Good Friends

I’m sad when I think about the window closing on having another baby. I could put my twelve years of parenting knowledge to good use. I’d probably be pretty good at it; the third time is a charm.

I thought of three ways of going about doing this. The first would be to go out to a bar and find an attractive and charismatic man. This was a real suggestion my grandma gave to my sister after her divorce. My grandma was worried my thirty-year-old sister was going to be childless and she told her, “You could always go out and get pregnant from a guy at the bar… we’ll raise your baby as a family.”

I thought the last part was really sweet. My grandma had all her four children by the time she was twenty, it was a different time, now thirty is the new twenty. It was also a time when there was no ancestory.com blowing up everyone’s genius plans to get a baby by heading to the bar while ovulating.

The other issue with this is not knowing family history. What if you left their house and saw some evidence they were a complete whack-job? Then you got to go home and pull some Revolutionary Road shit, sitting on a garden sprinkler trying to power wash your uterus.

The second way I considered was writing letters to all the male brilliant minds of our time, asking them if they’d generously spare some sperm. It could come off as psycho, but given the size of their egos, I’d assume they’d be flattered and would even consider it after performing some type of background check. They might deem me as too stupid though, which could hurt. However, I would promise to give the baby a daily cold plunge.

If you get that genius sperm, and then raise the kid to be loving and kind, who knows what they would do… they could really change the world for the better. I remember a few weeks before I got married, I was at the Bigfoot Lodge in West LA, with my sister and cousin. We were standing outside talking to some guys, and the one I was talking to gave me a memorable lecture on the importance of mating with someone smart. Maybe he was recently dumped for a Rhodes Scholar, but he had a passionate argument. I was ready to get that ring on my finger so I could meet my future kids, so I nodded along, and thought, “Well good looks also get people far in life… some could argue farther.”

I was talking to my brother about the artificial insemination route, and he thought it was super scientific. He said, “It’s really expensive. Maybe your work will pay for it.”

I told him, it’s not what you think. I looked up the company online. It’s in Seattle and you basically inject yourself with this de-thawed turkey baster of sperm. He didn’t believe me, but it’s true. Google it.

The third method would be asking my ex-husband for sperm so the baby would be a full-blooded sibling to my two kids. I thought about this more, and how we are barely able to utter a few sentences to each other without a rage outburst, and I decided it would never happen. Not even if I was Daniel Day-Lewis with the longest sperm-sucking milkshake straw.

When talking on the phone with my sister I decided to fill out a dating profile on EHarmony. I answered the 400 questions about myself, and then started shopping for men. I realized I looked for the wrong kind of man when left to my own devices because I matched well with libertarians who are super into fitness. I didn’t at one time say I liked camping or hiking, and every guy I had off-the-chart compatibility with was in a kayak in their profile picture.

I figured, don’t fuck with the algorithm, and just click the heart buttons. So I matched with people. Then I sent someone a message, and they wrote me back, but I couldn’t read it without buying the subscription. Eharmony wants you to find a partner, for 400 smack-a-roos. 

So I deleted my account. To be honest, I was a bit freaked out reading the profiles and people saying they’re looking for someone to grow old with or for a deeply fulfilling relationship. I have a pretty full schedule, and I’ve recently been assigned the kids’ Dungeon Master on Wednesday nights.

I read an interview with Angelina Jolie, and I thought it was so lovely how she talked about her kids. She said, “… we’re close friends.”

Maybe this made me eager to bring another friend into the fold. I think about how my kids will be off to college in six to seven years, and then what am I going to do? Go kayaking? No thanks. A baby will stretch out this fun time for another 10 years. 

Last week the kids had spring break; they had a staycation while I went to work. This is the first time I’ve been able to leave them for long stretches and know they’ll be fine. With a baby, were setting back the clock on our freedom. I’m happy with how our lives are right now. I won’t be impulsive about a new addition, but whenever I hear a fifty-something woman being interviewed on Armchair Expert and she talks about her preteen kid, I quickly google her age. Plenty of women have kids at 43. I still have a year to commit to this plan.

We have so much fun together. I know my first time was a charm, and my second time was a charm. I guess I just want to keep the good times rolling. And for some reason, now I really want to take the kids camping.

Pizza Swans

 

I started a new writing class, or I should call it writing clash. The teacher irritated me the moment he all-knowingly explained that billionaires have to be insane since they should have retired by the time they made 500 million. I rolled my eyes and muttered, “Oh great, my teacher is a lazy communist.”

When he gave me notes on a script, he explained a friend told him the difference between a man who is a pedophile and a man who likes young women depends on when the girl goes through puberty. I felt like throwing the barf face emoji in the group chat. The teacher finished up the anecdote by saying, “If anyone needs to make this distinction, it’s not a good sign.” And I was thinking, “Then why did you just say all that shit?”

What struck me as cosmic orchestration was that the next day, after I vented to everyone I knew about my teacher, a student in my class had a similar reaction to me. I was writing on the board and someone raised their hand and rudely said I was going to fast. I noticed they were on their phone so I said, it helps if you put your phone away, and they stuffed all their shit in their backpack and stormed out of class.

It was awkward and I’ve never experienced a student having a bit of a stamping-their-foot moment in class before. I choose to ignore it, but only externally. In my brain, I was processing like mad. I was like my teacher was to me, to this student. Did she think I was an out-of-touch pedo-symathizer?

That night Netflix infiltrated my dreams. I dreamed I was on the show Love Is Blind and I followed another contestant who was drunk off her ass and distraught that her apartment was haunted by ghosts. When I walked into her room, the ghosts turned out to be other contestants dressed up in powdered wigs pretending to be ghosts. I jokingly threw up two middle fingers and said, “Hey sluts, suck on this.” Then someone said something like “finger-bang fingers,” and I replied, “These are butt-banging fingers.”

I woke up laughing but concerned. I need to find someone to have sex with before my brain caves in on itself. Most people get out of a relationship armed with evidence their ex-partner is a narcissist, but I get out of relationships even more convinced I am a narcissist. How can I still think you can have a purely sexual relationship with someone? I can’t explain this to my family because they don’t understand my situation. They’ll be appalled, maybe disgusted, when I announce, “I’ve decided to take on a lover.”

I started watching Feud: Capote vs. The Swans on Hulu, and the swans have given me the perspective that “Gurl, you better get yours!” They’re like Carrie, Samantha, and that’s it. Charlotte is too prudish and Miranda is not glamorous. In the last episode, it was disclosed that the fabulous Babe would have suitors drop in, and she’d dazzle them with her fashionable outfit before giving them an average roll in the sheets. She didn’t hold these guys to the same standards as her TV mogul husband, she liked a handsome food delivery man.

I could take a hint from the Swans, and ask the pizza delivery guy, but what if he became obsessed with me? It just seems unsafe. My narcissism, rearing its beautiful head.

I’m too old for Love is Blind, and too young for the Golden Bachelor, but reality TV wouldn’t serve me well. I'm an introvert who loves controlled attention, and I don’t drink which is the main ingredient to these storylines. 

If I did drink, I liken myself to Leah McSweeny from RHONY. I would annoy the shit out of everyone by being an obnoxious loudmouth after two glasses of wine but ultimately endear everyone with social schadenfreude after ending the night doing cartwheels naked across the lawn and launching tiki torches into the swimming pool like an Olympic javelin thrower.

I’ll just have to find this lover the old-fashioned way, praying to God that a man falls in my lap with his dick out and my pants off. There could be a small conversation. Maybe something sophisticated like, “Leave the pizza in the dining room, darling.” I will be cordial, not overtly nice, and I won’t be funny.

Next week, I’m going to class with a rewrite and I know my teacher won’t get it. I have my classmates though who I can glean an accurate reading of understanding and connection to the culture. I’m not getting caught up in the dramatics of my feelings because it could cause some type of mirrored disaster in my own classroom. 

The moral of the story, emotions are for peasants, pizza is for sex, and sex saves lives.

My Garfunkel Era

The kids and I drove to Tahoe for Christmas, and I played Simon and Garfunkel the entire drive. I love the happy songs they sing, and I laugh to myself every time I hear Garfunkel say, “Deep forest green.”

At one point the kids started to bicker, and Kingsley who went to the doctor the day before for her 12-year-old wellness check boasted, “I am so happy to be vaccinated for meningitis.”

Which infuriated Geoffrey, and made him say, “It’s not for certain… you could still get it.”

Then she looked at me scared, and I said, “You can’t get it. Geoffrey leave her alone, and Kingsley stop bragging about your meningitis vaccination.” 

We spent six nights at my parents’ house. The kids, the dog, and I shared a bedroom. My older brother was there too with his wife and five kids. My younger sister, who lives up the street, would come by after work, but her four kids were always with us. It was like a daycare center, commune, cult, whatever you call it when there are too many people in one house.

What I miss most when I’m away from home is eating my food; tofu creations, cereal, and Top Ramen with an egg in it. When I’m at my parents I wake up and eat Ruffles potato chips all day long, and then eat whatever cafeteria-style meal has been prepared for dinner. They like to watch TV at volume level 98. What’s stopping them from going to 100 is unclear to me. At home, my kids and I watch TV at volume level 9, maybe we go up to level 14 when we’re eating chips.

I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m trashing my family. I love them, but we would just make for a really unhealthy cult, physically and mentally. I’m used to the big family dynamic, and I know it’s easiest to just go with the flow. This is where being a middle child serves me very well: sit back quietly, quiet is key, and watch the chaos. Like Garfunkel, step in only when completely necessary. 

I generally stick around my mom, who seems unfazed and adds levity. As we headed to church for the second time on Christmas Eve, she said, “I’ll be so holy, you’ll be able to see through me.”

By next Christmas, I’ll have amnesia, but when I pulled into the driveway of my house on December 26, I walked up my porch steps like Tim Robbins after escaping Shawshank State Penitentiary. The next day, the kids and I had our Christmas, and then they left to go on vacation with their dad.

I’ve been walking, reading, writing, and doing yoga. The dog follows me around the house, and when I put on my running shoes, he looks at me the same way I stared at the TV when I was a kid watching Mr. Rogers change his shoes, frozen with excitement about the upcoming journey.

I called my older sister while I was making Top Ramen. I found a jar of olives in the cabinet, excited I asked rhetorically, “Should I have olives too?”

Always game, she said, “Hell yes!”

I strained to open the lid and sounded like I was pushing out a baby. The lid wouldn’t budge. She knew I was going on a walk after I finished eating and suggested, “Take the olives with you on the walk, and when you pass a man ask him to open your jar for you.”

I laughed but put the olives back for another day, maybe after I start lifting weights.

On the walk, I ran into a neighbor I had been intentionally avoiding since he told me my garbage bin was too full, for the third time. I usually pretend I’m on the phone when I walk by him. However, going from the most intense social setting to the most mellow, I was up for some small talk. He asked where my kids were, and I told him they were on vacation. He asked, in seriousness, “You miss them?”

I was reminded why I hated talking to him, and I said I had to go before the sun went down.

The yoga studio I go to has an amazing instructor. The first time I went last year, I was asked to join by a friend who warned me, “It’s sort of like a cult.”

How did she know I would be drawn in? Hot yoga is an hour and a half of intense cardio, and some meditation in a room with the thermostat set at 98 degrees. The people in this class could easily do cross-fit, but we prefer the calming presence of our teacher, who like Mr. Rogers, tells us everything is exactly the way it is meant to be, and we are perfect.

After yoga, my friend and I chatted in the parking lot. She started saying, “I’m not really into New Year’s resolutions…” and told me about wanting a career change for the upcoming year. I encouraged her to go for it, and said, “New Year’s resolutions, or not, it’s natural to make life plans around this time, everything is dead and it’s cold.”

I pointed to the leafless trees surrounding us in the gloomy gray parking lot. I love New Year’s resolution, it’s like a baby shower for the year. This is the fattest and saddest time of the year, and given all my downtime self-care, I’m feeling and looking pretty good. Plus, I'm vaccinated for meningitis! But, I want to be prepared for when everything comes back to life.

My cousin and I had a fantastic two-hour conference call on New Year’s Eve to plan out our year. Then I typed out my list, printed it, and thumb-tacked it to the wall behind me. The list to me is like running shoes to the dog, it’s taking me places. Places like lunch, with my dad, who opened my olives for me.

Brain Computer Chip

 

At night, when we’re going to bed, Kiki lies next to me and talks. She’ll talk about anything; like Tetris, a new thought drops, and she’ll share it. I nod off, exhausted, going in and out of consciousness, but I try hard to listen. When she pauses, I say, “I love you, now let’s go to sleep.” 

Her glistening eyes stay fixed on the ceiling as she tries to make all these thoughts fit together, and she says, “Just ten more minutes Mom.”

I wake up early drink coffee and write in my journal in the living room. I hear Geoffrey wake up because he wraps a blanket around him and it drags down the hallway, like a king’s cape. He sits next to me on the couch and starts to chat. Similar to his sister the night before, I can see in his eyes the thoughts coming in. I’ve had a couple of cups of coffee, so I’m more conversational.

Geoffrey is a visionary, a man of tomorrow. These morning discussions I make promises like, ‘If you don’t move to Mars when you grow up, I’ll take care of your children, so you and your partner can work full-time.”

He’ll argue a case for why I should buy a cyber-truck, and ask me if I plan on buying a house in the same gated community as his dad, so he can ride a bike between our homes. I look at him, my thick morning hair ratted like a cave woman, and sip from my “rise and fucking shine” coffee mug, and reassure him, “I’m working on it.”

He asked me if I believed we were living in a simulation, and I judgmentally told him, “I don’t like you watching YouTube.” 

He asked, “What if I'm controlling everything around me with my mind?”

I wanted to say, “If that is true then could you take care of a few people for me… just have them go peacefully in the night?” Instead, I said, “We need to go see Great Grandma Jackie because maybe you’ve lost sight of the ancestral chain that goes back… forever.”

He groaned when I added, “We should go to church more.”

I didn’t shut down his delusions of grandeur because I like how he’s demonstrating an interest in philosophy. It shows that despite my fear that my kids’ brains are prey to the all-consuming predator that is “Online Media Retention,” they do in fact, sit in thought.

I read Brave New World last week after Geoffrey said, “I can’t wait till we all have computer chips in our heads.”

I asked him, “If we all have the same intelligence, who will be the innovators, and who will be the people who vacuum the poop out of the Port-o-Potties?”

He was stumped. So I thought I’d test him, and I said, “Maybe it would be better to give the intelligence only to some people,” and thank goodness, he thought that was a bad idea.

I’m glad I read the book before reading it to the kids because I forgot all about “Chase the Zipper” and how Huxley theorized everyone would turn into detached sluts from the desensitization of sex. Quite the contrary has happened, and young people can’t even be bothered. 

Huxley was right about the pharmacological revolution, and by conditioning people to feel shame when they’re unhappy Soma became another essential food group.

I can’t have a computer chip in my head because of my depraved thoughts, thoughts that I have no control over. I would be thrown in jail the moment the chip was implanted, and when I explain to the thought police (different book, same genre) that I don’t believe these thoughts, they just show up to make me feel like a bad person, they’d throw away the key. It’s a shame, I could be limitless with that computer chip.

Every parent hopes their kids have the intellectual aptitude to get into a great university and make a positive difference in the world. We're too far off from brain-computer chips to change the current college landscape, but after this week when the IVY league school presidents went on an antisemite rampage, they relieved a lot of pressure that these schools are a pinnacle in academic ambition.

The reality is that for a student to get into an elite university, they would have had to spend their teenage years creating a contrived resume. They enter institutions of higher learning with burnout and a robotic mindset. They don’t need a computer-chip brain, they already gave themselves one. Now all they need is a lifetime supply of Soma.

I teach at a state university. It is not a prestigious school, but I value and enjoy my students. It’s finals week, so part of my morning was fielding emails from people who dropped the ball ten weeks ago, and want another chance. The situations can rip out my heartstrings, but I have to be robotic in my assessment of these situations, and honest, they can always do better next time. 

After that, I Googled “Was Steve Jobs a devil worshipper?” It was a legitimate question after I saw an advertisement including the pricing for his first Apple computer. An hour investigating and I didn’t get an answer, but I stumbled upon a lot of weird people’s theories of the world. 

It was an enjoyable time. I need a night and a morning to make sense of it all.

That Guy In The Whale

I never watched the movie “The Whale,” but I think the moral of the story is don’t replace sex with food, or you will get too fat to fit through your front door and will be trapped forever. In contrast to Repunzal though, who wistfully combs her hair while anticipating her prince’s arrival, the post-virginal and whale-size ensures that no suitor will post up outside your house holding up a boom box.

What’s a gal to do? True Crime shows sprinkled with HIV commercials have the power to turn any sex-positive woman’s attitude into “fine for them,” but harboring a Victorian personal stance.

I avoid the looming threat of enormity by going on a walk with my dog, a psychotic barker. I leave his poo bag on the same curb when I go on the uphill part. On Monday there was a post-it note taped to the bag that said, “Dear Dog Owner, please don’t leave your bag of dog poop on our property.”

I was offended at first, and thought, “What a miserable a-hole, I always pick this bag up on my way home.” So the next day, I left it on the curb in front of the house next door. As I was getting closer to my house I remembered, “Oh my gosh, I forgot the poop.”

I found myself immersed in a vivid montage, recalling countless instances of strolling down the hill, the poo bag in sight. Suddenly, my sister's call interrupted my thoughts, and I picked up the phone, "Biiiiiitch." Lost in her captivating story about a coworker bringing her child's homework packet to work, only to realize it had to be in the child's handwriting, I continued my walk, completely oblivious to the forgotten bag.

Now I carry the poop with me the entire time, and I forgave myself for hating the person who rightfully put the Post-it onto my poop.

I heard Peter Thiel give a brilliant response to a question in an interview. When asked, “What is a mistake you regret in your career.” He simply replied, “I do not dwell on failure, so I will not answer that question.”

I was like, “Yes bitch,” and adopted it into my life. I also learned another lovely trick to get your brain right. I went to the Austin Film Festival at the end of October and heard an amazing screenwriter explain the challenges of negative self-talk, she said when the nagging voice comes into your head that’s trying to slash your confidence, you picture a red chair, and then tell that voice, “I hear you, but you need to take a seat. We're not going to do that right now.”

This works, and then I heard Cheryl Strayed say a very similar thing in an interview within the week. I was like, “How does everyone know this but me?”

As a parent, I’m compelled to impart any seed of wisdom onto my children, so I told Kingsley, and she asked me, “Why is the chair red?” I had no idea.

My parents watched my kids when I went to Austin. They went on independent study, and Geoffrey finished his three days’ worth of work in one hour, but Kingsley told me she would do it on her trip. Well, her report card came out, and she has not been doing her work. I told my dad, and he said, “You need to tell her to stop crying and do her homework!”

My sister told me her daughter received a bad report card. I said, “Throw it in the trash. A first grader doesn’t get a bad report card.” 

It’s a miracle that kids today can make it through the public school system without getting low self-esteem. I didn’t go to a notable elementary, middle, or high school, and I have maybe two memories of doing homework. It was a problem when I went to college and realized you have to do work, but I didn’t have report cards which led me to believe I wouldn’t be able to understand once I started doing it. 

My daughter’s “homework” is a lesson on organizational systems. She has six classes, and usually three homework tasks that are ten to twenty minutes each, some are on the Chrome book and some are on handouts. Could she possibly be solidifying, strengthening, and deepening her knowledge in those ten minutes? No, she is being taught how to use a calendar, and folders and turn meaningless assignments in for credit.

I don’t convey this to her, but I sympathize with her because I understand why she finds it to be such a complete waste of time. 

She is too old for me to throw her report card away, and tell her to keep on reading her books because she will be fine as long as she does that. No, she saw it, and I had to then impart to her the wisdom I learned from Peter Thiel, “Bitch, that report card is in the past, so don’t worry about it.” Then I added my dad’s sentiment, “But stop crying, and do your homework.”

I bought Kiki a sweatshirt on Temu that says “I’m not clumsy, the walls are out to get me” because she tends to walk into the railing, walk off of curbs, or straight into a wall. This happened the other day. She was leaving the kitchen and somehow got the math wrong, and half her body hit the door jam. She hit her forehead and was crying. 

I imparted some of my wisdom. Like the broken refrigerator in my kitchen, warm and empty, I hugged her and pet her hair, as I said, “Kiki, this is all in your brain, just tell yourself it doesn’t hurt.”

Yes, my piece of shit refrigerator is broken again. So we keep all of our groceries in a wine fridge. It works just the same and has the added benefit of making it impossible to shop in such a way that I could get as big as that guy in the movie The Whale, played by Oscar-winner Brendan Fraser.

Cloudbusting

As my car inched down the freeway, I seriously regretted chugging two glasses of water before I left. I had to pee so bad it was making me feel like I could throw up. I had the urge to send a text to the person I talked to every day for the last four years, but I knew I couldn’t because we broke up.

In my twenties, I had my birth chart done. It’s a life horoscope based on the date, time, and location of birth. I hate to break it to anyone born in Los Angeles at 4:30 on June 26, 1982, but relationships' outlook was pretty bleak. I believe it said, to expect to find your love companion in 2040.

It didn’t say I wouldn’t try, I believe it said there would be many attempts. I’m unashamedly like Elizabeth Taylor, but with the sense to not marry every man who goes down on me. Instead, I just feel utterly indebted.

This was a very hard decision, and it’s been a sad time. I look at the past few years with the same perspective as examining a Reversible Image picture. Like you look at it one way, and you see an old lady, and you look at it another way and you see a young girl. I can look back and see such amazing moments, so intimate and funny, but the picture of what led me to this point is not apparent. The absence of that can send immediate distress, but I just have to close one eye and cock my head to the left (metaphorically) and find the other image.

The internal debate was strong at the beginning. I had two lawyers deliberating my decision. Let’s call one Marsha Marsha Marsha Clark and the other one Johnny Cockram. Marsha Marsha Marsha was defending my decision, and Johnny Cockram was poking holes in it every chance he could. 

I was worried I’d isolate and give these lawyers too much time, but I have a bunch of friends, 2 sisters, 2 brothers, 20 cousins, 14 aunts and uncles, and like a million nieces and nephews. There’s always a wedding, baptism, baby shower, retirement party, or some other celebration happening. 

I was talking on the phone to my mom when I was walking the dog, and she told me that for Christmas she is buying everyone this plunger choking device. When she described the product she gave a monologue that sounded word for word like a commercial. She explained how many people die each year from choking and described how an EMT saved a young kid’s life. I told her, “Mom, I think you’ve been brainwashed by your Fox News commercials. Now they’re using their fear tactics to sell you things.”

She told me I was wrong. Anyone who has a loved one who is a Fox News devotee hears this often. After I was home, and tidying up around the house, I thought, “Maybe I should get the choking plunger! I probably should have it here in case I’m choking and alone!”

I was grateful for my mom looking out, and now I can be even more grateful for her tracking me on my phone because if I go missing she’ll be the first to know.

Music can be a band-aid or a nice rubbing of salt in the wound. My playlist is an emotional minefield right now. And I can walk into the store, or be lying in the dentist’s chair and a song will start playing that brings up very vivid memories. It’s important in these moments to remind myself, this is a coincidence, not a sign from the universe.

I was sitting with Kiki in the car and she started singing “Running Up That Hill,” and I was thrown. When I asked her how she knew a Kate Bush song from 1985, she told me, “It’s not old… It’s on Stranger Things.”

I started listening to Kate Bush, and what a glorious band-aid. Babooshka is an elevated Do You Like Piña Coladas song, and Cloudbusting is awesome, can there be a better song? I played Kiki Wuthering Heights and she looked shocked. I told her, “Yes, this is some weird shit, but if you listen to it a few more times, you’ll see it’s pretty brilliant."

I was scared to tell the kids. I thought I could handle it like how I was going to handle our cat disappearing last summer (but she miraculously turned back up after two weeks) and put off this conversation by continuing to tell them he’s traveling when they’re home. My parents came into town to help me take a bunch of stuff to the dump, and when I told them this plan, they told me that it was a terrible idea and that my kids would think it was weird that I had lied to them.

So, I sucked it up and told them. They were sad. They said, “I can’t believe you’re getting divorced again.”

I told them, “It’s technically not a divorce.”

Geoffrey told me he wanted to go running, so we set out on a run, and he asked me questions about it. He asked, “Why didn’t you talk to him?”

I assured him, I didn’t not try. Geoffrey knows I’m a hard worker, but he doesn’t know I do my best learning on the job.

I don’t actually believe in horoscopes. I read them for fun. My monthly horoscope for September said I would get a big sum of money mid-month. It lied. I literally wrote in my journal, “Fuck my horoscope.”

I’ll still read my November horoscope because it’s nice to feel like something good is going to happen, and even if it doesn't happen in November, 2040 is on the distant horizon.