The Realist

 

I started the new Real Housewives franchise, Long Island, and it is absolutely marvelous. I’d even argue it’s the most real of all the Housewives series. There are only four episodes so far, and by the time I got around to it, I had three in the cannon that I had no problem binging in one night.

The accent takes a minute to adjust to. It’s like starting a British series: at first it’s all “Wah wah wah, wah wah,” and then suddenly your ear clicks and it becomes perfectly clear English. The Rhode Island accent is especially fun. It makes me want to tease up my hair, swipe on red lipstick, and throw a suit jacket with giant shoulder pads over a silky camisole. It’s how every glamorous, slightly disinterested woman in a 90’s movies talked.

Every Real Housewives series builds storylines around each woman, teasing them out over the season, and this cast did not disappoint.

When Crystal from RHOBH dropped a midseason bomb about being bulimic, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a desperate attempt to generate a storyline beyond a home remodel. The best reaction, though, was Erika Jayne, who didn’t even blink before saying, “I just use laxatives.”

I’ve always thought of bulimia as deadly. Even in the Amy Winehouse documentary, they said she didn’t die from insane amounts of drugs and alcohol, but from the insane amount of hurling she did after she ate any food. I honestly didn’t think someone could make it to 40 as a bulimic, so clearly I am wrong, and so is that Lifetime movie my health teacher showed me in high school.

Back to Rhode Island. This season, there’s Rulla, whose husband is actively having an affair. She puts on a brave face and talks about it openly with her friends. For now, she wants to stay with him.

Then there’s Ashley, who was on the bachelor, super shy, incredibly sweet, and famously saved herself for marriage. A 29 year old virgin, remarkable. Now she’s married with two toddlers and is drowning in early motherhood. In one scene at the park, her baby is on her hip, swatting her in the face, while her toddler is yelling that he had to pee. And what did she do? The most real thing possible: she ignores her kids, keeps talking to her friend about how stressed she is and how her marriage is kind of trash, and then starts to cry.

Next is Alicia (YASSSS), who’s been engaged to her baby daddy for nine years but refuses to marry the mother fucker becasue he wants a prenup that would leave her with nothing. Her gaggle of Italian aunts come over, and they swap stories about their ex-husbands. One aunt says, “My husband wandered.”

Her accent is so thick, no one understands what the hell she said, but because they’re a group of women bull-shitting, everyone just nods knowingly. Thinking her aunt said “wanted,” Alicia asks, “What did he want?” Eventually, the aunt annunciates, and the misunderstanding clears up.

Later that night, I found myself laughing out loud thinking about that scene while watching TV with my kids. I tried explaining it to them. They didn’t find it as funny as I did, but they laughed a little.

Eventually, Alicia role-plays confronting her partner about the prenup. She points out that she does everything; laundry, cooking, cleaning and raising their kid. Rulla, who is very smart, gives her excellent talking points to bring to the table. 

The rest of the cast is dealing with serious rumors, which they either deny or fully lean into.There’s almost no shame about any of it. When Rosie says she took sick leave and decided not to return to work, it cuts to Kelsey, who straight up says, “Rosie didn’t go back to her job because she fucked her boss and got fired.”

That’s the level of honesty we’re getting. The absolute best part of it, there is no shame. If Rulla wants to stay together with her low-down, cheating, dog of a husband, it's ok. We get it. If she decides to leave him, it’s ok too. If Kelsey is conflicted about leaving her rich ass sugar daddy who has a different girlfriend staying in each of his houses, we get it. Jobs are hard, and right now she is living like damn royalty.

The master dame of the group is Liz, who looks like she could point her finger and summon a lighting bolt. She’s the most witchy woman I’ve ever seen, in the best way. She owns multiple weed stores, lives in a waterfront mansion, got wasted and lost her shit at her husband’s birthday party, and, in her fifties, has mother fucking six-pack abs. 

What makes this franchise feel so fresh is how real the storylines are, and how little shame is attached to them. It feels almost feminist: women showing their messy, complicated lives without being punished for it.

I love the entire cast, even Rosie who is the principal shit-stirrer because she is so transparent about not wanting to have kids. In the last episode, when she tries her middle-school-level drama tactics, Alicia goes full gangster on her and caps it off with, “Welcome to fucking Rhode Island, bitch.”

Thank you. I feel very welcome and I love it!

*I might have thrown extra fucks into some of these "quotes."

IntolerIdiots

“Hey lactose Intoleridiots, guess what I’m eating?” Kiki shouted as she came down the hallway to my room. G and I were sitting on the bed, and we looked over and saw her dangling a slice of delicious smoked gouda.

G’s brows furrowed and his nostrils flared. “Well at least I can run a mile without throwing up!” he yelled at her.

Her face shifted to anger too. 

“Can we please just chill?” I interjected, trying to keep this from blowing up into a weird screaming match that diffuses in two minutes, where they both move on completely unaffected, but I’m left with an adrenaline spike.

G went non-dairy because of stomach aches. An elimination diet. But it doesn’t seem to be working. It might be psychosomatic, maybe from stress he’s under at school. His life doesn’t seem that stressful to me, but I’m only seeing part of his world when he’s at home and I stare adoringly at him while he tells me about his great ideas.

We broke the non-dairy stretch last Sunday when we went to Dairy Queen for Blizzards. Geoffrey insisted on bringing Max the dog, even though driving down the freeway at 65 mph causes him to freeze up and drool like a faucet.

When we got home, I backed up the driveway to charge the car. Geoffrey and Max got out, and I saw a gross puddle of drool on the back seat. I pulled fast-food napkins out of the middle compartment and leaned back awkwardly to wipe it up. While sweeping my arm around, my leg extended and pushed onto the gas petal. 

The car shot back full speed, right into the side of the garage.

I pulled forward and got out to assess the damage. When I looked at the garage, I felt really sad. It was such a stupid mistake, and now a pain in the ass to deal with. 

Then I looked at G, who was completely horrified. 

“I was behind the car,” he said. “I jumped out of the way.”

All of a sudden, the realization of what could have happened came crashing down on me, and I was overcome with a combination of fear and relief. It was actually a fucking blessing that I ran into the house.

I gave him a hug, and the dog ran around our feet. 

G added, “You could have run over Max too.”

“I’d be able to forgive myself for running over the dog.” I said, squeezing him harder.

I went into the house, laid down, and closed my eyes. It kept replaying over and over in my mind. I saw my foot, unexplainably pushing on the gas petal. I saw my son jumping out of the way. Imagining if he hadn’t made my entire body seize, and I felt sick.

When I told my sister it was replaying in my mind and I was having visceral reactions, she said, “It’s going to take at least three months for that to stop.”

Then she told me about how her son fell into a pool while they were on vacation. He didn’t know how to swim, and they weren’t paying attention for a minute. Her daughter noticed, and my sister jumped in and saved his life. 

It was years ago, but she told me she still thinks about it, just not as much. For at least three months afterward, it was all she thought about. She even had nightmares reliving it.

We both agreed that Geoffrey was protected by angels. Lacey and I have joked that our poor guardian angels were overworked during our going out and getting blacked-out drunk days, and that they expect more from us now than ever. 

Obviously, it's a joke, because they swooped in here and saved my son from me. Oh my gosh. I guess we don’t have to assume our angels are working part-time just because we aren’t living reckless lives anymore.

Lying there, trying to process what just happened, I asked God what he was trying to tell me. Decoding messages shouldn’t be so hard. Did I have too many things on my mind? Was I distracted by meaningless thoughts? Maybe it had to do with the kids getting their report cards that week, and I was bummed that they didn’t get great grades.

It didn’t take long, maybe ten minutes from almost running my son over, to realize that I really don’t give a shit if he gets C’s. 

I wouldn’t love him more if he got all A’s. I'll keep encouraging him to do better, but I’m not going to shame him for not having a passion for managing five Google Classroom calendars. 

If I see running my car into the garage as orchestrated, if my son was never actually going to get hurt, and it was simply a moment meant to remind me to always value him for who he is, then there’s no reason to look so far into the future and worry about how a seventh-grade report card will impact a person at 25.

Inherently, I know this is true, and I’m not sure why I got so worried when I saw their grades weren’t perfect. This moment could be a stepping stone to ten years from now, but it isn’t determining an outcome. Everything is malleable. 

Except dairy intolerance. 

And who knows, I could be totally overthinking all of this. The message could have simply been: when you’re having stomach problems, do not go to the high priestess of dairy, The Dairy Queen, to indulge.

Radiance

 

I was walking out of the math building on campus, heading to teach a class, when I saw a very fashionable guy sitting on a bench. The sun was beaming down on him. His sunglasses, vintage leather trench coat, and worn bell bottoms made him a standout. I gave him a big smile, and he said to me, “I love your radiance.”

I was flattered and had to come up with a quick reply because I was caught in a stream of people on the move. I said, “I love… you.”

I was immediately embarrassed to have blurted this out to a stranger. I probably should have said, I love your radiance too. Greatness recognizes greatness. It’s only the second week of the semester, so I’m still looking good at school. My hair is curled, and I’m wearing cute outfits I plan in the morning while I do my rowing machine and watch psychic Tyler Henry TV shows.

It’s delightful to be back on campus, and in Northern California, we are having the best winter of my entire time living here. (In case it matters, I do live above the fogline.) January was all sunshine and 60-degree days. Today, February 6, the heart of shit-winter, it is sunny and 72 degrees. I went on a seven mile walk-run, and am basking under these sun beams on my couch right now.

The greater Sacramento area was due this glorious weather. The last five winters have felt we were on the receiving end of Zeus’ golden shower. Not a light sprinkle, rain fell from the sky like a damn waterfall for months.

The last few Februarys, I was in the depths of seasonal depression, but I haven’t had to contend with that this year. I know I’m in a seriously good mood because I walk the hills of my neighborhood staring at the trees, flowers, birds and clouds in awe. When I notice the radiance of the tall green pine trees against a sky-blue backdrop, I know I’m not depressed. It’s just one of those things that I know about myself, like the “ON AIR” light flipping on at a radio station.

If I won the lottery, I don’t think I would change one thing about my life. I’d just pay for a lawn service, a cleaning person, and I’d doordash all our meals from Mendocino Farms. That's it.

I could work on my social life, but I wouldn’t put too much pressure on that because I’m noticing the green on blue. I’d keep that in mind if the radiance ever starts to fade.

I read this little Instagram article about a Japanese man who rents himself out as a “do nothing” friend. He makes a decent living, and in most of the accompanying pictures he’s just sitting next to a client while they both stare at their phones.

I thought about how I could start a business like that. I’d be the madam, and I’d rent out my siblings for phone calls. Each one offers a different specialty.

My older brother only likes to talk about big topics; religion, politics, health. He doesn’t want to discuss people unless they’re the author of a book. My older sister is the opposite: she only wants to talk about people, and the juicier the gossip, the better. Tell her about the coworker with camel toe or bad breath, and she’ll tell you about the person she works with who won’t shut up about their divorce and blows up the bathroom. My little sister can only talk for five-minute stretches. She will hang up on you the second she pulls into whatever parking lot she’s in for her kids’ activities. My younger brother is the Tony Robbins of the group. Come at him with life goals and he’ll be incredibly encouraging, but he’s very into waking up at 4:30 am to be successful and thinks of new-age manifestation and vision boards as lazy wishful thinking.

As the madam, I wouldn’t be expected to take calls, but if I did, my interests would be weird dreams (the sleeping kind), psychics, ghost stories, and Real Housewives.

I have a lot of weird dreams, and I love to share them with my kids. The other morning, I burst into Kiki’s room, and said, “I dreamed there were six-foot corn on the cobs leaning against the wall! Isn’t that amazing?”

Sometimes it makes them smile. Every morning I ask if they had any dreams, and they usually say no. But the other day I walked in my daughter’s room and she said, “I had a dream you were a lesbian.”

I laughed, and sighed, “I really should give men one more shot. I’ll be coming at it with the best version of myself.” 

If she weren’t fourteen, I would have added, They drive me crazy, but that d*** is pretty important. I also like how they can move furniture.

Like I said earlier, I’m having a weather-induced upswing and can’t think of how I’d really improve my life right now. So I’m not in a rush to find a furniture-moving man. I guess I’m in a lesbian relationship with myself.

I’m doing all right, I’ve got all these do-nothing friends that I don't even have to pay for. My older sister has a shopping addiction, and has challenged herself to not shop for the month of February. I decided I'd join her. My last hurrah was at Marshall’s with my daughter. We got Starbucks first and took our time wandering through every department. I can’t really afford a shopping addiction, so by the time we get to the registers, we have to choose our favorite items and abandon the rest of the cart.

As we passed the suitcases, I saw a toddler sitting in the front of a cart. His mom was chatting with someone. He looked right at me, and an enormous smile spread across his face. He started waving. I looked around and confirmed, yes, it was me this beautiful child had decided to say hello to. I smiled back and waved.

This made him freeze. His eyes got huge, and he hid his face in the crook of his elbow. Kiki and I moved into the yoga mat and water bottle section, and when I turned back, there he was again, laughing, smiling, and waving at me. I thought maybe I was crazy and there was someone behind me, but no. It was just me. Once again, I smiled and waved. Once again, he reacted like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

I found Kiki and said, “Girl, I think there’s a very happy and friendly spirit that's hanging around me. You should see this little kid over here…”

She was holding up two phone cases, one light blue and one was a gray-blue. She ignored me completely and asked, “Which phone case should I get?”

Although I love her radiance, I don’t think I can rent her out as a “do nothing” friend just yet.

Picking Up the Check

 

Last night, Geoffrey and I went to dinner at a steakhouse to celebrate Christmas and New Years. We split a ribeye and ordered two side dishes that each contained a stick of butter. When we asked for the check, the waiter came back and said, “Your bill has been taken care of.”

I looked at him like he was speaking gibberish, and asked him to repeat. He had a smile, and said, “Someone paid your check.”

G and I looked at each other in disbelief, and we had to triple check that we heard the waiter correct. I said, "That's never happened… I feel like I should give you a hug!” 

Then the waiter opened his arms and I gave him a hug. G and I called my parents after we got in the car to tell them about this crazy event. My mom said, “Maybe they thought you were famous.”

But my dad chimed in, “Then they’d definitely make her pay.”

My mom has an investigative eye, she’s read every Sue Grafton book, and concluded I have a secret admirer. She told me to go on my dating app, maybe someone recognized me and sent me a message. I explained to her I haven’t been on the app in two weeks because it is dreadfully boring, but she convinced me, and when I went on it was exactly the same as when I left. 

The two people I’m messaging are likely con artists because we have yet to meet up in person even though I’ve brought it up multiple times. There was a third person, but I had to stop messaging him because the lack of direction was highly suspicious. I asked him some questions, and he wrote back, “Walk outside and look at the sky, that is something to write about.”

All I said was, “You’re a bot, right? Just a head’s up, this message is coming across as neurodivergent and not poetic. I have no idea WTF you are talking about. You lack focus.”

He wrote back, “I am just a tech CEO trying to raise my kids.”

I replied, “Sure you are.”

G and I went out to the special dinner because the week before I took his sister to Florida and she really got the royal treatment living an only child life. We went snorkeling, parasailing and to an alligator rescue. G was supposed to go, but the morning we flew out, he started barfing and his dad picked him up. So G had a staycation with his father, and he was perfectly happy to miss out on the plane ride.

I don’t like flying, it is very stressful. You can’t sit with your kids anymore, unless you want to pay an additional $150 a ticket for each leg of the trip, it would add up to a first class ticket price. The airline upcharges you for everything, where pretty soon, they’ll charge you for a seat belt and the emergency oxygen mask. Then there is all the anxiety of hoping there aren’t delays where you need to talk to a ticket counter person who has the personality of a jail warden.

Even though I festered in the stress of airplane travel, everything went smoothly. On the flight from Fort Lauderdale to Houston, I sat next to a woman who was going to Vegas with her husband and two kids in their early twenties. They were scattered around the plane because that's how you fly these days. She was chatty, and after I got her bio she pulled a Cuban sandwich out of her bag and started to eat. She said thanks for talking to her during takeoff because it gives her anxiety. I put in my headphones and started a show on my phone, but then she kept talking.

She was seriously stressed out by one of her children. As she took bites from her delicious looking sandwich, and swept crumbs from her chest, she explained that her daughter just graduated college, was going to med school in the fall and her boyfriend is the son of a construction empire, rich as fuck and on track to tack over the company. Then she explained how her son was in and out of rehab, changing his major again, and continues to choose a girlfriend that rips his heart from his chest and jumps up and down on it.

I felt bad for the son, who was sitting behind Kiki, and could have been overhearing his mom’s oversharing. All I said to try and console her was that lots of people fuck up in their early twenties. Sometimes a flip will just switch when they realize they want to have a family. 

She was trying to find some kind of understanding as to why her two kids turned out so different. She said, “Always have your kids’ friends hang out at your house.”

That was what she boiled it down to. Her daughter and her friends hung out at her house, but the son would go hang out at his friends’ house. I wish I would have told her she was doing a good job. The fact that she was putting her kid in rehab, and concerned, was worth a big pat on the back. Having a mother that can worry herself sick is actually really helpful for a young adult going through some major fuck ups.

I could have told her that my mom lighting a candle, praying for her kids, could really throw one of us into a rock bottom, but those rock bottoms turn out to be as fortuitous as winning the lottery. In retrospect, I realize I didn’t say much to the woman. She talked and talked, just getting everything off her mind.

Like a rock bottom, the best part of traveling is the joy I feel when I get back home. It is like opening a Christmas gift full of glistening jewelry. Since being home, I washed the walls, and did a major thinning out of stuff. G and I changed light bulbs and we spackled in the hole in the wall from the front door handle. This is actually my son’s idea of vacation. He loves being with his pets and keeping up the house. I raised my kids the same but they are wildly different. I think about the lady on the plane, the advice she offered so carefully. Some value is invisible until you live with it for a while, like a bill you never see, already taken care of.

Alien Angels

 

Being abducted by aliens seems like the worst thing imaginable. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemies, if I had enemies. My life is not eventful enough to have enemies, or maybe I’m making my enemies steam with indignation because I don’t even see them.

Why am I starting this blog like I’m high? I’m not high, I’ve just been reading a lot about alien abductions, which all sound awful, not a single good report to be seen. Someone gets abducted after being put in a weakened state, and then wakes up hours later with their clothes on in a different fashion; undies inside out, and socks on their hands. 

It is like waking up from a horrific blackout where the imagination is left to run wild with all the atrocities your body has been subject to. The only consolation is being part of a chosen few and hoping that you’ve made our species proud. 

My fascination with alien abduction began after I read Shirley MacLaine’s Out on a Limb, which chronicles her fascination with modern mysticism. Her life is one of exceptional freedom, and she has all the time in the world to consider aliens acting as angels and reliving patterns of past lives.

I had Botox last week, and the nurse I saw is a beautiful Russian woman who never tries to upsell me beauty treatments, even though I know it's part of her job, because she knows it will hurt my feelings. It’s recommended to get Botox four times a year, but it costs too much, so I settle for twice a year. My wrinkles don't get that bad because I don't have a husband to scowl at.

When I saw my nurse, I asked her how she’s been. She started with, “I have sad news,” and then told me her husband died in a car accident, and she is now a widow with three young boys.

This was the most unexpected answer imaginable, and my heart immediately broke for her. She is strong and capable, and will give her children a good life, but everything will be so hard now. It will be decades before she gets to spend an entire day staring at the ceiling and delighting in every thought that pops into her mind. She’ll be too busy to even think beyond what will be tomorrow’s dinner.

If there are interventionist alien angels, now is the time to go help this woman.

MacLaine also dives into channelers, kooky people who are overtaken by ancient entities when given a couple of hundred dollars. After reading the book, I wasted an hour watching a documentary on Netflix called Rebel Royals about a princess from Norway who married a self-proclaimed shaman from Los Angeles. Both of these people felt they had some type of superpower, to do what, I am not sure, but it allowed them to feel more informed and knowledgeable about the world. It could be their way of coping with having no actual job or doing any meaningful work.

In the trailer for the doc, the shaman leads the rebellious royals in a type of mediation that is so insanely cartoonish. He starts by announcing, “Now I’m going to sing a song in an ancient way,” and then says, “dang, dang, dang, dang, dang, dang, …”

It’s painfully embarrassing to watch.

My kids have been away with their dad for the last week, and when I sit at home alone for a couple of days, I start to have overworked thoughts. Unlike MacLaine, whose philosophy is strengthened in her solitude, the longer I am alone, the philosophical scaffolding in my mind starts to weaken, and I wonder if the devil is manipulating the media. 

These are not comforting thoughts, but if I continue to read about people abducted by aliens, it makes me grateful for my reality. My children are back today, so I'll be happy to only have the capacity to think about tonight's dinner for the next few weeks.

Get With The Times

Thanksgiving is coming up, and the delicious feast is on my mind. It’s on my little nephew’s mind too, who told the doctor at his last wellness check-up that his mother only makes him dinner twice a year, on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

My sister, stunned by her son’s comment, tried to defend herself, explaining that dinner is casual because she drives four kids around to their activities all afternoon and evening. The doctor is used to kids saying crazy shit, and seeing that my nephew is well-fed, moved on.

My nephew may grow up to be someone who sets the table every night and has meals in courses. Life is too busy for that at this moment. I only cook dinner when my kids are home; otherwise, I eat miscellaneous nonsense until I’m full. When my kids are home, my favorite recipes are from the Children’s Quick and Easy Cookbook, which my daughter got for Christmas five years ago. This is the most basic level of cooking, but I still have to follow the steps like I’m making a bomb.

My miscellaneous snacking dinners were seriously shameful after Halloween. My kids said I could have all their Milk Duds. I told them the secret to eating Milk Duds is cradling them in your palm right before melting, so the inside gets soft; otherwise, you’ll pull out a tooth. They said Milk Duds were for old people, and I told them they’re wrong; old people like butterscotch hard candies. My kids have no fucking clue what a butterscotch hard candy is.

Similarly, when my older sister was at work, she was complaining that her kids’ Halloween candy lacked the variety of years past. She told her coworker, “There wasn’t any Baby Ruth, Paydays, or 100 Grands.”

Her coworker looked her dead in the eyes and asked, “How old are you?”

After my sister told me, I figured we're riding our next wave away from youth. Sometimes my kids explain to me their jargon, and it makes sense, like chopped, but other times the definition does not compute, like when my daughter tried to explain ship to me. I asked them, “Does anyone still say Badonkadonk?”

It was a definite no, and they asked what it meant, and I said, “Big ol’ butt.”

My daughter said, “Oh, we call that big back now.”

I had to correct her, “Badonkadonk was a compliment, big back doesn’t sound nice.”

Later that week, came more proof I was slipping out of the loop. My daughter and I were walking through Barnes and Noble’s, and I saw a Sabrina Carpenter album where she is on all fours and being pulled by her long blonde hair by a man in a business suit. I pointed to it and exclaimed, “What the hell kind of shit is this?”

My daughter explained there’s a second version of the album because this one caused such a stir. I said, “Why is she acting like it's the caveman times, or the early 2000s. This is shameful.”

My daughter just shrugged her shoulders. More of an indication of my pulling away from my youth, in a steamship, waving goodbye to it, as it stands on the shore, and I move further and further away. 

But I return to the kitchen and flip open the pages of the Children’s Quick and Easy Cookbook to prepare dinner.

Tuesday Side Hustle

On Tuesdays, I don’t go to campus to teach, so I sub in my local school district. It didn’t take long to figure out that some jobs are better than others. The pay is lowest at elementary schools because being around young children is so enjoyable, and they use that as leverage. Middle school needs to be avoided at all costs. High schools are really the best places to go, especially if it is a teacher who only teaches juniors and seniors. 

On high school days, after I take attendance, I read them the brief email from their teacher informing them of the work they have to do, then they do it, or they don’t. They don’t make a scene about sitting on their phone or chatting with their friends. They exist without feeling any need to exert control over the situation.

Then, I spend the entire day doing all the prep work I have for the week, grading quizzes and tests, and writing lecture notes. I only have to look up to allow students to go to the bathroom.

A couple of Tuesdays ago, I saw a high school and accepted the job. When I showed up, it was the music class. I can’t even snap to a beat, so I just assumed the lesson plan would be, let them do whatever they want. 

It was not, but an amazing student made himself available from the start. He must have been Mormon because he was wearing a BYU sweatshirt; I’m assuming the college he’d attend the next year. The kid took over the class and conducted the marching band practice for their upcoming competition. I couldn’t find a desk for the teacher, so I sat in a plastic chair behind him, pulled out my work, and did it on my lap. I didn’t even have to look up to let the kids go to the bathroom, as this kid took care of that for me, too.

I sent my sister an audio text because I was on the front lines of a 50-piece band, blasting their instruments. It was four hours of horns, drums, and other instruments coming right at me. I can’t really put this sound into words, but my closest attempt is, “BWWWWAAAAAA. WRRRRRRRAAAA, BRRRAAAAA.”

The next week, I saw a position at a high school, so I clicked accept, and when I showed up, I realized it was special ed. I don’t mind subbing special ed; those jobs are paid the highest rate, and there are almost as many aides in the classroom as there are students, but I can’t get any of my work done. It is very busy, yet incredibly slow, like sitting with a toddler. The moment I go from vigilant to relaxed, there could be a catastrophe, like a student suddenly bolting from the classroom.

I had only subbed in elementary school special ed before, and seeing these kids as almost adults was new. All of the boys were bigger than me, huge, and they were happy and loved having a hug, but their strength was clocked. It made me almost nervous. 

The aides in these classrooms are some of the nicest people I have ever met. When a diaper needs to be changed, I tend to make myself invisible, shrinking behind whatever kid I’m sitting next to, but they don’t mind. When a kid gets one inch from their face, and stares deep into their eyes, they don’t have a moment of thought, like What the hell does this kid see in me right now? They gently push the kid back and say, “Respect my space.”

After eight hours, I am completely exhausted and need to have a shower and a nap. When the parents picked up the kids at the end of the day, I thought of the lifetime they have had of this exhaustion. It makes me wonder what they think when regular people go around announcing they are autistic. Their kids won’t ever have a job, or an apartment, or a sweatshirt announcing their future college. They probably can’t ever go on vacation; they’d go to bed worried sick that their kid will wander off in the middle of the night and get in a fatal accident.

When I go to bed, I recite a prayer I’ve said since middle school, with additions tacked on over the years. It’s become a running list. The latest additions: for my kids to be good students, for us to win the lotto, and for my daughter to be nice to me. They sound ridiculous, but they fit the times.

This morning, when I woke up my daughter, before her usual snarl, I said, “I am just a girl, standing in front of her daughter, asking her to love her.”

She actually smiled. It was a small victory, but a major one in setting the tone of our daily race to leave the house on time.

Later, while watching Real Housewives of Salt Lake City, a clip of Angie’s teenage daughter being an asshole came on. In her confessional, Angie said, “Having a teenager is hard. I dedicated my life to this person, and now they are mean to me. I can’t take it personally, though. I won’t let it hurt my ego.” 

Anyone who watches Real Housewives knows nothing can damage these women’s egos, but I still felt comforted by her words. The comfort deepened later in the week when I listened to an old Louie Theroux podcast with Sharon Stone. 

She was candid as she spoke about her life and career, and I loved her honest perspective. When she talked about raising three sons, she nailed it, “They want you there, but not there. I was stapled to the couch, but I couldn’t say anything. They need me there, like a scratching post.”

I’m getting great parenting advice from beautiful women, so in their honor, I decided to revisit Sharon Stone’s films. I love Total Recall, it’s one of the best movies ever made, but I hadn’t seen much else. I started with Basic Instinct, a great psychological thriller. My biggest takeaway, story aside, was: Oh yeah… sex is a thing.

The reminder didn’t trigger a prayer. My prayer these days is kind of the opposite of St. Augustine's famous request for delayed chastity. I guess I could tack on, “Lord make me promiscuous… but not yet.”

I have a really important role right now as a silent whipping girl. I’m taking it seriously, and I’m grateful for it. 

I’ll tack that gratitude onto my prayer list, right before “win the lotto.”