Jumping the Shark?

Go shark yourself.

No, that’s not a new thing, but rather the slogan for SyFy's answer to Shark Week,  the Discovery Channel's annual week of documentaries all about those popular and misunderstood man eaters of the deep.

Nothing nice is ever said between the words “go” and “yourself,” so I find it incredibly entertaining that a television event would opt for that catchphrase. I can see kids all across America telling their parents and teachers to go shark themselves this August. Many a proud moment and possible viral video is about to be born.

Shark Week is something my family looks forward to, even though, truth be told, the programming is boring as shit. A new show or two might be produced each year, but the rest is reruns of shark documentaries, some as old as my teenagers. Apparently there is not that much new to say about sharks. They still have a lot of teeth, they still mistake humans in wet suits for seals, they are still misaligned and misunderstood and majestic. And they are still fish. Is there anything new to cover about these mysterious creatures of the deep?

Maybe not for documentaries, but for the SyFy Channel, there is. After last year’s inexplicable success of the B movie, Sharknado, the sequel is ready. Yes, Sharknado 2: The Second One is premiering this week, and it promises to be, well, about the same as the last one. Mediocre actors will deliver poorly written lines while unrealistically computer animated sharks fly out of water spouts and devour everyone, leaving a river of fake blood down a movie set that vaguely resembles a major American city.

Don’t forget to mark your calendars. Think about it. Sharknado was the biggest shark thing to come out last summer, and it isn’t even officially part of Shark Week. Take that, real science.

SyFy knows a good thing when they see it. Sharknado got them a lot of attention, and this sequel is looking to live up to the hype. What SyFy lacks in quality programming, it makes up for in shameless self-promoting. In that regard, SyFy is beating the dead horse all week, pulling out such horrible movies such as Jersey Shore Shark Attack, Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus, and the one I watched this afternoon, 2-Headed Shark Attack.

Yes, I admit it. I didn’t sit and watch the entire horrendous piece of crap stench, but I did watch enough to speak semi-intelligently to the matter, if that is such a thing. Besides, it was either that or SpongeBob, and I have reached my lifetime maximum of SpongeBob’s laugh. Seriously, can’t my kids watch something else besides SpongeBob?

2-Headed Shark Attack is what it sounds like. A giant two headed shark eats everybody. There is a loose plot, kind of like how porn has a plot, in order to transition from money shot to money shot. The computer animation has got to be done by some kid in his parent’s basement on a Commodore 64, and the entire wardrobe is from the hoochie mama collection at Kmart. Let’s look a little closer at the story line, shall we?

The premise of this stinker was laid out in the first thirty seconds, something about a class full of hot students in bikinis and board shorts on a boat in the deep sea, learning to use sextants. After a couple of sextant jokes, a big dead shark slaps against the hull of the boat. The teacher of the class, whose acting career has really taken a downturn, tries to hook the dead shark against the boat, but it slips under and into the propellers, thus making a trail of chum that naturally attracts the rare two-headed great white shark. It shows up and starts eating everyone, sometimes in pairs, sometimes just sharing one victim.

 At one point, a small atoll is spotted, and all the hot students decide to head there for safety, after the big boat has also been attacked and damaged by the two headed shark. Somehow, this magical two headed sea beast is able to be in two places at once, thus terrorizing both the non-English speaking crew back at the boat and the hot students over on the island.

Carmen Electra, Dennis Rodman's ex-wife, is also in the movie. She is cast as a doctor, since that’s believable,  but instead of doing anything vaguely intelligent,  she spends most of the time lying around arching her back and working on her tan while slowly rubbing her thighs together. You know, like a real doctor would.  I can’t tell if she is sexy or constipated, but she must have a really good chiropractor.

After the token black guy gets eaten, because, surprise, he can’t swim, I turned off the movie. I don’t know exactly how it ends, but I imagine that Carmen arches her back while saving the day, since she is the only “star” of the whole production.

My real problem with these shark movies is that I can’t tell if they are good bad or just bad bad. Things that are good bad include s’mores, flip flops, county fairs, and Limp Bizkit. Things that are bad bad include yeast infections, freezer burned ice cream, Kenny G, and broken toes.  SyFy shark movies? Well, they could go either way.

Sharknado 2: The Second One premieres July 30. Hell yes, I am going to be watching, and I don’t care who knows it.

Commando in Chief

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the only difference between little kids and teenagers is two feet and ten years. The narcissism and horrible decision making skills are about the same, but the scale at which those traits are displayed is much larger with that added decade. Granted, the upside of the older ones is that they usually don’t crap in their pants. Also, they understand sarcasm, so they are not a total buzzkill, but you will still want to shake some sense into them from time to time.

Yesterday was one of those times. My oldest daughter, E, and I had hair appointments. I went for my usual extensive gray covering and small trim to freshen things up, while E needed to get the straw like split ends sheared off so her hair might once again look like hair. She wore a cute little white patterned sundress, spaghetti straps and a mid-thigh handkerchief hemline, and with her hair straight and shiny, she looked just beautiful.

After hours at the salon, we got home and went in the kitchen to grab a snack. She made a comment when I walked past her about not wearing any underwear, one I wish I could remember. I thought she was joking and lifted up the back of her dress. She wasn’t joking. Bare bottom. We both screamed.

” Stop it Mom. I’m naked under this!” she screamed.

“You went out in public like that? What were you thinking?” I yelled at her. “Oh my God, I sat in that chair after you. Other people are sitting in that chair right now!”

“I tucked my dress under me,” she said, “like this,” and showed me how a proper lady would smooth her skirt before sitting. Proper ladies also wear underwear, especially in public.

“Your dress isn’t long enough to do that.” I said.

“Yes, it is,” she said.

“Oh,yeah? Well, bend over and touch your toes. “

The toe touch is my mothering litmus test for all things too short. At some point, we are all going to drop our phones and have to bend over and pick it up. When that time comes, we might not remember to squat demurely. Also, in her current state, the demure squat wouldn’t do the trick any better than the toe touch.  Either way, someone is getting an eyeful.

When I was in junior high, which is what we called middle school in Florida, I knew a girl who was known for her mini-skirts and no panties combination. I am pretty sure that’s how she passed ninth grade. I never witnessed it myself, but the memory haunts me anyway.

My daughter turned her back to me and started to bend over. “Not like that!” I shouted. “Turn your back to the wall; I don’t want to see your lady parts!” She turned around and bent over again.

“Oh, ok,” she said, and stood up. “I see what you mean.”

“What were you thinking? Seriously, what is the thought process that gets you to making a decision like going out in a short dress without panties?”

“Be nice to me!” she said.

My husband poked his head in the kitchen. “She can say whatever she wants. You went out in public without panties. You have lost all grounds for complaining. You forfeited nice when you went out like that. ”

I love it when he has my back.

“So what were you thinking?” I asked again.

“This dress is thin. I didn’t want my panties to show.”

“But you were okay with your pubes showing? I don’t get it. I see your point though. If you don’t want your panties to show, then don’t wear any. Makes perfect sense.”

She rolled her eyes. Too bad she can’t get college credit for eye rolling. She would have a fucking Masters in eye rolling.

“Why couldn’t you just wear your light gray thong?” I asked.

Mind you, when I was fourteen, I didn’t have a light gray thong. I didn’t even have a thong. And I certainly wouldn’t have gone out without anything between my privates and the rest of the world. We had two options back then, briefs or bikinis. You wore whichever ones your mom bought you, or in my case, whichever ones your sisters didn’t destroy before handing them down to you. You didn’t think about panty lines. You just accepted that in certain outfits, your panties would show. It wasn’t embarrassing because everyone had panty lines. You weren’t all that special.

“Oh,” she said. “I forgot about those.”

“Or the peach colored ones. “

“But those would show,” she said.

“Not really, they are the same color as your ass. Your bare ass. Your bare naked in public ass,” I said.

“Just stop,” she said.

“She will stop when you put on panties,” my husband shouted from the other room.

My younger daughter, S, came bouncing down the stairs. “What’s going on? I heard yelling.”

I love that about my kids. They are so nosy. When I was a kid and I heard my mom yell, I would stay right where I was, out of the line of fire.  My kids are comfortable knowing that anger is not misplaced around these parts.

“None of your business,” E barked. Well, anger that isn’t misplaced by me.

“She isn’t wearing panties,” I told S. “She went out for her haircut without underwear. And she sat in the car and the shampoo chair and the hair cut chair all like that. Oh, and the waiting area couch. She has sat in many places.”

“Gross,” S said.

“Indeed,” I answered.

“Shut up,” E said.

“But what about your period?” S asked. S is on her period for the third time ever. It is her new frame of reference. It is the sun around which her whole world revolves.

“I’m not on my period. That’s you,” E snapped.

“But you still have discharge,” S said. Well, whispered. She whispered discharge, like one might whisper cancer or black.

“Don’t talk to me about my vagina!” E yelled at her.

…And scene.

E went upstairs to change her clothes, and maybe put on panties. She came back downstairs in a hoodie and sweatpants. Did I mention it was about 95 degrees outside?  Earlier, it was hot enough to skip panties, now she was covered up like the Taliban was coming over for dinner.  I just don’t understand.

What I do understand is why she screamed so loud when she sat on the hot leather seat of my car after our haircuts, and for that, I don't blame her.

Summertime Sadness

I went over to a friend’s house today with the kids. She has a beautiful home with a pool in the backyard and it’s all really lovely and clean and neat and I couldn’t help but feel like a big awkward loser lump by the time the hanging out was over. Not because she has two wonderful children and a husband who travels for work and is therefore not always around meddling, not because she is thinner than me or can get her hair perfectly straight. Not because seriously, her house is gorgeous and she has interests that she pursues and she can speak Hebrew and she is going to Hawaii in a few weeks. No, the reason I feel like a total turd when I compare myself to her is this:

She knows how to say no to her kids.

We sat talking while the kids played in the pool. Her teenaged son decided he was hungry and came up to the porch. He politely asked for some chips and guacamole. He even used the word please. And his mom said, “No.” She made it look so easy. He didn’t argue; he just walked back to the pool and jumped in.

It was the most amazing thing I have ever seen.

A little while later, when the urge for chips and guacamole didn’t let up, he did try again, and this time, she said, “You can have salsa.” He went in the house to get the bag of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa, and then he asked everyone if they would like to join him in a little nosh. No one did. He seemed a little saddened by it, but decided he would go ahead with satisfying his craving. My friend advised him to get a bowl for the salsa, then instructed him on the need for a napkin to clean up any spillage. She gently chided him when his salsa dipping threatened her clean white shirt. He didn’t roll his eyes at her or make some snide remark. He just did what she said and quietly ate his snack.

Never once did she get out of her seat. Her thirteen year old child was able to help himself, to eat, to clean up his mess, and to put away the food.

It was the second most amazing thing I have ever seen.

You see, I have this bad habit in the summertime. I don’t exactly hover over my daughters, but I do forget that I can say no. I also forget that they are capable of doing way more for themselves than they care to. So when one of them requests her scrambled eggs fluffier, the eggs are fluffier. If one of them only wants to do the 9:30 gym class she likes instead of the 8:30 one I like, then guess what time we get at the gym? Let me give you a hint; it’s not 8:25.

I actually spent twenty minutes trying to find a solution to the milk problem today. The teen wanted a bowl of cocoa crispies. The whole milk was too fatty. The almond milk was too watery. The one percent milk expired three days ago, so she couldn’t use that, mostly because neither of us was willing to do the sniff test. She insisted she would just choke down the cereal dry because we didn’t have the right kind of milk. After that, I spent another twenty minutes trying to understand why I wasted the first twenty minutes giving a shit about milk and also, why do we have so many dairy and non- dairy options?

What I’m trying to say is, it’s about halfway through the summer, and I have turned into a mushy pile of mom. I have lost what little spine I have. I am officially a pushover.

Do you remember when your kids were little and started talking, and you were so excited to understand what they said that you forgot you didn’t have to do what they said? I had a period of time like that with each of mine. I could finally make out sentences, such a major step up from screaming and crying and pointing and grunting. It turned out, when I finally stopped to think about what was going on, that they were just issuing constant demands to which I acquiesced, almost like negotiating with terrorists who don’t speak my language.  All I thought was, yea! I can understand you!  I should have been thinking, I liked you better when I didn’t know what a demanding prick you were.

I just found a wet beach towel draped over a chair in the kitchen, and I didn’t even yell at anyone. What is happening to me?

I would love to spend some time examining why I become a children’s doormat every July, but that kind of self-reflection takes energy I no longer have. Because in addition to waiting on my kids like some underpaid hotel server, I also fall into the trap that I don’t have to do anything either. I keep forgetting that I am not on summer vacation. Adults don’t get a summer break. People who work outside of the home are well aware of this fact, and every summer they scramble to find activities or child care to fill the hours normally occupied by school. Stay at home moms, on the other hand, find that those few precious moments of solitude are gone, not to be seen again for almost three months.  It’s more than a little disorienting.

When my daughters were young, I didn’t want them to get bored at home with me, so I planned all sorts of summer fun. I called it Camp Mom, and while I found it exhausting, it was still educational and magical and stimulating and all those things that you want summer to be with your kids. Now, they are both basically teenagers. They want to sleep late. They want to sit in their rooms and text and watch Netflix, until you decide you need to go somewhere or do something. Then they need to you drive them to so and so’s house or take them to the store for more maxi pads or figure out the milk problem. Naptime is still inconsistent, and the magic is gone. No, they don’t want to try a new kind of food or learn about a different country or go to a museum. They don’t want to go swimming for the same reason you don’t; it’s too hot outside and it messes up their hair.  They are too old for day camp and the free ten o’clock movie and too young for jobs and driving.

Question: when does school start?

Answer (from every mom): Not soon enough.

Somehow, my friend hasn’t given in to the summertime blues. She has maintained her personhood. I want to be like her. Maybe I will get that right by next summer.