Stalker

When I was a Senior, I had a stalker. To understand why, we have to blame my mother. Oh, thank you, Freud. You see, my mother taught me that if any boy worked up the courage to ask a girl out, she owed it to him to say ‘yes’ at least once. In my mother’s world, you never knew who would “stick”. So, a Junior boy, 2 feet taller than me and vaguely creepy, asked me out. We’ll call him Greg because that was his name and if you know him, you should stay away from him. Anyway, I agreed to meet him after school for something, ice cream or something else that barely passed for a date in my go-dancing-until-2:00 AM life. After the date, I repeatedly turned him down for other dates. I tried to be nice about it, which meant I never said, “No, you’re weird.”

As I grew progressively less responsive to him, he became increasingly more bizarre. We had one class together, the last hour of the day. I sat in the back and he sat in the first row. Each class period, he would turn backwards in his seat to stare at me. Our teacher often reprimanded him, but he refused to stop.

Then, he began showing up at my house at random hours. He’d hang out by the door if I didn’t let him in. And again, because I didn’t want to be a “bitch”, I didn’t tell him that he made my skin crawl, that I thought he was a freak, that he scared me.

He started following me around the school, hanging out after class or after my meetings to walk me to my car. Or he’d stand across the hall from my locker, staring at me. When I changed lockers, he found my new one and hovered around it.

Things got scarier. He began calling my private phone at home. He’d call dozens of times in a row. If I answered, he’d tell me how I made him want to kill himself. My response after 2 months of this? “Go ahead, freak.” If I didn’t answer, he’d keep calling, or he’d leave messages of him crying or singing Beatles songs or just breathing. Once, he told me to turn the TV on to a certain channel. The program was about men who had committed violent acts in the name of love. I started forwarding my phone at night to the local police station. I started hanging out with the teacher after my last class of the day so I would be with her until I thought Greg’s bus had gone. I started surrounding myself with the track team, the football team--any large male group that happened to be around after school.

Then, one day, I left my teacher’s side just a bit too soon. Greg was waiting in the hall. And he was the only other person in the hall. I ran to the girls’ room, thinking I could out-wait him. After 10 minutes, I walked out to find him still there. I ran down the long hall toward the outside doors and my car. A male friend waiting for practice to start saw me running and asked if everything was okay. I nodded because I didn’t know how to explain what was going on. I’d tried to befriend a loony guy and had no idea how to stop get out of it.

I reached my car and started to unlock the driver’s side. Greg walked around to the passenger side. I got in, locked the door, and started the car. Greg got in front of the car, between the car and the parking lot exit. In that moment, I understood how to stop him. I stepped on the gas. Hard. I intended to hit him--I wanted to hit him. He jumped out of the way, and I narrowly avoided another car. I drove up on the sidewalk and exited the parking lot.

After a sleepless night, I made a decision. Sitting by my locker before school, I saw him walk toward me. I jumped up, ran to him, shoved him against the wall and screamed, “You don’t look at me! You don’t talk to me! You don’t call me! You don’t talk to my friends! You don’t even breathe the same air I breathe! If I ever, ever, ever see you again, I will kill you!” Although my legs were shaking and we had gathered a crowd around us, I believe that I wanted him to make a move. I think, now, that I would have tried to kill him if he hadn’t backed down.

So much for not liking confrontations.

We still had one class together, but from that day on, he sat with his back to me and never once turned around. He never called, he never came over, he never mentioned my name to anyone I knew.

So, here’s what I tell my kids. Be nice to people. Look for people who are scared or lonely or in need and invite them into your life. But if you feel weird, if they give you the creeps or if you’re uncomfortable, listen to those feelings first and forget the whole “draw a circle that draws them in” crap. And I tell them that if they have those feelings, they should tell me. And if I’m too stupid to listen, they should tell their Dad or their Grandparents or their Aunts--just keep telling until some adult gets smart and listens. And when my kids are older, I will tell them what Gavin de Becker says. Bitch means "Boys, I'm Taking Control Here."

Don't Sweat It

I have proof! You don’t actually have to exercise in order to improve your health or lose weight. I read about it in a most helpful study done by the Department of Psychology at Harvard (that’s pronounced Hah-vahd). They split 84 female room attendants into 2 groups. One group was informed that cleaning hotel rooms is good cardio. The other group didn’t get any such happy information. The first group “showed a decrease in weight, blood pressure, body fat, waist-to-hip ration, and body mass index” without any change in actual behavior.

Oooh, how do I love this study!

But the question arises: if I know it’s a study, and I know it’s in my head, will the effect be diminished?

Hal says that one possibility is that the first group did their work with more vigor and vim because they perceived themselves to be working out. I say, “Quite raining on my parade, male-being. Just because you can drive by a gym and lose weight does not mean that the rest of us wouldn’t like an easier way to drop the jiggle.”

I think I’ll try the study in my own life. I’ll believe that raising the spoon to my lips is good cardio (ice cream weighs quite a bit, you know.) And I know I’ll lose weight. I think it will probably work as well as sleeping on my Algebra book worked. I’m a math whiz, as proven by the “what’s 4 times 8?” query I just lobbed to the oldest child.

I wonder if the same idea works with height? I’ve always believed I was meant to be more Heidi Klum, less Danny Devito.

Clean Epitome

“I’m gooder than you at folding blankets. Am I?” The 4 year old brags and then asks for approval all in one breath.

“What do you think?” I throw back at her.

“Yes. I’m gooder than you. I’m gooder than you at folding burp clothes, too.”

“Wonderful,” I reply. In my old age, here’s what I’ve finally figured out: brag all you want about how good you are, as long as you’re the one doing the work. Fold clothes better than me, change the diapers better than me, feed rice cereal to the baby better than me. Heck, you can detail the car and make the dinner. What do I care? I have no self esteem wrapped up in those things anymore.

As a young wife and mother, it was different. I cared deeply that everyone acknowledge what a wonderful homemaker I had become. This, after having been a pig of a teenager. I wanted neon signs and spotlights. And now? I just want someone else to do the work, please.

Here’s another thing I’ve learned. I can clean my house better and in less time than anyone I can possibly hire.

Our housecleaner, bless her heart, does a decent job but not up to my mother’s standards. But I can’t fire her. I can’t even call the agency and ask them to send someone else. First of all, because I took a long, hard look at myself and discovered that I am, after all, a perfectionist (you should whisper that part). Somehow, after spending my teen years screaming obscenities at the woman, I have become my mother, complete with the bright red moles, but that’s another blog. So, going back to my “at least you’re doing the work and I’m not” attitude, having a cleaner is light-years better than not having one.

And the second reason I’ll be stuck with this particular housekeeper for the rest of my life? She unburdens herself to me every time she comes over. I try to scoot out the door as quickly as possible, usually throwing the check at her as she’s coming up the path, but occasionally she corners me. Last week she told me that she’s selling her husband’s ancestral home, which they have been living in, because she and her husband are 2 months behind in their mortgage and need to downgrade to a small apartment. Ah, Dr. Phil, how do you fire someone after that? There she was, drinking her Pepsi and eating her Pop Tart, and, with a smile mind you, telling me that she’s very excited because she’ll be able to get out of debt. Oh, they may have to let the bank take the house, but at least they wouldn’t have to make the payments any more. Well, Pollyanna, I just don’t have the heart to oust you after that. Machiavelli I am not, although my kids may think otherwise.

In summary, my four year old is gooder than me at cleaning but I can’t hire her because of those silly child labor laws. The housecleaner is not gooder than me, but I can’t fire her because a half-baked job is better than no job and, besides, I can’t be responsible for sending her and her husband to the streets. Oh, my life is such a difficult one.

Sick

The baby is sleeping on the counter in the bathroom. I put him there to steam some of the snot from his system, and thought, for the very first time, that Houston does have some bonuses. Never had to create my own rainforest there.

Another bonus: my skin-sensitive child never had welts across the backs of her knees from rubbing dry skin against dry skin.

Last night, as I sat, slumped and teary-eyed, on the floor of my daughters‘ bedroom, listening to them hack and scratch and blow their sick little noses, I felt completely out of control. I can’t heal the skin of the middle girl, although I’ve tried vitamin E and olive oils and Cortizone and Cetaphil and Neosporin and and and... I can’t make the virus go away, I can’t even protect the littlest one, whose whole body shakes and his eyes water and he reaches out for me every time he coughs. I couldn’t be patient enough with the oldest one when she begged me to just tell her the answer to her math homework because she panics and convinces herself that she’s never going to understand it and she’s sick and doesn’t want to move but also can’t stand the thought of missing one more day of school because that’s 12 pages of make-up work to do for each day missed. And the littlest girl just wants to cuddle but I’ve got to make the dinner and suction the baby’s nose and fill the humidifiers and I’ve got to do it all on 2 1/2 hours of sleep and gee, I’m not particularly nice at times like that but I am amazingly good at feeling sorry for myself.

But the morning happens, no matter how bad the night. And this morning, the oldest girl bounces down and hugs me, and the 2 middle girls curl up with each other on the couch and I realize that I’ve got 10 minutes and so I curl up with them and we read a story together and everything is kisses and loves and sunshine. And the doctor will give my baby medicine and he’ll get better and never be sick in elementary because he will have gone through every virus before reaching the age of 2. So even though today, also, is a 2 hours of sleep day, I feel hopeful. I think we’ll try Dreft again to see if that helps the walking-puss-ball and maybe we’ll have toast and hot cocoa for dinner tonight because we deserve it.

Raising Janice Joplin

The oldest child, Janice Joplin wanna-be, refuses to go to reading anymore. At this point in my life, I’m thinking about supporting her in this decision. It isn’t as though she’s going to fall behind in reading. It isn’t as though she’s learned a single thing in reading for the past 2 years. And if 5th grade isn’t a good time to learn about how tough life can be when you don’t play The Game, then exactly when should I let her learn?

The other part of me says I should have Talk Number 7 with the child. That’s the talk about working with difficult people, being respectful even with people who aren’t, recognizing authority for what it is: Authority. But I don’t feel like having The Talk. I feel like being my true anarchist self. I feel like saying, “Right on, sister! Stand up against The Man.” I feel like telling her that if she can’t get the administration to hear her words, then the next logical step is civil disobedience.

Watching the news report of the protests in California when university fees were raised, a thought kept going through my mind. (Just one thought--I can no longer think on multiple levels.) I thought: Did we learn nothing from Berkley, folks? Drop and Cover, you idiots! That’s the talk those parents should have had with their kids before they sent them to college: when involved in a protest, as soon as you see the officer whip out his billy club, drop to your “not gonna hurt you, man” criss-cross-applesauce position and COVER YOUR HEAD!! But am I ready to have that particular talk with the oldest child of my loins? Am I ready to pull out a picture diorama of Berkley in the ’60’s?

So, I guess I have to have some sort of deep discussion with the child. Question is, will it be the Suck it Up And Get To Work talk, or the Cover Your Head When They Come At You With A Stick talk?

Walking With Dinosaurs

“That elephant that came after the dinosaurs, well, it was stinked.”

“Don’t you mean ‘extinct’?”

“No. I mean ‘stinked’. It was stinky.”

“Is it also extinct?”

“No. Just stinked.”

Let that be a lesson to you. Your life can be reduced to just this: how you smell. Which may explain why I got, count them, 6 smelly lotions this year for Christmas. I guess it’s time to throw away the smelly lotions I got 2 years ago, the ones still sitting in the closet. When I die, when I’m extinct, my children will fight over the shelves and shelves of lotion, all of which they bought for me. I should write the year on the containers with indelible marker so that when paleontologists dig through the rubble they’ll be able to date this particular layer. “Oh, that’s the Bath and Body Works Era. You can tell by the striking level of flower and sandlewood scent coming from the archaic plastic tubes imbedded in the living quarters. Women would slather that over their bodies in an effort to blend into their surroundings so that predators would be unable to distinguish them from the flora and fauna.”

Back to the point, though, the 4 year old doesn’t believe anything I say if she thinks it contradicts what she heard her preschool teacher say. I dread the arachnid unit because for weeks after I have a headache from trying to convince said child that not every black spider in the basement is a Black Widow. In fact, one year I made the child call her teacher to ask her if she’d like to come to our house and identify the bug. Unfortunately, the teacher didn’t answer the phone. She was probably killing a spider.

This preschool teacher is god-like in the eyes of my children. Part of me is incredibly grateful that they feel so much love for and from this woman. The other part of me wants to scream, “Stretch marks! Cellulite! Sleepless nights, vomit, math homework! I’m the one who loves you best!” Maybe instead of getting all psycho codependent on the kids, I’ll just turn them over to Best Beloved Teacher. She can convince the 10 year old to shower, the 7 year old to use conditioner and the 4 year old that a “soak” doesn’t count as a cleansing experience. In fact, that may be my best idea ever. If the preschool teacher can prevent my kids from becoming “stinked” she’ll have earned my undying gratitude.

If She Read This Blog

Your teachers lied to you. They told you there’s no such thing as a stupid question. I’m setting the record straight by saying that there are, indeed, very stupid questions.

For example, when your mother is in the middle of telling you, in her trying-to-be-calm voice that your behavior in the furniture store, where she went to buy bar stools after you and your friends destroyed the old ones, that your behavior, (deep cleansing breath to keep from screaming) when you were crawling under the bathroom stalls, on your belly, in a nasty germ swarming public bathroom, that that behavior is unacceptable and gross and will probably give you some Ebola type virus that no one has a cure for. And you asked, in the middle of your mother’s fury, if you could listen to the radio, well, child, that was one stupid question. You probably figured it out when your mother said, “That’s a really stupid question.” But, if that didn’t clue you in, maybe the entire week without any sort of media, no screen at all, if you want to be entertained write a letter apologizing to me and see how much fun that is, maybe that sort of week will let you know that not only was the stall-crawling wrong, but so was the question.

Another stupid question? How about the “Can I have dessert now” question that came right after you threw away the poached salmon and baked kale I made for dinner? Your mother’s response to that question? “How long have you lived in this house, now? And who do you think your mother is?” Dessert, indeed. I’ll show you dessert, right after you fish the fish out of the garbage and eat it, kid.

Those are just two examples of the many stupid questions I could hold up as poster-children of stupid questions. But, I’m going to Yoga myself into a higher realm of existence where enlightened souls have answers, not questions.