Tween this
When I first heard the term, I thought, “What the hell is a tween?”
Then someone explained that tweens are kids who find themselves in that crazy stage between sippy cups and wine coolers, cartoons on Saturday mornings and unprotected sex on Saturday nights. Back in the dark ages of the early 1980s, when I was in that age group, we called ourselves preteens and watched R-rated movies from the back of the theater after giving the teller some of our cigarettes.
Things are different today.
“Preteen” was abandoned for the more-innocent sounding “tween” and a delightful new demographic for Nickelodeon and Disney was born.
I call bullshit.
Since everyone on this planet hovers somewhere between life and death, aren’t we all tweens of one kind or another? In our twenties, we’re tween STDs. In our thirties, we’re tween marriages. And in our forties, we’re tween meds that keep us coming home each night.
My children are ten and almost always between homework and wondering, out loud, why they can’t have pizza for dinner each night. I don’t call them tweens; I call them contributing factors to psychosis.
No matter how we label them, though, this subset keeps us on our toes. My sons’ teachers sent guidelines home: “Tips to help you understand your tween.”
I would have called it, “How to live with these creatures without killing them or yourself.”
Let’s take a look, shall we? With my additions in bold.
This microwave may or may not be safe – anyone got a canary?
Approximately two weeks ago, the scene in our kitchen was a lot like scenes in any other kitchen where three generations try to find something to eat without killing each other. In front of the microwave, my kids lined up with their oatmeal, behind Husband with his coffee, behind Mom with her tea, and behind Dad with his bacon.
They were waiting on me.
I reached into the convenient little hub and retrieved my plate of mashed yeast.
At that moment, the lights in the oven went out and we knew were in trouble. I pushed a few buttons. Nothing.
“I think the microwave is broken,” I said.
The kids cried, the men cursed, and Mom got out her rosary.
“Where’s the owner’s manual?” Dad asked.
Thus began the longest fourteen days of our lives.
Can’t you read the signs?
I’m a big believer in analysis. Life doesn’t always come at us in obvious ways; most of the time we have to be able to see messages from beyond in the subtlety of signs.
It isn’t easy.
When I walk two blocks from the office, why do I get lost walking back? I am able to instantly recall immunization schedules for two kids at a moment’s notice in the carpool line, so dementia isn’t likely. Maybe I can blame anxiety over four deadlines and a tofu casserole that refuses to defrost for dinner when I’m walking down the wrong alley at noon on “Get Your Free Stereo out of this Truck” day.
Or am I supposed to learn that expensive wedge heels are a waste of money because they don’t last five blocks? Who knows? At any rate, now I understand why Husband mumbles a prayer every time I leave the house. He’s hoping I find my way home.
Or not.
Correctly interpreting clues is never easy.
Summer vacation is over – hold your applause, I still can’t hear myself think
In these parts, lazy days of summer have mercifully come to an end. Just a few days ago, as the weather grew ever more humid and children tried to make the last few hours of fun last and last, the rest of us came perilously close to court-ordered commitment hearings.
Frustrated moms threatened to leave town without telling anyone and frustrated dads threatened cardiac arrest if one more ball, bike, or bat was left in the driveway.
But now parents can go back to resembling human beings again with fully functioning frontal lobes.
I looked around my own surroundings and could tell a while ago, even without a calendar, that summer vacation needed to end. For example…
We ran out of clean glasses back in June.
I could no longer stand NOT to write about it.
Husband finally stopped yelling and just accepted that an open refrigerator *is* cooling the entire house.
People say it’s hard to make friends as we get older. Nonsense. It might be harder to *like* people as we get older. I mean, everyone is so opinionated and there’s all the shouting.
We really should be able to make friends as easily at this age as we did when we were ten. For one thing, we know how to properly brush our teeth now. That alone makes talking to people a more pleasant activity.
Every year, I manage to add to my ever-growing list of loved ones. And the people I’ve been friends with all along? I’m only more attached to them. With two exceptions, I’m connected to everyone that’s ever been supremely important in my life.
Who are those two exceptions? You’ll have to buy the book.
But let me say this – at the beginning of every new relationship, I never make the first move. It’s psychologically impossible for me to approach someone for the first time, in any way, shape or form. And I’m the same when ending a relationship. I’m inept at walking away and find my feet won’t work when I try to run.
That’s when I usually stop wearing deodorant and ignore personal boundaries.
But in each of the aforementioned two instances, my friend turned mean and cruel. I put up with it as long as I could and finally asked him or her to stop, explaining my need for love and support. The answer was no, both times, so I let them walk away. It’s as simple, and as heartbreaking, as that.
I’ve been told I’m lucky it only happened twice.
So, yes, I have overflowing armfuls of cherished friends, very few un-success stories, and the ability to find something to like in everyone, even that guy who listens to Maroon 5. But there are a few types that, in the name of good mental health, we shouldn’t add to our rolodex. As middle age comes at us, with an AARP membership form in one hand and a Botox needle in the other, we need good friends to help cushion the blows.
But let’s not be desperate and reach for just anyone.
For example, take a good look at an acquaintance and ask yourself, “What would happen if I bent over to pick up a penny and accidentally farted?”
Think about that for a minute.
Back-to-school: The most wonderful time of the year
At my children’s school, teachers are being asked to write a profile of themselves for the PTO newsletter. I was asked to submit questions so we might get to know them better.
Here are a few of my ideas:
Where did you go to school?
What previous experience helped you prepare for brilliant children who love to argue?
What do you like best about teaching?
What do you do in your spare time?
Does vodka at night help you deal with over-protective parents?
What is your favorite antidepressant?
Tell us about your family.
Please tell them we’re sorry ahead of time for running you ragged this year.
As a former teacher, I feel for the professionals who are getting ready this week to educate our children. They are underpaid, undersupported, and underappreciated by just about everyone in our society. Teaching is a thankless job, unless you count the kids that actually do grow up and, despite all adversity, actually make something of themselves.
Teachers are heroes. And this one’s for them.
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Olivia Foster is a beautiful, headstrong killing machine, shocked to find herself yearning for something different.
Olivia discovered a talent for killing people while in her teens, after shooting her abusive father in the head and watching him die. Unapologetic and determined to help victims of domestic violence fight back, she built a wildly successful business. Now, a sophisticated young woman, Olivia travels the world pursuing bad men and making them pay.
When an unexpected vacation leads her home, Olivia reconnects with childhood friends and finds herself envying them. Like so many women approaching their thirties, and despite her most-wanted status, Olivia is startled by the unfamiliar urge and intrigued with the idea of settling down.
When Max, her longtime love, proposes marriage, Olivia dares to wonder: Can she really trade guns and glory for gold bands and bath towels?
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Catherine
BRB: How to enjoy and then scare off middle-aged men who flirt with you while your husband is asleep
Any forty-something wife and mother who tells you she doesn’t like occasional attention from men is a liar. A teeth whitening-strips wearing, grey-hair dyeing, water-aerobics attending liar.
Women enjoy getting hit on, flirted with, and approached by other men. Period. End of story.
Of course, there is the manner in which it’s done that makes all the difference in the world. We don’t want someone we know – a brother-in-law, co-worker, or employer – making eyes at us.
Unless we do, but that’s a whole other post.
No, I’m saying that happily married women enjoy a compliment or flirt when it’s directed at us by a handsome, well-dressed, and intelligent stranger. We can politely decline the advance, say goodbye, and giggle about it with our girlfriends afterward.
I don’t have a ton of experience in this department. Practically date-free my entire high school career; I attracted a few men in college. They wouldn’t take me out in public, but I was allowed to go to third base with them in private and that was always a special thrill.
I met my husband, fell in love, and we got married after graduation.
That was pretty much it until a few years ago when men began taking notice of me, mostly because their former prom-queen wives were involved in a different kind of passionate affair – with Krispy Crème. When such men would flirt, I’d laugh and giggle and let it go to my head for a few moments.
Boy, did I have a lot to learn.
Can’t we fine someone for being a jackass?
Often I have to tell my children that it’s not okay to do something, which is fine because they are only ten. For example, the other day I had to tell them it’s not okay to:
- Argue with mommy just because you’re getting the summertime blues.
- Argue with mommy over sneakers, healthy snacks, and earlier bedtimes.
- Argue with mommy over everything under the sun.
- Argue with mommy for five straight hours and then expect to swim, have fun, or live.
You get my point.
What I find truly amazing is how many times I have to say, “That’s not okay” to fellow grown-ups.
You’d think people over the age of thirty, forty, or fifty would know better, but they don’t. So, for all the jackasses out there, please be advised that it’s not okay to…
- Clip your nails during a business meeting.
- Accept someone’s notice and then fire them three days later so you don’t have to pay compensation.
- Wear tight turtlenecks when you’re male, near seventy, and easily a C cup.
Happiness is a lot like pornography
The movement bringing happiness to every man, woman, and child has hit a major roadblock. I read recently where our national “shiny, happy people” craze has ended. It’s over. Kaput.
All I can say is, “Thank goodness. When are they canceling Wheel of Fortune?”
But why are we moving away from merriness? Fallout from watching Leonardo DiCaprio films? Or perhaps people can no longer afford cable television so they’ve been listening to talk radio and NPR?
Whatever the reason, trends seem to show us avoiding smiles and favoring frowns. Maybe that’s for the better because, according to experts, sadness can be beneficial.
Anyone who’s followed my career must agree.
But does that go for the rest of us, too? Does sadness have an important place in the rhythm of our lives?
Maybe. When nasty news goes down – illness, loss of a job, or your kids move back home – sadness is obviously the appropriate response.
For a while.
Until it gets old.
Catherine Durkin Robinson
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she’s crafty
