In middle school, my friends and I were in a world of trouble after we got caught prank-calling a girl we hung out with, someone who was a friend. Inspired by the Jerky Boys, we were ruthless, dropped every cuss word imaginable, and would get into arguments if someone started laughing and fucked up the call.
Naive and stupid, we even left our diabolical calls as messages for her entire family to listen to, and eventually play to our parents, who must have thought we were certifiable psychopaths.
As I wrote my eulogy, expecting my parents to come into my room with a machete and cardboard box for my remains, I was surprised when they only grounded me and made me write this girl a letter apologizing.
At that time, we lived on shock value. We entertained ourselves by singing made-up lyrics to popular songs. The one that stuck was, “I saw the dick, and I opened up my crotch. I saw the dick.” To Ace of Base’s eternal hit song, “I Saw the Sign.”
At that age, there’s some psychological component to hearing something blasphemous and laughing hysterically. That’s probably why my kids love watching any show made by Seth Macfarlane. Usually, I’m working and overhear some crazy shit on the TV and have to walk in and remind them, people don’t talk like this. These characters are meant to shock the hell out of you. They say the modern version of how we used to say, “No duh.”
You can’t ever be too careful. They’ll have their moments of reckoning, and I just hope it’s nothing on the level of Mel Gibson. I’ll have to be like Whoopi Goldberg, on the View, defending them, “You know what, sometimes people just say some unexplainable crazy shit, and we have to make them write an apology note, and move on.”
The other day I was in the gym, and when I got out of the shower two teenage girls were standing right next to my locker looking at the screen of one of their phones. I thought maybe I should move all my stuff so I could get dressed without these two breathing down my neck. I didn’t want to seem rude, so I tried to put my clothes on without falling.
As I stood there, butt exposed, they were still on their phone, and I had a moment of panic. What if these two take a video of my cellulite ass and post it on one of their high school invisible snap chat?
They likely sensed my crazed, paranoid energy and left. Or maybe they realized they shouldn’t stand around in a locker room with their phone out. Doubtful. But I could relax and sit to put my shoes on without worrying about falling over sideways and knocking myself out.
I bought my daughter a cell phone for Christmas. It’s a phone that restricts her from going online. I’m not denying her access to the culture, she spends plenty of time online and is sufficiently brainwashed to buy, buy, buy Sephora and loads of other stuff.
Last year Kiki had a phone from her dad, but he confiscated it after her stepmom read some text that said something about being despised. That wasn’t a nice thing to say, but I wouldn’t call it exceptionally mean. I could think of twenty brilliant insults right now that I won’t list because I’d hate to have to move to LA and become a full-time roast comic. Plus, I learned from my prank-calling mistake.
I don’t have any interest in reading my daughter’s text messages. It seems invasive and imposes another layer of self-censorship. Maybe if she were hanging out with wild kids or getting into trouble, but I don’t think it’s necessary for now. She tells me plenty of crazy stuff, I don’t need to look for more.
Kiki told me last month, if I got pregnant in high school, I think I’d have the baby and put it up for adoption. Then she added, “I’d want to make sure the baby was taken care of, so I think you’d have to adopt it, but we won’t do that weird thing where we tell the baby I’m its sister and you’re the mom.”
I took the elaborate hypothetical to remind her of the best way to prevent a high school pregnancy. She looked at me like, No duh. Then she told me she thought she was PMSing, and I said, “PMS is just a conspiracy to make women feel bad, like cellulite. You’re allowed to voice negative opinions without people blaming it on mental instability from the incoming crimson wave.”
Her reply was, “What’s cellulite?”
I felt like such an asshole and tried to rebury the word. Instead of saying, it’s a concept popularized in the 70s to make women hate their bodies and buy, buy, buy products that will make them have less shame for existing. I just said, “Oh never mind, it’s nothing.”
My kids were with their dad this Christmas, and I decided to stay with my parents. What a trip. I always come home thinking, "No wonder I have issues." I spent non-meal time in a bedroom watching Real Housewives. I am not exaggerating, I watched 30 hours of Real Housewives in three days.
When I got home yesterday, I was thoroughly brainwashed to buy Tide laundry detergent, Bounty paper towels, and Febreeze for small spaces. I called my sister to vent. Three days of moderate solitary confinement gave me a lot of things to think about, and I needed my sister to hear them. After she listened, she asked, “Are you going to start your period?”
Then she said, “I know I’m about to start mine because all I can think about are crunchy tacos and my bad attitude.”
It might not be something I can sing to Ace of Base, but it made me laugh.
