Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: education, high school, middle school, parents, teachers
I used to be able to attend adult functions and make the necessary small talk society requires. I could talk with a complete wallflower, as long as I followed my mother’s advice: “Just ask questions. People love to talk about themselves.”
Now? Not so much.
I don’t know if it’s an age thing or sheer laziness, but mostly I think it’s because I just don’t have the energy to care anymore.
Some of the worst small talk functions are school parental gatherings. Sometimes I’m genuinely interested, if it’s a family I like or friends of my kids, but mostly I end up pasting a smile on face and listening to what the other children did over the summer, the awards they won and what teachers are currently on the collective parental shit list. I do all of this while making snarky comments in my head.
These events do not bring out the best in me. And I think after what I said at the last couple of gatherings, I should probably stay home.
I recently went to a “Meet the New High School Director” coffee. I showed up, along with the other parents of kids whose parents really don’t need to be there (trust me, he’ll meet the parents of the kids who need a little extra “guidance” soon enough). I hung out with my mom friends until it was almost time to leave, and finally decided I should actually go meet the guy.
I waltzed up to a group of moms (I knew a couple) and introduced myself. “Hi, I’m so-and-so’s mom, it’s so good to have you here blah, blah, blah…”
Awkward silence…which, of course, I had to fill.
“Well, I’m sure I’ll be in your office at some point this year!” I chirped.
“For good reasons, I hope?” he asked, looking at me oddly.
I panicked. “We’ll see!” I said. I gave a little wave and practically ran out the door.
When I told Daughter #2 about it, she said, “Great Mom – now he thinks I’m a delinquent.”
“So do you want me to say anything to him at Back to School Night?”
“Maybe tell him I’m not a delinquent?”
“Hmmmm…nope. I think we’re going to set the bar low and let him be pleasantly surprised.”
“You’re the worst mom ever.”
So that was the first event.
The second, awkward, “please-let-me-suck-those-words-back-in” moment happened a few days later. Hubby and I were standing with the mother of a younger child at a school function. She was stunning – the kind of mom that I’m secretly jealous of because she looks sophisticated and sleek. This beautiful mom had makeup on, like most grownup women do, and I’m pretty sure she used primer (apparently it’s a thing now), too, because her face was perfectly smooth, and her makeup was flawless. Like my daughters, she has learned how to apply it and look gorgeous – I put on makeup and look like I fell onto a Kardashian’s face in a bar at 2:00am.
So, there we were, and I was talking about how my girls where more makeup than I ever learned how to use. “Oh my God, I mean, they put on ‘primer,’ which I think is just ridiculous, because a face is not a wall in your house!”
I couldn’t stop it, even after it dawned on me that I was probably insulting her. When the event was over, Hubby looked at me and said, “You know she wears makeup, right?”
“I know.” I sighed. “And she’s beautiful.”
“And you know you were just going on and on about how too much makeup is bad, right?”
“Yes! I know! I could hear the words come out and I couldn’t stop it!”
“Just checking.”
Ugh. I really just should have listened to my mother’s advice and only asked questions. Not once during either of these encounters did I do that – I simply filled any void with my verbal diarrhea.
Tonight is Back to School Night. God help me if any of the teachers address me directly. I’ll probably blurt out a question like “Was teaching your first choice as a profession?” So to all of Daughter #2’s teachers, here is my blanket apology in advance:
You will never be paid enough or honored enough for the work you do. Please keep trying to educate our children and fill in the gaps that we have left yawning open in their character. Every day you rise above pettiness, exhaustion and frustration to embrace these young people as they try to make sense of a senseless world, and for that you should be shown the respect and encouragement you deserve.
Plus, you look pretty. And your tie goes with your pants….
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: bachelorette, Blake, emotions, friendship, Garrett, Quinn, relationships, romance, tv
I was recently invited to a friend’s house to watch the finale of The Bachelorette. Seven women of various ages and relationship stages were there, from college to middle-age, from single to married to divorced to “talking”, or whatever they call it now. I’ve never actually seen more than 5 minutes of any episode (because I think the whole show is any Saturday night at a bar but extended for 15 hour-long rides on the Drama Train). This time, I decided the girl time was much needed and maybe I could figure out why the show is so popular.
Let me just tell you, I had a GREAT time. I was yelling and groaning along with everyone as the drama unfolded. So yes, friends who are rolling their eyes, I can be open to new things.
Now keep in mind while you’re reading this that I still watch Survivorand American Ninja Warriors, and I’m aware that I’m standing in the middle of a huge glass house.
When I arrived, I was ushered into a Bachelorette wonderland:
Each guest had to pick which bachelor “team” they were on. Since I knew nothing about either of the two finalists (Garrett and Blake), I chose Blake based on the pictures stuck into the team cupcakes.
And then the drama train started huffing down the Bachelorette tracks.
Or should I say weeping down the tracks. Oh my God, I have never seen so much weeping on one show. Mostly by Garrett. And let me tell you, Team Garrett lapped it up, goofy, salty tears and all.
“He’ll make such a great dad!”
“He’s so sensitive!”
“Why can’t I get a guy like that?”
“Why can’t I get a guy at all?” (Note – these girls were all gorgeous and in their 20’s – huge eye roll)
“He just seems so genuine!”
I wanted to hurl myself in front of the train, if only to make Garret stop crying every time it rained (often) or when he saw Becca (also often). What sealed the deal for me and Blake was when Garrett played his trump card – he told Becca he felt like her deceased father was with them. Becca melted, he cried (again? seriously?), she cried, and I finished another glass of rosé to get the taste of throw up out of my mouth.
Now, before all you Team Garret people FTFO, you need to understand something about me – I’m not a weeper, at least not where people can see me. When our 15-year-old dog died, my kids later told me that was the first time they’d ever seen me cry – that was three years ago, and they are eighteen and twenty. The Fam constantly makes fun of me for not crying when we watch sad TV shows. Clearly, I also have issues.
Obviously, watching Garrett the Weeper made me uncomfortable. All I could think of was: She’s going to be raising man-child along with her actual kids. poor thing – she’s always going to have to be the Bad Cop because he’s too emotional to do it the other half ofthe time. Plus he smiles when he’s crying and its creepy.
AND THEN SHE PICKED HIM!
There was more weeping from Team Garrett, and gnashing of teeth from Team Blake. But the best (and most important) part of the whole night was the dialogue that emerged during the event: What makes a good marriage, or a good boyfriend? When and how often should you be crying in a relationship? What kind of man makes a good father?
The show is still ridiculous, but it sparked these cell-phone-free conversations for straight two hours, and that, my friends, almost brings tears to my eyes.
(To hear another version of this night, check out my friend Alex’s blog. )
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, shopping | Tags: born again, christianity, church, humor, Middle-Age, relationships, religion, shopping, walmart
I don’t know how or why the Jesus Freaks find me, but they do – and it’s usually at Walmart. Now, before you get all upset, know that I do believe, but I believe in the privacy of my head and heart.
I’ve had two people tell me in the check-out line that it’s their second birthday, as in, they’re Born Again. (Personally, I don’t think it’s the best metaphor – why would anyone want to leave their warm, dark cocoon where they have been fed and grown with no effort for the cold, bright world where every day can be a struggle? How about something like “Refried” instead?)
Ummmm…so you’re Born Again. First, you look tall for a two-year-old. Second, I’ve had 47 birthdays, and I never once told anyone in a check-out line when they happened. Third, why do you think I need to know you and Jesus are besties when I’m standing here trying to figure out who wore the superman glasses better – George Clooney or Denzel Washington?
But the best encounter happened yesterday. I was standing in the freezer aisle at Walmart trying not to buy yet another bag of tater tots, when two teenage girls approached me.
“Excuse me, M’am?” they asked.
“Huh?”
“Hi. Um, would you like us to pray for you?”
“What, here?” I asked.
“Yes. Or is there someone you would like us to pray for?”
Oh my God, this is a blog happening right now.
“My family – they’ve got issues.”
“Okay. Would you mind if we lay hands on you, or is that too weird?”
“That is definitely too weird.”
Then they said a very nice prayer in the middle of the freezer aisle.
So why me? I recently asked my gym trainer if I have a serious RBF (Resting Bitch Face), because whenever I go to other gyms, the trainers never talk to me, while they talk to everyone else who is new. And it’s not because I’m doing things correctly, either. She said no (probably for self-protection), that mine wasn’t bad. I just always look like I’m concentrating (#thestruggleisreal).
Why do people feel the need to approach me and tell me all about their relationship with God/Jesus? Do I have a RSMF (Resting Save Me Face)? You can’t tell me my RSMF is worse than the woman smacking her kid in the child-abuse aisle, or the addict who’s hanging around in the parking lot asking for cash, or the people who live in their camper in the back of the parking lot. I’m pretty sure they might need help from Above a little more than I do.
So please, let me keep my headphones on while I play my soothing spa music and shop. And while I don’t want it to happen again, it just proves that you really can get everything at Walmart.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts, Travel | Tags: dermatologist, health, silence of the lambs, skin, sunburn
Today I went to the dermatologist for my annual visit, which always makes me temporarily look like I fell headfirst into a vat of liquid herpes virus. Blisters are on my forehead, nose and cheeks from where she froze a bunch of questionable freckles and moles. I also requested to have a skin tag removed so I don’t have a weird, skinny pinky growing out of my neck – but when she froze it off, it blistered, and now it looks like a I have an abnormally small third nipple growing there instead.
One of the things that is supposed to separate us from the animals is our ability to postpone gratification. We can wait to eat that chocolate bar in the bin at the grocery store checkout when we know there’s a huge anniversary steak waiting for us at Ruth’s Chris. The flip side of that is our ability to understand that not all consequences are immediate. The fact that you hung your little brother in the closet all afternoon by the back of his shirt may not have incurred parental wrath until Dad got home. Then the beatings would begin.
Sun damage is the same. When I forgot to flip over as I basted my teenage self, there wasn’t any immediate regret, just the tingle of a mild sunburn or the occasional blister. Aaaah, but the punishment has begun. These days, I can see lines that are soon going to make me look like a dried-up prune, or one of those muppets in the movie Labyrinth.
The movie Something About Mary also comes to mind – and not the Cameron Diaz character. 
I’m pretty sure that Botox won’t help either – making my face immobile might take away the lines, but it will also make it impossible for anyone to know if I’m being sarcastic or just super bitchy.
My skin may look 20 years older than I am, but there’s always a silver lining: I don’t have to worry about Hannibal Lecter or Buffalo Bill anymore (Silence of the Lambs). I think my skin has finally started turning into leather while I’m still wearing it. It’s not quite saddle or boot material, and no amount of lotion is going to make it into a good skin suit (don’t ever Google that – trust me).
So that’s my Public Service Announcement – wear your sunblock and your 100 SPF t-shirts, and please, please, please go see your dermatologist regularly. Not being afraid of Hannibal Lecter and Buffalo Bill is a silver lining, but don’t put yourself in a position where you have to look for one.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, adulting, Facebook, friends, friendship, guilt, Middle-Age, relationships, social media
I’m tired of FaceBook making me feel like a crappy parent, an uninvolved citizen, an un-inspiring adult, and someone who is only marginally good at weird visual puzzles. Mostly, I’m tired of feeling guilty about things I didn’t realize I’m supposed to be doing to be a good person, according to the Facebook Junkies.
Brace yourselves – I realize I’m probably going to offend some of you – but I’ve never been accused of holding back or using much of a filter, so here comes the hurricane…
First, stop with the chain posts – Share this with 10 people who need a hug today. If you send me one of those, consider it dead when it reaches my page. Adding a task to my already overloaded shit-I-have-to-do-today list does not make me feel more loved. I need an administrative assistant, not a FaceBook hug.
I also need a break from all those pseudo-inspirational messages like, Who did you inspire today? Or, my personal non-favorite, How are you bringing your AMAZING to work today? Seriously? How about “Congratulations! You didn’t punch that person in the throat today!” Or maybe, “Hang in there – they can’t all be that stupid.” Or, if you don’t like the heavy sarcasm, how about “Try to be nice to people today – yep, even them.”
But the ones that REALLY get me are the posts that say something like Share this if you have an amazing son/daughter. Wow – those are annoying on so many levels.
First, I’m pretty sure my kids know I think they’re amazing. If you don’t, D1 and D2, please be confident that I’m well aware that you both are already better people than I am, that you inspire me every day, and that I brag about you to the people that matter. When I criticize you, it doesn’t mean I think you’re stupid – it means I’m trying to protect you, and enable you to function as a kind adult in an unkind world.
Second, if I were a person struggling to conceive, or who’s child had passed away, I can only imagine that it would break my heart a little every time one of those little brag posts popped up.
And finally, I noticed there are precious few posts in the same vein saying, Share if you have an amazing husband/wife/partner/grandparent/parent. Hmmmmm….what does that say about us?
The Share this if you love your son/daughter/grandchild posts are almost as bad. So are you saying that if I don’t share it I don’t love my kid? Seriously? I would be more irritated with this one if I thought a lot of kids were actually on FaceBook and fretting that their parents didn’t love them since they didn’t share that post. But, since most of them are on every platform other than FaceBook, maybe these aren’t so bad – just mildly guilt-inducing for us dinosaurs who don’t speak in pictures and acronyms.
So, like many of my friends have from time to time, I’m going to take a break from FaceBook. My blog posts will still appear because they automatically push to it, so don’t worry – you’ll still get your doses of Subourbonmom wit. Of course, it will help my chances of getting them published in a an actual book if you follow the blog by signing up to receive it via email. (Okay, that’s my very rare marketing plug.)
And don’t worry, Family, I’ll still be stalking you on Instagram and SnapChat, and yes, I know y’all have Finstas and other places where I’m the subject of many a meme. Have at it – the fact that you’re posting anything about me means I’m making an impact on your life.
Share this if you love sharing FaceBook rants.
Subourbon Mom 