School Daze

I picked up my daughter, S, from elementary school the other day, and after she settled into her seat and took control of the radio, I asked her how the day went.

It is a ritual we have, one from which I should break free but always forget somehow when I see her face as she approaches the car. I know how the day went from the look upon her face, so asking her is superfluous. I should try a more focused but open ended approach, like what’s the weirdest thing that happened in the cafeteria, or who cried today in class. If I see a frown when she opens the door, though, I ask anyway, how was your day? She provides only two answers to this question: good or okay. Okay means that before we pull into the driveway, she will be crying, pushed to her breaking point by the struggles and tribulations of fifth grade.

Lucky, the other day she approached the car with a big smile on her face. “Good day, I see,” I said to her.

“Someone got married to a chocolate chip today at recess,” she said, and giggled.

“Did you say chocolate chip?” I asked.

“Yes, a fourth grade girl. It was a really big deal. She had been planning it all week.”

So many questions. Where to begin?

“Why was there a chocolate chip on the playground?” I asked. It seemed like a good place to start.

“She brought it from home. Some of the girls in her class were even bridesmaids. She wore a really fancy dress even.”

Did this child’s mother wonder why she was so dressed up for school? Oh wait, it was picture day. Duh. Clever move, bride of chocolate chip.

“Well, um, was it a beautiful ceremony?”

“It was lovely,” she said, smiling. “But the fourth grade boys made fun of her and made her cry.”

“I could see how a group of boys would tease her about that,” I commented.

“Wait, it gets worse. One of the boys ate her chocolate chip.”

“He ate her husband? That’s horrible, I guess. Was he tasty?”

S giggled. “But the girl was all upset.”

I liked how she didn’t use the girl’s name, as if to protect her anonymity.

“I’m sure she was. That was a very short marriage. Plus, she’s awfully young to be a widow.”

“Yeah, she cried and all the other girls yelled at the boy and then their teacher came over.”

“Well, what did she say?”

“The girl told her about the wedding and the boy eating a chocolate chip, but she said she didn’t even know how to punish him for that. So they all kind of walked away.”

“That’s a pretty weird story,” I told her. “Anything else interesting happen? Did you start a new unit in social studies?”

“Yes,” she said. “We are learning about the Dirty Thirties.”

I choked on my own spit. “Excuse me?”

“The Dirty Thirties. You know, the Great Depression, and the Dust Bowl and stuff. That must be why they call it that,” she said.

I had to Google the Dirty Thirties when we got home. I didn’t believe that was a common expression that should be taught to elementary school children. But it turns out I was wrong. It might be Ken Burns’ fault; his documentary on the Dust Bowl referred to that time period as such, even though I and most people would think it was more about finding a way to make getting older sound sexier. But still, when S said it, I saw it more as “Drrrrty” and less about dust clouds. At least she didn’t say she was learning about cougars or twinks or trannies or anything.

Wait a minute, she did learn about “tran,” when she had a unit on stems in her reading class. When she studied all the stems, she wanted me to give examples of the stems in words. I kept forgetting she was more familiar with “transcontinental” than she was with “transsexual.” I did my best to contain myself.  I don’t do much better when they cover the solar system. Is there an adult alive who doesn’t at least smile inside when they talk about Uranus?

I’m going to miss the elementary school years. Next year, S will be in middle school, and her innocence will be figuratively stripped from her. She will know all the bad words and see some shit go down. Hell, she will see a police officer every day, one with a real gun who isn’t afraid to use it. She will see kids fight and cuss and make out and all the things I still can’t believe go on in a school in a nice area of town. So if the whole damn fourth grade wants to marry chocolate chips, I will be more than happy to drop off a bag of Nestle Chocolate Morsels. I’ll even throw in a case of Sugar Babies so they can all start families.

Dirty Thirties. Sheesh. Make this growing up thing slow down.

Bye Bye Birdie

I’m so tired of the haters of the world complaining about how horrible cats are. Ooh, they’re aloof and distant. Wah, they aren’t like dogs. Sob, they’re filthy disease carriers who make everyone and their unborn babies sick.  Boo, they are killing the songbirds of America. Well, cats might be standoffish, stubborn, and germ-ridden, but they aren’t the only danger to your backyard birds.

Yesterday, while I was preparing a delicious, healthy, and organic dinner for my family, I glanced out the window to the backyard and saw a squirrel eating something that did not look like an acorn. I stopped what I was doing and walked up to the window, along with Yoko, one of my cats. She hopped on the window sill and stared at the squirrel too. I watched him intently, as did Yoko, trying to figure out what he ate so voraciously.  Turns out it was a bird, limply dangling from his jaws as he gnawed its lifeless body. He twitched a bit, the squirrel, not the bird, before scampering up the tree to a perch, where he held the bird between his little squirrel hands and chowed down on that thing like a plate of ribs.

Why do things like this always happen when I am home alone, well, with just the cats? Late afternoon, no one is home, and the zombie apocalypse has begun in my back yard, starting with squirrels. Brains, brains, he must have been thinking, as he cracked open that bird’s skull with his powerful rodent teeth.

It’s not like this is the first time it’s happened. Well, maybe the first time I witnessed a squirrel eating a bird, but I have seen a chipmunk actually drag a still living bird from the patio into the yard to finish it off. What the fuck is going on in my back yard? Squirrels and chipmunks eating birds. Are all the animals back there rabid, or do they just enjoy some tasty wings? Maybe I should put out some celery and ranch dressing.

Most people think that squirrels are annoying because they eat all the bird seed put out in feeders, but I bet you didn’t worry about them eating the actual birds. One time, my sister LM found a dead squirrel inside a tube shaped bird feeder in her back yard. She felt badly for it, stuck in there trying to eat its fill of seed before it couldn’t find its way back out of the tube, got stuck, and died. Maybe, just maybe, that conniving little fucker was trying to pass himself off as so much bird seed. His fur was roughly the same color as millet and sunflower seeds, so it was actually a pretty good disguise. Perhaps his gluttony led to his death.

You know what’s a great appetite suppressant? Watching a squirrel eat a bird in your back yard. At least, for me it was. Yoko, on the other hand, looked like a starving child outside of a fancy restaurant. Being an indoor kitty, she eats the same dry food day in and day out, with the occasional bite of turkey or scrambled egg to add a little excitement to her otherwise dull life. And outside her window was the feline equivalent of a turducken being made before her eyes. Seed and insects inside of a bird inside of a squirrel? That’s some good eating, she must have been thinking.

 

The squirrel stopped a few times to climb higher in the tree, still holding the dead bird tight in its mouth so it could eat through the feathers to the soft parts inside. His squirrel mouth had a red ring around it; think little kids and spaghetti, or zombies.  And just like that, he had his fill, and dropped the bird carcass onto my patio, where most of it landed on a lounge chair, the ground below littered with bird bits and pieces.  Who the hell was going to clean that up, I wondered, then went back to making dinner. Did I mention it was vegetarian?

Today I found out who was going to clean it up. The squirrel. It came back to finish off the job. It started with a wing, then found the rest of the head, and finally it got the nuts, er, balls, to climb atop the lounge chair and eat the torso. I sat still in front of the window to watch the horror, and I swear that squirrel looked me in the eye. You’re next, he told me telepathically.  Then he hopped back on the tree with the corpse and ate it all.

 

Of course, I had to Google that shit. Apparently, squirrels are omnivorous. Much like my husband, squirrels can eat vegetarian only so long before they have a hankering for a thick, juicy steak, um, bird. At least I can rest easy, knowing that I don’t need to get the whole family tested for rabies. What I want to see is a hawk swoop in and eat that squirrel, then whatever eats a hawk to eat it, and so on. The circle of life, right in my own backyard.  If that doesn’t make for some lovely dinner entertainment, I don’t know what does.  Please pass the salad.

Or Would You Rather Be a Fish?

Have you ever really watched a bird do its bird stuff? I’m watching one right now, outside my office window, and let me tell you, that’s all kind of messed up.

First of all, you think you’ve got anxiety? Try being a bird. Maybe not a big scary fucker like a condor or vulture or something, but just an ordinary song bird, one that is brown with a round little head, so nondescript it could just be called Anybird. It has tiny beady eyes that are constantly scanning, its head turning practically 360 degrees to make sure danger isn’t around every corner. Anybird also hops around a lot, because a moving target is much harder to hit. Hop, flit, hop, scan, scan, turn, hop, hop, flit. Stay still already, Anybird. Jesus, you’re making me nervous too.

Anybird has a lot to make it anxious, what with cats and other big birds lurking about, ready to swoop in stealthily and bite off its head. I saw a chipmunk do that once in my backyard. A bird had stupidly flown into my kitchen window and was lying on the ground, stunned, when a crazy ass chipmunk came out of nowhere and dragged it off to a secluded spot in the yard, where it feasted on that bird like it was a Thanksgiving turkey.  Who knew chipmunks were so menacing?

Plus, Anybird has no arms. Wings don’t count. They allow a bird to fly, but that’s about it. Maybe they can be used as a blanket over its head. But can wings hold a fork? Pick up a seed? Grab a worm? Carry piles of straw and hair and other detritus to a safe spot for nest building, and then actually build a nest? No, they cannot. All they can do is flap.  Even bats have freaky little hand like things with long fingers with which to hold fruit. Are birds jealous of bats? Can they even fathom how much easier life would be with arms, or even hands?  What if a bird has an itch that its beak can’t reach? I am sure that is the number one reason that birds have anxiety in the first place. Or maybe number two, after fear of getting eaten.

Once, I saw a video online of a Chihuahua without front legs. It hopped around like a goddamn bird. I wanted to hit it with a hammer and put it out of its misery.

So this little Anybird outside my window is hopping from branch to branch, turning its head around, looking every which way, and then hopping some more, before it stops and lets out a little song. It was a sweet little bird tune, meaningless to me, since I am not a bird, but I am sure it’s more than just a mindless hum and is conveying information to other Anybirds.  What could it possibly have to say? Maybe something like “Shit, it’s cold outside. We flew up here too soon. I told those other birds it was better to stay in Florida a little longer.”  Maybe it’s saying, “Watch out, cat at three o-clock, squirrel approaching, dog walking down the street, car coming at approximately ten miles over the residential speed limit.”  Or maybe something like, “Damn, bitch, you a fine looking Anybird. What you say you come over to my nest so’s I can fertilize your eggs. Ain’t nobody fertilize like I do, baby. I can fertilize allll night. Mmm hmm, that’s right.”

Sweet little bird tunes sound great in the afternoon when I am avoiding doing any real work. They are extremely irritating at 5:45 in the morning, before the sun is all the way up. The early bird might get the worm, but it might also get hit with a flying shoe. Shut the fuck up. I have hands, and I am trying to sleep.

Here’s another thing about birds that I don’t get: what’s with the poop? Who poops in black and white anyway? What the hell are you eating, Anybirds? This afternoon, while I watched that little bird twitching on the bush outside my window, the rest of its flock was crapping berries all over my patio in the backyard, like they had the avian flu or something. What was the point of power washing anyway, now that you ruined it with your Jackson Pollock crap?  Stop Rorschaching on my car, too, if you don’t mind. I don’t shit where you live, so stop shitting all over my home. It’s just not necessary.

On the other hand, er, wing, Anybird, thanks for eating bugs. I’d take back everything I said if you could please do something about the mosquitoes this summer.  And ask over a few of your hummingbird friends, because they kick ass, orinthologically speaking. I dig me some hummingbird. Also, thanks for not being snakes. I sure am glad snakes don’t have wings. Would a snake with wings be a dragon?  No chipmunk could bring one of those down.  I’ll go put out some extra birdseed for you as a little thank you gift. Much obliged, Anybird. 

 

Some Light Reading

I need to branch out in my reading material this winter. For some reason, I’ve been reading memoir after memoir, and I need a break from all that fuckedupitude. I remember once asking my father in law about his choice in movies, as he always went for the inane and eschewed all things deep and dramatic. “I go to the movies to be entertained,” he told me. “If I want to know about all the horrible things in the world, I could watch the news or read the paper. Why would I want to waste my leisure time depressing myself?” People read papers back when I asked him that. He had a good point though. The news is depressing as hell. Times are tough the world over, my friend.

So why spend my rare free time reading depressing memoirs one after another like so many burned potato chips? I love fiction, don’t get me wrong. Fiction is great stuff and offers us a wonderful escape or soporific, depending on what you want it to do. But lately, it isn’t doing either for me, so I find myself turning to memoir more and more in an effort to find something to hold my attention long enough to get sleepy. In fact, four of the last five books I’ve read were memoirs or creative nonfiction, and I’m worried my trend is a reflection of my watching too much reality television.

I just finished reading a memoir called The Burn Journals, which is about a fourteen year old boy who has a little thing about arson. He fucks up pretty good at school by intentionally lighting a pack of matches on fire, but then in a panic with the burning matchbook accidentally lighting a t-shirt and the locker it was in on fire as well. Fearing the very real possibility of expulsion, he goes home and attempts suicide by, you guessed it, setting himself on fire. This was not like a Tibetan monk self-immolating for his beliefs and religious freedom; this was an impulsive teenage boy in over his head. The book is mostly about the year of recovery after his suicide attempt, and much like burn scars, it ain’t pretty.

Before that book, I read a memoir by Alice Sebold. You might recall her name, as she is the author of The Lovely Bones, one of the most disturbing pieces of modern fiction ever written, about a girl who is raped and murdered, and the effect of her death on her family, all told from the victim’s point of view.  I remember reading it and thinking that she must have had some serious trauma in her life to create that kind of creepiness. Her memoir is entitled Lucky, and it is about her own rape and the aftermath on her family and her life, including the difficult court trial.  It seems I was right about her.

Prior to that one, I read a translated documentary novel called The Druggist of Auschwitz. I’m pretty sure you can guess what that was about. That’s right, three feel good stories in a row. No wonder I have trouble sleeping.

So I decided to try something different. Now I’m reading a book by Celia Rivenbark, a  columnist who is sort of a Southern Erma Bombeck. She writes humorous essays about nothing, only with more success and acclaim than, say, I do.

Anyway, here’s what I can’t get past. She writes a lot about her family, as do I, only she refers to her child as “The Princess” and her husband as “Duh-hubby.” Sometimes, she just calls him “Duh” but we get the point. She thinks he’s a bit of an idiot, and he is either too stupid to object or very secure and doesn’t mind.

I don’t write much about my husband, which he prefers. Once, back when I first started sharing my essays, I wrote one about him being startled by a snake in our backyard, and he was mad at me for days afterwards. So the understanding we have reached in an effort to remain friends (and also married) is that I don’t write about him without his permission or prior review (with the exception of right now).

Sometimes he is a main character in a story I need to tell, so I can’t leave him out entirely, although I am pretty sure he would prefer I do. He is not looking for his fifteen minutes of fame; he just wants to be left alone. This is an individual who is convinced Facebook is really Big Brother data farming us all, waiting to turn all of our pictures and thoughts and connections over for some sinister use.

The thing is, he’s probably right. The NSA has probably stored every email I’ve ever sent, every Facebook status I’ve updated, every meme I’ve texted. Yours too, by the way. All of ours. Somewhere in an underground bunker in Colorado is a team of extremely overworked government employees who can’t believe how dumb the rest of us have become.

But back to my point, before I went off on that conspiracy rant. I can’t imagine making a living out of smack-talking my spouse and still having one. Maybe my spouse is correct. Maybe we have become a culture of oversharing idiots who can’t take a crap or make a sandwich without wanting the whole world to know about it. If our moms didn’t cut the crusts off our sandwiches or our dads laughed at our sophomoric efforts in card making, we don’t need hours of therapy that result in a book deal. We need to maybe move on and get over ourselves.

It might be time to look at the New York Times Book Review and make a more appropriate reading selection, or maybe stop by the classics section of the library and expand my range. Hell, I could step into the other room and finish the copy of Jude the Obscure I never made it past the first fifty pages of in college. I’ll get right on that, after this TLC “Four Weddings” marathon is over.

Maybe We Need to Read More

How do you decide what is appropriate for your children to watch on television? Is it a conversation you have with your husband or with your children, or do you choose based on the TV rating system or word of mouth from other parents?

It’s easy when kids are young. They have a choice of preschool shows that are tied into toys and clothing at the local Walmart. You become instantly aware of what they like and don’t like based on what becomes an obsession, thanks to clever marketing. But as your kids get older, it’s not so easy anymore. What you find on kids’ channels might still be over their heads, or have a level of violence, or yes, even romance, that might make you uncomfortable. By the time they hit double digits, it’s even tougher. You have probably moved on from watching shows with them, opting instead to leave them to their own devices while you play on your laptop or iPad. Chances are good that if you sat down and watched their shows with them, you might not like what you see.

My kids grew up on a steady diet of SpongeBob Squarepants, which is still the default if nothing else is on. I stopped watching television with them when I could recite the words from all the episodes, and sometime between that moment and today, they have moved on from Nickelodeon to the edgier and more mature Cartoon Network. Cartoon Network used to show things like “Powerpuff Girls” and “Johnny Bravo.” Now, it’s “Adventure Time” and “The Regular Show.” Have you ever seen either of those? They aren’t shows for kids in elementary school; they are shows for college aged kids taking hits off a bong. Sometimes the plot lines disturb my tween, as she still has hope for a happy future, and that doesn’t always mesh well with a post-apocalyptic life in a world filled with talking cinnamon buns and tiny sexy elephants that bake apple pie.

But whatever, they’re kids’ shows, right? I don’t like to watch those shows with them, so lately we have been branching out into regular television. Even then, our choices are pretty limited in terms of what’s age appropriate, and it seems the more we watch, the more explaining I have to do.

“Modern Family” is popular in my house, because my kids love the gay couple. Remember watching “Happy Days” when you were a kid? They didn’t have a gay couple. They did have a philandering rebel with a penchant for dancing and show tunes, but I’m pretty sure Fonzie wasn’t gay.” Laverne and Shirley” also seemed harmless, even though Laverne was a floozy who only cared about getting laid. Wait a minute, maybe television was always bad for kids.

Sometimes, for variety, we delve into the world of reality television, which is generally where my discernment gets a little hazy. I don’t like to watch the dancing or singing shows, and I don’t want my kids to watch the dating shows. I can only force them to watch so much PBS or Animal Planet before they rebel.  Which leaves us with Discovery and The Learning Channel. 

The other night, my teen and I cozied up together in front of the television to watch a new episode of “My Strange Addiction.” This is a show that can vary from week to week in terms of how appropriate it is, but my own fascination tends to cloud my judgment. So there we were, watching a woman who is addicted to black market butt injections and a young man, most likely a virgin, who is infatuated with his entire collection of pool inflatables, one of which he considers his wife, a beauty of a yellow dragon raft. My husband walked in and wanted to know what I was thinking, letting her watch “that trash.”

Hmm, what was I thinking? Did I think it was funny that these people are obviously mentally ill? No, because if that were the case, we’d be watching “Hoarders” too. No, it’s more about the sensationalism, the putting themselves on display for the whole world to see. I might be addicted to chocolate and cuticle picking, but you don’t see me on television showcasing it for all of America. My teen is smart enough to get that, by the way. She knows it’s not right to make fun of people, but a lady who‘s had like forty butt injections is a sight to see. And honestly, her ass was still smaller than a certain judge on American Idol, so don’t tell me that show is more suitable.

The truth is, quality programming is a thing of the past. Now, it’s all about what’s cheap to produce, which explains the plethora of reality shows that cover everything from extreme sports to parking lot valets. At least we stay away from violence, like, say, professional football. Bad language isn’t even a deal breaker anymore, since my kids hear worse at school than what can be broadcast on TV. And to some degree, the more excessive and ridiculous the behavior my kids see on TV shows, the less they find such displays enticing. They realize so much of what we see is catty or demeaning or just plain stupid.

And when they don’t, I have to bring them back to reality. When I found out my teen watched an episode of “The Bachelor”, I counteracted it with a documentary about the oppression of women around the world, “Half the Sky.” When my tween sees women in a cat fight, I quickly suggest a viewing of “My Fair Lady.”

What I am suggesting is that you take a moment as a parent to sit down and watch a little television with your kids. Think about what they are seeing, what message they are receiving, what information they are storing for later, even into adulthood. Find out why they watch what they do when you aren’t around. Engage them. I like that approach much better than walking into the family room and declaring their shows crap or forbidding them from watching certain things.

And I still have plenty of time to teach them how to pronounce schadenfreude.

Help Us Find a Cure

I thought we were going to be immune from it, but sadly, no. Bieber fever has hit our home. It was bound to happen. I have two daughters, one thirteen, the other eleven. If that isn’t his demographic, I don’t know what is. Maybe pedophiles. And grandmas, if they don’t have to listen to him sing, but can just pinch his smooth young cheeks. Regardless, I have somehow raised a Bieber fan, a Bieleber, despite my good intentions and years of careful emphasis on quality music and intellectual grooming. I am living the Teen Beat nightmare.

At this point, the fever has only hit the teenager, but it’s only a matter of time before the tween catches it too. The teen, who has been playing guitar for three, almost four years, and piano for eight years, doesn’t mind listening to his overproduced bubblegum pop. She is normally very opinionated about music, and eschews all things popular with the masses, so it makes no sense why she would like little Justin. He looks younger than her, for Christ’s sake. He’s shorter than her as well. He’s also way more feminine than her. He probably got his period before she did. He’s a pretty young boy, don’t get me wrong, but hot? Hunky? Sexy? Nope. Nonthreatening is about the best I can come up with. He looks like he hasn’t come out yet, so he’s safe for preteen girls. He doesn’t look like he will give them HPV; he looks like he could do their nails.

But let’s get back to his so-called music. He’s certainly not the first pop star who is more a product than a musician, so I’m not judging him solely on the fact that he doesn’t write most of his music or the fact that it’s so overproduced that it’s virtually all created in a studio, devoid of talent.  No one is going to say in ten, twenty, fifty years, Wow, that Justin Bieber, what an artist. They might say, What ever happened to that little Canadian lesbian? But mostly, they will say what they are thinking now, which is, hey, Justin, better save up that money. My beef with him is the over exposure. Bieber on tv. Bieber on the radio. Bieber cologne. Bieber is everywhere. Does he have to be in my home too?

Normally, I wouldn’t give a crap about the current Justin Bieber or whoever used to be Justin Bieber or whoever will be the next Justin Bieber. It’s all back to my teen. She flaunts her love of him in front of me, taunting me, daring me to forbid her from listening to his music. I’m telling you, this is a teenage girl issue. You lucky fuckers with your sons, what’s the worst they can throw at you? Speed metal? Hard core rap? Try a little Justin. I’ll take Wiz Khalifa over JB any day, unless they have collaborated, in which case, never mind.

The other day while driving my teen to school, a Bieb song came on the radio and she forced me to listen to it while she sang along. “I feel that I have failed you as a parent,” I said to her. “Don’t say that, Mom,” she said. “Well, I must have done something wrong if you’ve turned to the dark side of the radio,” I replied. “Don’t blame yourself, it just is. These things just happen,” she said, and I swear she winked at me.

But they don’t just happen. My girls were too young to be Hilary Duff fans. They were the Miley Cyrus generation, and we came out unscathed. They both hated Miley, either as herself or the evil Hannah Montana.Even now, they could care less about One Direction or any other boy band. They will listen to Florence and the Machine over Demi Lovato. Hell, they spend hours combing the internet looking for new artists that haven’t hit it big yet. How does my teen reconcile her edginess and trendsetting with her love of Justin?

I’ve decided that the only way I can accept this from her is by declaring it an act of rebellion. She doesn’t really like him. She just says that to get under my skin. She knows it makes me insane to hear her squeal when his voice cracks on the radio. She forced me to watch his hosting of Saturday Night Live, sacrilegious on its own, so she could see his twinkly brown eyes and ridiculous six pack. Even that looks wrong, like muscles on a baby.

I’m trying to not complain too much, lest this painful phase lasts too long. If I go along with her and don’t put up too much fight, I figure she’ll lose interest and move onto to something else. Of course, that could be worse than the Justin thing I am dealing with now, even if I can’t imagine how.

Back in the day, I had a bizarre haircut and color phase. I owned a Suicidal Tendencies record. I took up smoking at fourteen to earn a little street cred.  None of it got much of a rise out of my mom, so I kept upping the ante without permanently jeopardizing my health or my future. With her, nothing worked, so I stopped trying. You can’t rebel against someone who doesn’t exactly give a shit.

 I’m not sure how much fight to put up against whatever my teen throws at me. Do I do just enough to let her know I still care, or do I ignore until it goes away?I’m at a loss, and until I figure out the right approach, I will have to endure that puny heartthrob, with his stupid sneakers and crotch grabbing.

No amount of grabbing down there will make your testicles descend, Justin. Just saying. So stop, because it makes you look like you’ve got a rash, and rashes, like you, aren’t sexy. Also, stop your Svengali mind fuck of my, nay, all of our teenage daughters. Go take some voice lessons, maybe do a Broadway musical or something equally obscure and unpopular with the 13-17 girl demographic. Then maybe I can have my daughter back.

Mail Call

The other day, I got my panties in a wad when my teen called me old in the Chick Fil A drive through line. I had made a comment about how young people experience déjà vu more often than older people, and she made some snarky comment that boiled down to me being old. I can’t remember the actual comment but it certainly offended me at the time. Why can’t I remember what she said? Because I’m too old to have functioning short- term memory.

I never thought I would be one of those people who would spend a great deal of time remembering how things used to be, mainly because that’s something that old people do.  Only I find more and more that I do wax nostalgic for things that I took for granted in my youth. Like Saturday mail delivery.

The US Postal Service has announced it will discontinue Saturday mail delivery service in an effort to reduce costs and remain relevant. The change takes effect in August, so we still have plenty of time to get those last minute bills in the mail on a Saturday morning. No mail on Saturday makes me sad. Am I the only one who feels this way?

I loved getting mail when I was a kid, not that I ever did. I would obsessively look out the window, waiting for that familiar boxy white truck to work its way down the street, stopping in front of my house. If I was really lucky, I might have a card from an aunt or, gasp, even my father, or maybe the latest Ranger Rick magazine. I never minded licking stamps, and for a very short period, I even collected them, although I have no idea where I got enough of a variety to fill a cigar box. Have kids today ever licked a stamp? Come to think of it, do kids today even know what a cigar box is?

I still get a little excited when I see the mail truck coming down my street, even if I’m the one that pays the bills that are delivered now that I’m old. er. Older.   I have even, in the past week, stood at the end of my driveway so the mailman (can I still call him a mailman, or do I have to say postal worker?) can put the mail directly in my hand, as if I were awaiting the sea monkeys I ordered from the back of my comic book. I never outgrew my love of receiving mail, in the same way I still get a little excited over the ice cream truck, summers out of school, fat snowflakes falling from the sky, or when the cat settles down in my lap. Simple things are sometimes my favorite.

I’ll stop myself before I break out in song like Maria in “The Sound of Music,” but honestly, I fear that mail delivery is on the same road to obsolescence as CD players, tape players, record players, telegrams, chamber pots, and iron maidens.

Think for a minute.  No more mail. No more thank you cards. No more love letters. Instead, we can get electronic bills, ecards, and tweets of our loved one’s genitals. No wonder they don’t teach cursive anymore. I’m one day my future grandchildren won’t even learn how to write.

I have an eReader, but I rarely use it. I want to hold a book in my hand. I want to turn the pages. And if I liked it, I want to lend it to my sister or my friends:  Here, read this. It’s really good.

On Sundays, I occasionally persuade my younger daughter to sit with me and read the paper. She only picks up the crappy comics, but she reads Blondie and Garfield every time, and every time she wonders why she reads them because they aren’t funny. If we only read the newspaper online, we could scroll directly past Blondie and Garfield. And we could each be on a different iPad or tablet, and we couldn’t interact at all. If we had no newspaper, what would the cat sit on and attack?

I understand that the United States Postal Service is a dinosaur with a giant meteor aiming for it. But it’s more than just the snail mail. It is one of the last carriers of written human interaction. It starts with no Saturday delivery and forty five cent stamps, but where will it end?

I pay my bills online, I shop online, and I read online. But every so often, I stop what I am doing, put on a pair of shoes, and walk down the driveway to the mail box. I open the black door, and pull out a stack of papers, of possibilities. Most of it is junk, trash, wasted trees, but sometimes, it’s a little treasure, an invitation, a thank you letter from my nephew, a refund from the doctor’s office, a small package from my friend in Colorado. In that moment, I remember what it was like to be a child, to be the one to get the mail, which seemed like a privilege so many years ago.

Does that make me old? No, my age does that. It makes me pause. The world is changing so quickly, even before our eyes, and sometimes it takes an insult in the drive through line to remind us that teenagers are a real pain in the ass, and also how much of the world has evolved  in each of our lifetimes.  Some things I can’t wait for, like zero calorie chocolate and noninvasive knee replacement surgery. And others, like the possibility of no more mail, just make me wistful.

 Also, according to my teenager, only old people use words like wistful.