Say It Ain't So

Now that my girls are back in school and one of them is driving, I have found myself with more time on my hands. I am still doing all of the things, the cooking and errand running and laundry and appointments and so on, but my afternoon commute has been reduced on most days to a five minute drop off or pick up. On Mondays, I am the only one home until dinner time. I haven’t been alone in the afternoon in over fifteen years.

Rather than slip into a daytime television or vodka habit or allow myself to just sit and do nothing as if that were even an option, I decided to look into doing more freelance writing. I’ve been writing on a freelance basis for a long time, really, but most of the time the work found me. It’s very different when you are looking for the work.

I’ve spent a number of hours researching and applying on various websites, and I have to say, the prospects are pretty dismal. While fast food workers in more progressive cities are demanding and getting up to $15 an hour, a lot of freelance writers are looking at significantly less than that. The standards for these two lines of work are pretty different. I’m not saying that fast food workers shouldn’t make a living wage. I am just concerned when unskilled work is valued more than an education and years of experience in allegedly desirable communication skills.

But I digress. I polished up my resume a bit and attempted to put myself out there. Looking for work online is considerably less fun than watching porn or cat videos. It’s tedious; it’s time consuming; and it’s also disheartening. Even if you find a website that looks reputable, you can’t count on the job postings also being legitimate. The amount of legwork, er, sitting on my ass on my laptop work, well, it’s just like looking for any other job. Which means it sucks.

On one website, which requires you to bid for jobs against other desperately underpaid people who rather work on the couch in sweats, I received an invitation to apply for a one-time assignment. The pay was, seriously, $10, but there was a chance it would lead to more work. What the hell, I thought.

Here’s the funny part: it was for voice-over work. Some firm based out of Canada was looking for native North Americans/United States citizens to do voice work on a short-term project. I filled out the online proposal expressing my interest and skills and blah blah blah.

Honestly, I never considered doing voice work before. I had one of those pesky speech impediments when I was a kid, one that required school speech therapy for a brief and traumatic period of time. I still have a handful of words that I never seemed to master. I cannot distinguish between warm and worm. According to my children, I also pronounce doll and pants in a way that makes them pee a little because they laugh so hard. That is all in addition to the fact that I speak through my nose in a sort of nasally whiny way. But ten bucks is ten bucks, am I right?

Two days later, I received a message that I had been selected for the next stage of interview. I had another form to complete, and then I needed to submit a voice sample. I was pleasantly surprised because I figured they must have received thousands of bids from people who want to earn $10 for doing nothing.

The form was pretty standard, lines for my name, phone number, email, the usual questions. The next question had to do with the region of country where I either was born or had lived for a significant period of time. It listed specific states, Nebraska up to Minnesota, not more than seven or eight places I would never live. I was a bit concerned because I live in the Southeast, but I don’t have much of an accent. I thought maybe they too found Midwestern accents irritating and wanted to make sure no candidate was from that area.

The voice recording involved me stating my name, my continent of origin, and reciting a nursery rhyme. I practiced it a few times, trying to go slowly and enunciate clearly.  Peter. Piper. Picked. A. Peck. Of. Pickled. Peppers. I was concerned I would say pimpled peckers, which is generally how I say it in my head. Bravely, I recorded it on my laptop and submitted my interview form.

Secretly, I was a little excited.

Two days later, I got my rejection letter. It wasn’t anything personal. They just wanted people from those seven states with the bad Midwestern accents. They wanted only people who sounded like Frances McDormand in Fargo.

What I still don’t understand is why they didn’t make that part of the criteria? Why not emphasize on the initial job posting, hey, we are looking for people who for some ungodly reason reside in the middle of the country?

They didn’t, though, and now I’m mildly sad because rejection never feels good. Also, I’m mildly sad that I’m sad over a ten dollar job that over five hundred people also wanted. Who have I become?

Alas, this is what freelance really looks like. I don’t know who these people are who earn $25 to $50 an hour, but that average must include Stephen King’s hourly rate. The rest of us are duking it out over less than a venti pumpkin spice latte at Starbucks, which, incidentally, also pays more an hour.

Walkabout

Let’s travel, shall we, back to the beginning of the summer, for another installment of what I did for my summer vacation.

When we left off, my family and I had arrived and spent our first partial day in London. We managed to take in a good bit of the airport, a wee bit of the natural history museum, and a flaky bit of Harrods’ pastries.

Our first full day in London became a quest to fulfill my husband’s desire of recreating a walk from our Lonely Planet guide. It promised to be a meandering sightseeing stroll that would take us from one side of the Thames to the other. No one in my family is very skilled in the art of map reading, although only one of us is woman enough to admit it, so we weren’t entirely sure how long the walk would be, especially since there were many sights to see along the way.

We began our morning at the Tower of London. The Tower is where the crown jewels are housed, guarded by a few of the Queen’s own guards, with their festive red coats and tall furry hats. The rest of the staff are Yeoman Warders, but we know them as Beefeaters. They too wore fabulous uniforms, but my family disappointed me by refusing to pose with any of them.  I kept pointed out that we were tourists and therefore it was not only acceptable to do touristy things, it was expected of us, but they were having none of that.

The tour book recommended taking a tour led by a beefeater, which began just behind the main gate, in what at one time was probably some moat or reservoir of blood and disembodied heads. What they don’t tell you is you wait with three hundred of your closest strangers to begin the tour. All those people with their selfie sticks and annoying children kicked up my autism, so we skipped the informative portion of the tourist attraction and opted for the more confused and less organized system of going the wrong way and trying to avoid the crowds.

Spoiler alert: the Tower doesn’t have as much torture as you might hope for, unless you count that tour at the beginning.  It is perfectly fascinating in other ways. Medieval graffiti carved on the stone walls. A collection of body armor for both man and horse.  Ravens, which are big AF and not crows at all, so suck it, you dumb Yanks.  What the Tower doesn’t have is good feng shui, air conditioning, or gin.  Keep that in mind when you plan your visit.

After we had exhausted ourselves and grabbed a snack at the Tower café, we, along with a million other out of towners, crossed the Tower Bridge to get to the other side. The Bridge is an engineering marvel and really cool in a Disney sort of way. It’s also not that old, and also not that bridge. London Bridge is actually in Arizona, in case you forgot. The Tower Bridge is probably the one you thought was London Bridge, so that’s good news, I suppose.

When we crossed over the Thames, we started to sort of lose our way, because none of us can read a map, whether it’s in a book, on a giant piece of folded glossy paper, or Google maps on an iPhone. We worked our way up and down some streets, passing fish and chips shops which all boasted the best, but really, is that possible? Afternoon fatigue and jet lag settled down on us, a fishing net of bitch and moan.  

 

 

Finally, under a portion of a railway bridge, we found the perfect oasis: the Borough Market. If you like to eat food, look at food, smell food, shop for food, or just be anywhere near food, Borough Market is the place for you. It’s loosely divided into categories, the breads and pastries, meats and game and fish, dairy and cheeses, teas and flours and spices. We wandered, overwhelmed by the freshness and the plenty.  Everything, even the things we don’t like, looked amazing and fascinating. Paella pans bigger than my kitchen table. Indian street food that met food safety standards. Chocolates made by magical elven hands. I wanted to sing and dance with a large umbrella and pick up Scotch eggs and mushroom logs to show someone, anyone, and then I wanted to eat until I exploded.

If you go to London, you should check it out. It’s pretty cool.

We found a small spot in a church courtyard next door and ate the few snacks we purchased with the money we could figure out. Around us Londoners did the same, all the while smoking their fancy European cigarettes and kicking at their annoying pigeons like people do in any big city. We took a quick detour through the church, which turned out to be Southwark Cathedral, to see an ancient Greek artifact that had just been discovered during some renovation work. We also needed to use the bathroom. Thanks, Church of England!

The walk, much like this blog, wasn’t yet over. We strolled down garbage scented alleys and back up to the water’s edge, stopping to marvel at the patch of modern buildings, an interesting juxtaposition to the older and more iconic landmarks of the London skyline.  Our feet hurt. We paused to rest in front of the historic Globe theatre. Check! Seen it!

 

 

I secretly delighted that no one wanted to see any ‘Speare in its natural habitat.

Finally, we reached the end of the walk and my husband’s main goal for the day, the Tate Modern Gallery. Located in the South Bank area in what used to be a power station, the Tate appeals to his aesthetic. He’s really into old power stations and modern art. It was perfect for him.

If you want to experience a modern art gallery to its fullest, I recommend taking two teenage girls who have been walking all day.

It’s good to know that my daughters are not into neither power stations nor modern art. We made the best of it, which isn’t true. What we made is fun, fun of all of it. Of the hexagon paper cutouts taped to the wall, the weird ropey dreadlock thing hanging from the ceiling, of the endless nipples and penises and vaginas and different combinations thereof. Most artworks elicited one of two responses from my girls: “I made that in preschool” or “How many more naked people do we have to look at?” It was, in a word, delightful. 

My husband opted to appreciate the art on his own. My children found every available seat and took selfies of their pissy faces or pictures of detritus on the floor. Art, they said.

 

I want to thank the person who created that walk for the Lonely Planet guide. Anyone who thinks one day should be spent going from early English monarchy to awesome food under a bridge to modern art in a power house has a real spirit of adventure.

It was another perfect day in London.

It's a Magic Number

They say bad things always happen in threes. I don’t know who they are, but they were right this past week. My sister, LM, would chalk it up to Mercury being in retrograde. That sounds like a bunch of astrological hokum to some people, but the fact that it’s referenced in the Farmer’s Almanac offers it a hint of legitimacy. Also, the Almanac states that when mercury does go in retrograde, it lasts about three weeks, and it happens three times a year. All these threes.

1. Last week, I took my cat Yoko to the vet. It was time for her annual exam, but she also had a lump on her side, close to her abdomen, that worried me. She isn’t getting any younger, and she isn’t a fan of the vet, so the idea of regular medical supervision is off the table. I still wanted to know what the lump was, even if I doubted doing anything about it.

Yoko demonstrated why at the vet’s office. After attacking him and refusing to leave the relative safety of her carrier, she ripped two claws out fighting the exam. She didn’t just leave a couple of broken fingernails on the table; she also left smears of blood all over, even on the old towel they threw over her head. The towel is supposed to somehow make her feel more secure, but it just pisses her off. At least it provides some protection for the vet from her angry and sharp parts.

After fighting to get her on the scale and back on the table and then of course to figure out the source of all the blood, the vet had to examine her for that lump. PSA to all of you cat owners: Cats don’t get lumps. It’s not their thing. If your cat has a lump, you should get it checked out, if you are feeling brave enough.  He palpated her and she resisted. The towel fell off and had to be repositioned. The more he felt around her, the more agitated she became, and still, he couldn’t locate the lump.

So, long story short: Yoko’s lump turned out to be a blocked mammary gland. He was able to take care of it, but I won’t go into how. I referred to it as her nipple zit, and he requested that I not tell anyone that, nor should I let anyone know he is our vet.  This is the much abbreviated version of this story. You’re welcome.

Her twenty minute vet exam took over an hour and a half. I don’t think either of us has recovered yet.

2. My young driver, the teen, had her first fender bender. I shan’t go into too much detail about this one either, as it is a long way from resolution.

I knew how she felt.  I had a minor accident the first day I drove my car to school when I was seventeen. It is a rite of passage, unfortunately.

She is fine. The car is drivable. It wasn’t her fault. I don’t think either of us has recovered yet.

3. Sunday morning, I was fussing at my husband. He was lying in bed and asked when S, our younger daughter, needed to be picked up from a slumber party. I told him he was asking the question wrong. He needed to ask what time he needed to pick up S from her slumber party. Then I walked into the chaise lounge in my bedroom and smashed my toe with such force and speed I heard a loud pop.

I knew that sensation well. I have broken almost all of my toes over the past twenty something years, some of them more than once. This time it was my right pinky toe. It may be the third time I have broken the right pinky. It has all blended together by this point, a mashup of painful, swollen, bruised toes. When am I going to learn?

I threw myself face down on the carpet and cursed a blue streak. Blue streak is also an apt description of the current state of my right pinky toe.

 

My husband said “karma” to me from the bed. I got up and hobbled down the stairs to ice my foot.

You don’t realize the importance of the pinky toe until it is out of commission. It might not do much but cry Whee! Whee! Whee! all the way home, until you try fitting it into any shoe. It’s currently the size of the big toe on the other side of the foot. Shoes are not constructed to accommodate two big toes. Taping it to its neighbor is not yet manageable, due to the swelling. I won’t be fitting this toe into a spin shoe or balancing in any yoga poses for at least a few days. This toe is not up for a brisk walk in the neighborhood or the joy of my favorite dance class. Needless to say, I have not recovered yet.

If bad things happen in threes, then what exactly is the number of good things?

Dress to Kill

School began two weeks ago, and I am already tired of fighting about clothes.

My 15 year old daughter, the older and least responsible of my two children, has been pushing my buttons over what to wear to school in the mornings. She refuses to pick out her clothing the night before, no matter how many times I ask her to or threaten to do it myself. Instead, she waits until the moment she should be getting in the car to decide on something questionable at best, making her late and causing an argument at the same time. We both start the day in a bad mood.

I wish I understood how this game is played.

Before school started, we did the whole back to school shopping thing. She has pretty high standards in attire, which I indulge due to a combination of Jewish guilt and a childhood of wearing hand me downs or just going without. There was no such thing as back to school shopping in my childhood experience, so I admit, I overcompensate for my girls. I prefer things be on sale, but I understand that some jeans cost a hundred bucks, and I rationalize buying two pairs if they last the whole school year.

Despite the trips to Anthropologie and Lucky Jeans, my daughter claims, falsely, to have nothing to wear. Honestly, when you look at a lot of her clothes, her Birkenstocks, her ripped jeans, her oversized beige cardigan sweater, she looks like a wealthy homeless person.

What she does have, in addition to her Big Lebowski chic, is an entire wardrobe of summer only clothing, things that don’t follow the rather specific school dress code. The code involves things like no spaghetti straps and no shorts more than three inches above the knee and no yoga pants or leggings and no jeans with tears or shreds or rips and absolutely no midriff showing ever because bare stomachs are like windows to your vagina.  I don’t know if you have gone shopping for teenage girl clothing lately, but the only things available are specifically what the school prohibits.

I would like to point out that the dress code issue is primarily one for girls. The boys don’t have to worry about spaghetti straps or yoga pants or short shorts. They might have an issue with inappropriate graphic t-shirts or wearing loose pants too low, but other than that, they don’t generally get sent home for being a distraction. Not that there’s a double standard or anything.

What would solve this problem, in theory, are uniforms. If we went in the khaki pants and polo shirt direction, we might have the issue of mine is nicer than yours, but we wouldn’t have the problem of how short is too short in a dress.

The other morning was particularly rough.  At 7:30, the exact moment my daughter is supposed to back out of the driveway, she stood upstairs at the balcony overlooking the family room and said, “Does this look good?”  She was wearing an old stained white cami top, an unbuttoned chambray shirt, and a pair of pants that she got from a friend who outgrew them. They are somewhere between a yoga pant, a sweat pant, and a pajama pant, none of which meet the dress code.  I refer to them as her clown pants.

“It looks okay, I guess,” I said.

“That’s exactly what Dad said,” she groaned.

“Well, I guess the consensus is it’s an okay outfit. Do you know what time it is?” I asked.

“I’m going to be late and I have nothing to wear and you don’t like this,” she complained. “I wear shirts like this all the time. It’s no big deal.”

“I don’t care about the shirt, it’s more the clown pants I don’t like’, I said.” But I am not the one wearing them.”

“I guess I have to change,” she yelled as she ran back to her bedroom.

Five minutes later, at 7:35, she stomped down the stairs. This time she was wearing a short black dress with the same chambray shirt open on top. The dress was not three inches above her knees; it was about two inches below her butt cheeks. “I’ll probably get sent home for this,” she said.

“Then why did you put it on?” I asked her.

“It’s really short. I know I’ll get in trouble for it.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. I am pretty sure she was waiting for me to say it was fine or not to worry, which I was not about to do.

“I’m late and this is all I have,” she said loudly, not quite a scream, but almost.

“Why did you take off the clown pants?” I said.

“You didn’t like them, but they fit dress code,” she snapped.

“Well, I didn’t tell you to change. But I am now. You can’t wear that to school, so you better go change again. Why don’t you wear one of those short sleeved shirts I bought you a couple of weeks ago?”

“I don’t want to wear one today,” she said.

I just stared at her. “Sure am glad I took you shopping for things you could pick out and then reject,” I muttered.

“I don’t have time for this!” She finally reached the yelling stage.

“Make time for it,” I said. “Now. Go change into something that isn’t going to get you in-school suspension. I am not about to bring you a change of clothing because you wore something you know you shouldn’t.”

She stomped back up the stairs and slammed the door. I continued to eat my breakfast.

Five minutes later, at 7:40, she came barreling down the stairs. She had on the original cami with the chambray shirt and a pair of jeans.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I asked.

“Thanks a lot for ruining my morning and making me late,” she pouted as she grabbed her lunch box but left her water bottle on the counter.

“My morning isn’t exactly off to a good start either. Don’t forget your water bottle!” I said.

“I don’t have time to stop for it,” she said.

“But you have time to have a fight about it!” This time I yelled at her.

She slammed the door and left, leaving me to wonder how fast and careless she would drive. Did I mention she was fifteen? Fifteen year olds aren’t known for their ability to compartmentalize their emotions and focus on being safe or cautious.

When she was a little girl, she and I would spend time together every night before her bath and bedtime picking out an outfit for the next school day. She would lay it out, finding matching socks, maybe a hair ribbon, so she was all ready to learn bright and early the next day and look sharp while doing it. Now she is a few years away from a college freshman who sniffs the armpits of a t-shirt to see if it is clean enough.  

I blame the school dress code.

Care for a Sample?

I talk to my sister LM often, and when I do, I always seem to have what she calls “the story of the day.” She’s right about that; almost every day, some little thing happens that makes for good sharing with her but not really enough of an event to write in a blog post. She has been encouraging me to write more, but also to embrace the whole less is more thing. In other words, don’t wait until I have something momentous to share, just write.  Who knows, maybe I will post more often. Maybe I won’t. Maybe you will like it. Maybe I will too.

Today’s story of the day involves the dumber of my two cats, Moshe. Today, I called to schedule his annual exam because Moshe is a bit overdue in the rabies vaccine department. I am never too eager to take him to the vet. While I love my vet, Moshe hates him and puts up a fight that he saves especially for the annual exam. The rest of the year Moshe spends lounging and sleeping and overeating and purring loudly and even allowing us to carry his fifteen pounds around like a rag doll with never even an ounce of aggression. When he has to go to the vet, he turns into a vicious cat beast, hell bent on mayhem and destruction and physical harm, all so he can return to the overeating and sleeping part at home. We both hate the annual exam.

I spoke with the receptionist to schedule the visit. After we went through the calendar and found an agreeable date and time, she asked me to try to bring in a stool sample when we came for the appointment. For the cat, obviously. She said it wasn’t a big deal, but if he used a litter box, it would be easier to harvest one than if he goes outside to do his bizness. She actually used the word “harvest.”

Me: A stool sample? That’s a new one.
Her: You’ve never brought in a stool sample? We like to check for parasites.
Me:  No, I’ve never been asked to. He is an indoor cat, though, so wouldn’t his chances of having parasites be kind of small?
Her: You never know. It’s just easier to have a sample for cats by bringing it in. Dogs don’t mind so much if we obtain a sample during the exam.
Me: I can’t really blame him for that.

We shared a laugh, politely.

Me: Well, the problem is he shares the litter box with our other cat, so I don’t really know if I could be 100% sure it’s his.

This is not entirely true. He, like many boy cats, or boys in general, produces a stink unlike any other. He also likes to leave it unburied, so the smell can really permeate our air supply. 

Her: Oh, that would be fine even if it isn’t his. Chances would be good that if one of them has a parasite, they both would.
Me: Good to know. So here’s another question. I am new to the whole stool sample thing. How, um, fresh does it need to be?

I had an image of myself skulking around the entrance of one of our litter boxes, waiting with a Ziploc sandwich bag at the ready.

Her: Oh, it doesn’t need to be that fresh. It can even have litter stuck to it. You just don’t want it to be hard and dry.
Me: No, I suppose I don’t. Okay, well, I’ll do my best. We’ll see you next week with a small bag of crap.

I told my sister this story of my cat’s appointment and the stool sample discussion.  We went on to discuss further how ironic it is that cats love to show you their anuses, but you can forget about actually touching it in the name of veterinary medicine. I pointed out that they are kind of like strippers in that way. You can look all you want, but if you touch, you are going to need traction.

So that’s how the story of the day works. Because, when you think about it, isn’t every day full of shitty little stories?

Coexist Much?

Well, the kids have been back in school for less than a week, and already, religious intolerance is rearing its ugly head. Normally it takes a few weeks of getting to know each other before the teenagers let their true colors show, but when your true colors are patterned like a confederate flag, well, I guess you feel entitled to show them to everyone.

My family lives in the South, and like many southern communities, the majority of the residents in my town are church affiliated. Christianity here is bigger than college football, which is almost a religion of its own. And when I say Christianity, I really mean evangelicals, those lovely fundamentalists who feel the need to convert or condemn anyone who does not share their beliefs. They do an excellent job of indoctrinating their children with the righteousness and entitlement they feel that comes from their personal relationship with their lord and savior.

I’m not judging them. Everyone is free to believe and practice what feels right, as long as it doesn’t infringe on the next person’s set of beliefs. That’s where it gets a little hazy for some folks.

My younger daughter is in 8^th grade. She has been no stranger to the horrible comments lots of Jewish kids hear. Nothing makes the momma bear in me come out faster than having another kid tell mine that she is going to burn in hell because she is Jewish, but no matter how big the stink I make, another kid will step up to take a turn.  Since 8^th grade is her last year of middle school, most of the kids who know her already know she is a Jew and have shared their prophesy with her, leaving them free to aim it at someone else who isn’t white or Christian.

One of her good friends happens to be Muslim, and she began wearing a hijab this year. It was a very personal decision for her friend, who up til now had not covered her head even when her twin sister chose to a few years ago. These girls, who were born in the US and are therefore as American as the rednecks who harass them, have had to deal with terrorist jokes for their entire middle school experience. They have always risen above the comments and display a level of maturity and confidence that shows more about their religious beliefs then the so-called Christian students. One kid asked S’s friend why she started covering her head. She didn’t answer hi since it was none of his business, so he followed it up with asking if she was a Muslim. When she told him yes, he wanted to know if that meant she was from Islam. She looked at him with what I hope was as much judgment as he showed her and said, I was born right here in this city.

If it were me, I would have said yes. Yes, I am from Islam, you oblivious piece of crap. I happen to know for a fact that the seventh grade social studies classes were required to learn all the countries and maps of the world. I wonder where this future McDonald’s employee thinks Islam is located.

Meanwhile, over at the high school, my older daughter, E, was having her own religious experience. She has a much different approach to her Jewish identity than her sister. She doesn’t really give a shit what anyone thinks, and she is much less likely to be polite about it. Because she is less sensitive, she gets a lot more ribbing than her sister does, which she thinks is funny. Some of it comes from her friends but she gives it back as good as she gets it, so it’s all okay for the whole lot of them.

This week it wasn’t her one of her friends that was teasing her. Some dumb freshman, according to my sophomore child, was following her and another of her friends down the hall. They were having a conversation about the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur holidays next month, and the freshman behind her asked her if she ate Ramadan because she was Jewish. Let that sink in for a minute.

E gave him a look that should have made him throw himself off a rooftop, but instead, he continued to follow her down the hall shrieking “Ramadan” at her. Finally, she turned around and yelled, “Jesus Christ, would you cut it out?” The boy immediately stopped and was truly outraged. “You know,” he said, “that’s taking it too far. I was just messing with you, but you really shouldn’t say that. It’s offensive.”

She stared at him and then screamed,” Just shut the fuck up!” The hall erupted in great boisterous laughter because someone yelled the F word. He stopped following her, and that was the end of that.

Both my daughters still tell me stuff, and they each shared these stories with me. While they aren’t really the same at all, at the core they share the same level of ignorance. These aren’t little kids. These are kids who have had at least a small amount of book learning on world geography and different religions and what happens when we don’t accept and respect one another.  Do they pay absolutely no attention to what is presented to them in class? Do they watch no news at all, either on television or the internet? Is there no discussion of different cultures in their homes?

The answer to all of those is most likely no. Intolerance is easy when you surround yourself with your own kind. You go to school and church with white Christians. You wear your bracelet or your Forever 21 shirt with crosses all over it. You might have one black friend or know one smart Asian kid, but you don’t have them over to your house. If all you see is white and Christian, you expect the whole world to be just like you.  Well guess what, even in nineteen of the United States you are becoming a minority, never mind the rest of the world, so it might be time to rethink your position.

When I hear about people feeling their religious freedoms are being suppressed, it just infuriates me. There is no war on Christmas, but there is district testing on the high holy days. Nobody asks you if you are from Bethlehem because you are Christian, but my kids get asked all the time if they can say something in Jewish and if they come from Israel. There is no official religion in our country, yet our biggest holidays celebrate the birth and death of a guy who wasn’t even Christian!

Do me a favor and stop telling my daughters they are going to burn in hell, because guess what, we don’t believe in hell, so there.

Beach Bumming

I grew up going to the beach almost every Sunday. My family lived about a half hour away from the closest beach, and we would make a day of it, whether we all wanted to or not. The day involved a lot of sweating, a bite or two of a sandy hot peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a few pees in the ocean, and a hunt for sharks’ teeth before the sunburn claimed our tender young skin. We would swing by Dunkin Donuts on the way home, which my sisters and I would consume in front of the Wonderful World of Disney, post-bath, in our matching summer pajamas.

My beach experiences as an adult are very different from that of my childhood.  My husband got a steal on a tiny condo at a foreclosure auction, and we stay there several times a year.  The condo is in the same building we have been going to since we met, which means I have been going to the same beach for my entire adult life. While I still enjoy a good pee in the ocean, I don’t have to eat a sandy sandwich anymore. I don’t have to peel my sweaty legs off a burning pleather car seat.  If I get hot, I can take a break in the ocean, or in the pool, or in the sweet, sweet air conditioning of the condo while catching up on my Food Network or SpongeBob viewing.  And unlike my childhood, when I didn’t go back to the next Sunday, I can get up and go again and sit with a book day after day until my husband has to go back to work or my kids to school or I just get tired of relaxing. That usually takes about a week.

My point is, I am pretty much an expert at the beach. I have achieved master beach level. 

Lately, I have witnessed some inappropriate beach behavior, bad beach etiquette if you will, and I feel the need to share it. Obviously, none of these faux pas were committed by you, but perhaps by someone you know. Not every beach has lifeguards or other authority figures ensuring public safety, so it’s up to all of us to do the right thing. Here’s just a few, but by no means all:

·        Stop it with leaving your tent on the beach overnight. When you rent a condo, you aren’t also guaranteed a prime location on the beach. Unless you are at a resort and have reserved a cabana, you don’t get your own personal square of sand. The beach is public and first-come, first-serve.  You people who leave your tent up for a week, you are the very reason most beach towns have outlawed the practice. Luckily, our condo is in a county that still allows tent use in the summer because we own such a tent. It weighs about seventy five pounds. Every morning, my husband hikes through the dune path with that thing on his back, and we all help set it up so he can sit and rest his hernia. When our day on the beach is done, we help him close it and position it just so on his back before he treks it up to our condo. The tent isn’t in the same spot every day because we don’t own the beach, and neither do you, tent asshat. Why don’t you try a little motherfucking courtesy next time?

 

·       Let’s talk about music for a minute. You think the music you like is the best, don’t you? I am a big fan of alternative. I have a friend who would rather listen to heavy metal. His music aggravates my TMJ, and mine makes him start his period. We both can agree on one thing: we hate country.  Why is it that the country music fans always set up their beach party right next to mine? I don’t want to listen to some pseudo cowboy singing about drinking beer while I watch you down a suitcase of Milwaukee’s Best, which, by the way, isn’t good for you. Alcohol dehydrates you, idiot, and drinking more of it isn’t topping off your fluids. Too much beer is not a good reason to crank up the twang; there is no good reason. When I go to the beach, I want to hear the waves crashing on the shore. I want to hear the birds squawking at each other over an old crab leg. I might even like to hear a giggle or two coming from a sand castle construction site. What I don’t want to hear is some off key yokel warbling about Jesus loving your gun toting dog in the back of your honky tonk pick-up truck with your toothless one night stand. You are not in your double wide, so turn it the fuck down.

·       Let’s try to secure our belongings, shall we? I try to be a nice person, but after running after your Tommy Bahama umbrella and your five thousand empty Capri Suns that got picked up by a breeze, I am over you. If I get hit one more time by your wayward raft, I will claim it for my own. If you want to leave your Cheetos bags all over the place, at least have enough to share with the rest of us. Furthermore, the dunes are not your storage bin. They are, however, federally protected land that may just help our children still have beaches when they have children. Let’s stop putting that stack of beach chairs on the sea oats. You can tote them back to your car or condo at the end of the day along with that tent you leave up. Jesus, you sure are lazy.  

·       I shouldn’t even have to say this, but the sand on the beach is not your goddamned ash tray. I want to look for shark’s teeth without picking through the butts of your cancer sticks. It’s just gross. Put them in one of the plethora of beer cans you have scattered under your beach tent that you are leaving up all week. You are such a dick.

·       A friend of mine posted a photo on Facebook last week of some douchebag who was surf fishing in the middle of the day. Noon o’clock isn’t exactly when the fish are biting, if you know what I’m saying. You know what’s happening at noon? Families. Children are boogie boarding. Teenagers are losing their bikini bottoms while jumping over waves. Large older women are trying to enjoy their romance novels in their sand chairs while the waves lap at their toes. None of them is prepared for an ER visit to remove your old rusty fish hook. How’s about instead you fish during regular fishing hours, you know, when no one else is using the beach and the fish are actually biting. There is something that has been biting a lot lately in the middle of the day, and that’s sharks. In the past few months, over eighteen shark attacks have occurred within a hundred miles of where my condo is, during the day, in the surf, not even deep water. The sharks are there because it’s their home. Could you do us all a favor and not invite them in closer for a snack?

The last time I was at the beach, I saw one of those surf fishing assholes, and I got really irritated. I sat there under my tent, watching him cast his line and slowly reel it back, while all around him, children played along the water’s edge. I sat there in my chair and got pissed. PISSED. I went on and on to my bored daughter about how dangerous it is to surf fish with the hooks and the sharks and all, getting angrier and angrier, when all of a sudden, he got a bite! He turned that little crank thing that winds up the fishing line and pulled and turned and pulled and turned until finally, he reeled in his catch. A baby shark. My daughter and I, mid-judgment, hopped up out of our chairs and ran to the small group who surrounded him so we too could see the baby shark. It looked so cute and angry, like a baby alligator, only, you know, more sharky. I even got a picture of my daughter holding it. We headed back to our tent and chairs while the fisherman flung the shark in the water, not quite past the breakers.

That was cool, my daughter said.

Yeah, it was. Also stupid, I said to her. Asshole fisherman.

The beach is perfect as it is. You can’t improve on it, but you can ruin it for everyone else. Try to remember that you aren’t the king of the beach any more than you are the center of the universe, so let’s aim to leave our narcissism at home and instead bring along a little common sense and decency.

And if I see you again, man who surf fished from the safety of your tent while blaring your effing country crap on your knock-off Beats speaker, I will beat you to death with your beer bottles and bait, and that’s a promise. Unless, you catch a shark, or maybe a ray, because I like those too.