bitter here, that's because I am, you mutual friends.

Or the Noodles and Company restaurant which Daughter picked out of all the great places to eat in Ann Arbor.

Or the fact that Noodles and Company doesn't sell alcohol.

Or that Hill Auditorium in The Peoples' Republic of Ann Arbor, home of the Hash Bash, does not sell alcohol.

Nor the fact that even though I ordered tickets the day they went on sale, we were seated in the nose-bleed section.

Yes, the nose-bleed section where people were constantly getting up from their seats and disrupting my view. Yes, those people must have had alcohol which needed removal from their systems.

Damn them.

Nor the fact that I've been separated one year now from soon-to-be-ex and though it was my decision, it's still hard to see "our" favorite band separately. Plus, he got the microbrews. And the girlfriend. And the friends.

Damn you.

But....when My Jeff Tweedy strums on his acoustic and sings, "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart," life has meaning.

Nothing or no one comes close.

Well, I guess those guys that Daughter and I visited after the show aren't too bad. That Ben & Jerry. They're okay.

posted at Humor-Blogs

Why I Prefer My Fantasy Life #119

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 01:19:00 +0000

Did I mention I hate English teachers?

Did I mention I am an English teacher?

Last week I was hired as a full-time instructor at a small two-year college. I don't mind the teaching so much. But in my fantasy life I'd have students that didn't come late, leave early, and talk on their cell phones the short amount of time they were in class.

In my fantasy life, most of my students would have a high school diploma. And know how to write a simple sentence. And use a computer. And not have kids. Or criminal records.

In my fantasy life, I'd be on a campus where they didn't have two security guards, one roaming the hallways and one stationed in the women's restroom so it won't be trashed.

Because it has been trashed.

Often.

But really, I admire and am humbled by the fact that most of my students are ready for a new start in life, eager to give it their all.

I only wish that their hopeful faces weren't covered with the school- required bandages to hide their piercings. 'Cause if this guy comes in adhering to the bandage dress code, I think I'd be really spooked.

posted at Humor-Blogs

Thinking Outside The Six Pack

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 21:59:00 +0000

My previous post included my persuasive arguments for Teen Son on driving and drinking. Seems now I need to talk to Teen Daughter.

I had a few drinks at a party the other night and asked a friend to take me home. Daughter wanted to know why I didn't drive myself home.

"Because I don't drink and drive," I told her.

"Mom," she said, put off. "You don't have to do that. You just put down the drink and then keep both hands on the steering wheel."

Why didn't I think of that?

posted at Humor-Blogs

English Teachers Are Evil

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 16:20:00 +0000

Have I mentioned those English teachers are trying to kill me?

Wasn't it bad enough that Teen had to write a 1500 word essay on why the song "Blowin' In The Wind" relates to his world view when he doesn't even have a world view? Now Teen has to write an essay on how a speaker he knows uses Logos, Ethos and Pathos in their persuasive arguments. And that speaker would be me.

Seems I'm well-known in our household for my persuasive skills. According to English Teacher when I say, "Someone should feed the dog or else she'll slowly die," I'm using a tactic called guilt. As for the Logos, Ethos and Pathos, I'm still trying to figure them out.

As I understand it, Logos is a logical appeal using facts and figures to support the argument. I think I'm using it when I say something like this:

There's a reason drinking beer is illegal for 17-year olds. Your brains are still developing. And when you combine those developing brains that have a tendency to speed and tailgate and think they're invincible with alcohol, death happens. In fact, each year over 5,000 teens ages 16 to 20 die and 40,000 teens are injured due to car accidents. And of the male drivers between 15 and 20 years old who were killed, 24% of them had been drinking and driving.

Pathos seems to be an appeal to the listener's ethical judgement and is most effective when the speaker connects with an underlying value of the listener. I think I'm using Pathos when I say:

I know it's tempting to drink beer. But the fact is, it's illegal at your age. If you're driving and drinking, one of your girlfriends could get hurt and even worse, you could lose your license. And just think, if you lost your license, you'd have to walk the three blocks to school and dude, how embarrassing that would be?

Ethos I believe is an appeal to the authority of the speaker. In other words, the speaker convinces the listener that she is qualified to speak on the topic. I guess I'm using Ethos when I say the following:

I'm your mom. I know all about being a teenager. I know all about drinking beer. All I have to say is, wait until you're old enough to hire your own lawyer. And if you do drink beer, drink the good stuff for Chrissakes.

How'd I do?

posted at Humor-Blogs

Should Your Kid Be Reading These Books?

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 15:58:00 +0000

I watched this video of the puppets throwing out all the bad books and I have to say I disagree that most of them, including The Joy of Cooking, should be banned.

However, I have to admit there is one book I believe is completely inappropriate for kids and I'm working to get it removed from our school's 11th grade English curriculum. Yesterday, my son brought home this book:

Come on, people. Is a book that gives pointers on how to improve one's arguing skills what a TEENAGER should be reading?

I think not.

Thanks to A Free Man for reminding me this is Banned Books Week. I mean, if they can take away our books, they can take away our blogs.

posted at Humor-Blogs