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“Did your mother ever have any kids that lived?” I’ve always loved that insult from the classic 1986 movie, Stand By Me. Not only did Vern recover from Teddy’s jab, but along with Chris and Gordie, the pre-teen buds continued on their 20 mile trek to see a dead body. It is hard to argue that with smart phones in every kids’ pocket, we have taken both a giant leap forward and a devastating step back.
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Nothing frustrates me more than hearing a man complain that his wife doesn’t love him unconditionally.
He’s right. She doesn’t love him unconditionally. And she’s not supposed to. It’s a stupid thing to complain about. It would make more sense to complain that his lawn mower does a shitty job shoveling snow.
How can a relationship that starts with a long list of conditions be expected to magically morph into unconditional love? People partner up for a variety of reasons–popular among the categories are aesthetics, intellect, wit, and charm. If he is looking for unconditional love, maybe he should look to a relationship that’s not completely dependent on so many conditions. His anger is misdirected. But honestly, it’s not his fault.
He’s likely never been loved unconditionally.
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There are only two bathrooms in our house, which means sharing sometimes. Occasionally, the sharing is delightful, like when I am brushing my teeth as my wife steps out of the shower. More often, sharing involves one person sitting down as another person tries not to gag while attempting to identify a new pimplish bump just far enough back on the shoulder as to make the mirror a frustrating accomplice in a fruitless attempt at diagnosis.
My wife instinctively demands, “Courtesy flush, please,” even when she walks into a miraculously unoccupied bathroom.
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Middle school is brutal. In all the states where I have lived, both growing up across the Midwest and East Coast, and as an adult in the Midwest and Mountain West, middle school is three grades: sixth, seventh, and eighth. Elementary school is kindergarten through fifth, and high school is ninth through twelfth. I am convinced that middle school is the shortest experience because neither the parents nor the students could survive more than three years being subjected to the cauldron of hormones, body odor, and curse words. The gymnasium during a middle school dance smells like the violent collision of B.O. and Axe Body Spray. If the only risks to unsupervised middle school dances are teen pregnancy and burning down the gym, it might be worth rolling the dice to spare the parent and teacher chaperones from the exposure trauma.
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“You a bitch!”
I answered a call from a restricted number after 10pm on Saturday, and I immediately wished I had not. It sounded like a young man, and my first thought was to applaud the gender fluidity of his insult. When I was a teen or a young adult, insulting another male was to call him a dick or a prick or an asshole. I would never have dreamed of calling another man a bitch. That open mindedness aside, I was concerned about the caller’s grammar. Maybe I am a bitch, but it’s definitely not correct that I a bitch.
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I was chatting up a couple of fourth-grade girls at the back of the church on Sunday. I know that sounds creepy, but honestly, they are way more interesting than most adults. They always have something on their minds, and they have only budding little undeveloped conversation filters that they aren’t jaded enough yet to use even if they worked. For someone who thrives on authenticity of any kind, these are my people.
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I don’t think people should ever comment on each other’s food. “You must be hungry.” “You’re eating now? Didn’t you just eat a while ago?” “Seconds? You must like it.” “I see you don’t like vegetables. Hahahaha” “Sweet tooth, huh?” These are all societally innocent comments. They are conversation gap fillers. They aren’t meant to harm, but they do irreparable damage.
From skinny people who battle body image issues and associated eating disorders, to people dealing with obesity and diabetes, these little throw-away comments create shame. And shame gets medicated. Whether the medication of choice is vomiting, compulsive exercise, alcohol, or comfort calories, harmless little digs about other people’s food are far from harmless.
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Three drinks for two people. That sure looked familiar. He carried them triangle style – two beers in plastic cups secured in the semicircles of both of his thumbs and index fingers, with her plastic wine cup precariously squeezed between his two middle fingers. His priorities were made clear by which drink was least secure in the very likely event that he stumbled. But he didn’t stumble. At least not yet.
They heard the upbeat music from the beverage tent, and drifted over looking for the party and his people. But this was a brass band playing at a summer outdoor festival for a food-truck lunch crowd, and so early in the day, he was one-of-a-kind. A kind I recognize. He was me from a decade ago.
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“What did you say?” he asked. I repeated myself, to which he wondered, “Why do you do that?” Then the budding signs of curiosity were interrupted. A distraction. The inquiry was not interesting enough to come back to it.
Just like I often feel, the topic felt insignificant.
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I made my kids watch Beautiful Boy, the 2018 Steve Carell and Timothee Chalamet movie about addiction. I also made my kids watch a CNN documentary about the internet-induced proliferation of pornography. My alcoholism was traumatizing to my wife and kids. I can’t erase the past, and I refuse to ignore it, so the only thing I can do is be a cycle breaker. But as my kids will tell you, the most traumatizing thing I have done to them might have been making family movie nights out of Beautiful Boy and a CNN porn documentary. To make matters worse, Chalamet’s character has the same name as my oldest son, and when my hair was shorter, I was constantly told how much I looked like Steve Carell. In fact, someone once brought me a life-sized cardboard cutout of Steve Carell promoting The 40-Year-Old Virgin, and I was once chased down a city street by a man screaming, “Hey The Office! You dat guy!” I have not shaved or had a respectable haircut since.
In spite of the trauma my insistence on confronting addiction with my kids has caused, I still feel like it was the right decision. We didn’t talk about this stuff when I was a kid – not in school and not at home. Nancy Reagan insisted that we, “Just say no,” to drugs, and there was a PSA where a fried egg represented my brain, but the only messaging around alcohol that I can remember was that we had to be sneaky until we were 21, so my friend, Brad, and I buried a styrofoam cooler in the woods behind his house and covered it with a piece of plywood with leaves glued to it.
Is talking about addiction with my children hard? Yes, absolutely, but it is also as important to unwanted-consequence prevention as talking about vegetables and condoms and exercise and seatbelts and identifying the arrogant stupidity of the sharp bulb.