Every Jewish parent dreads the day the Holocaust comes up.
However, I have to say, our first go at it two years ago wasn’t so bad.
Me: What did you learn about in Hebrew School today?
Oldest: A lot. We learned about concentration camps.
Me: Oh? What about them?
Oldest: They put Jewish people in camps. We also learned about Anne Frank.
Me: What about her?
Oldest: She had very special diarrhea.
(long pause)
Me: I did not know that.
Oldest: She wrote about her life in a concentration camp.
Me: Oh. She wrote about that in a *diary* sweetie. Not diarrhea.
Oldest: Right. A diary. I knew that.
Me: Of course you did.
Something tells me, as they get older, that it won’t ever be that easy again.
Since you asked… how someone like me could like Eat, Pray, Love
Categorized as “chick lit,” Eat, Pray, Love cultivated quite a following several years back. I ignored it, because *those* types of women watch Lifetime and join Jenny Craig.
No, thanks.
Oprah got involved and I knew for sure I wasn’t going to like the book.
She liked Twilight, for crying out loud.
Then Julia Roberts signed on for the movie version.
Strike three.
Eventually, I did read Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir and fell in love with it. This annoyed a few friends, who couldn’t understand why I’d turned into such a huge disappointment.
“You’re becoming one of the masses,” a delightful creature told me. “And you always said the masses are asses. Next thing you know, you’ll be faking orgasms and saying ‘literally’ all the time.”
Good lord.
Based on those reactions, I didn’t tell many people that I liked the book. I was afraid I’d get kicked out of the Margaret Cho fan club.
Perhaps, though, I should have explained my thoughts to my husband.
I told him that I related to Elizabeth Gilbert and the premise of her memoir sounded interesting to him; I also mentioned that she got her start writing for men’s magazines. So he downloaded the book and we listened to it on the way to Boston.
We got as far as the sixth chapter.
He wondered, out loud, for twenty minutes somewhere in rural Georgia, how I could relate to a woman who wanted neither a marriage, nor children, and instead wished to escape halfway around the world and write.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Katie?” he asked.
Oh my.
I said that I related to her struggle for something better. Instead of focusing on others, Gilbert looked within. Yes, she no longer wanted to be married, and took off for Italy, India, and Indonesia, but it was to discover true happiness within herself.
I know. It sounds insufferable.
But Eat, Pray, Love isn’t insufferable. It’s refreshingly devoid of easy sentiment and resonates with those of us who believe our own truth should always triumph over what other people expect us to do. Perhaps Gilbert’s tome touched me because, while reading it, I was arriving at my own kind of crossroads.
God may help those who help themselves, but I only help those who help me first
That philosophy is probably one of many reasons why I never made a very good Christian.
Recently, I looked through my distribution lists, picked everyone who loves me, and sent them an email asking for proof.
“It’s that time again when Creative Loafing solicits the opinions of the good people of Tampa Bay and around the world. Last year I won Best Female Contributor and just a few short months later, I scored a bi-weekly column. If I win again this year, maybe they’ll invite me to a party.”
The response was delightful. Loved ones are voting Catherine Durkin Robinson for:
Best Contributor
Best Columnist
Best Blogger
Best Personality to Follow on Twitter
A few have suggested my house for “Best Pickup Place” and my bosom for “Best Sex Scandal.”
Several Facebook friends have circulated the ballot on their walls, while others, like Clark Brooks and Peter Schorsch, suggest we duke it out. (Gotta give it up to Schorsch for the line of the week: “Am I the Avatar to your Hurt Locker?”)
Since I’ve stopped writing about the dirty world of politics, Schorsch’s (try saying that while you’re drunk) Saint Petersblog and I are no longer in competition. Any old self-important blowhard can write about the current political climate and make you want to kill yourself, but who else in this area can make you laugh at a toothbrush in the toilet?
Only me, dolls. That special talent requires a certain kind of crazy.
And crazy needs your vote.
So hop on over to Creative Loafing’s Best of the Bay ballot and, for the second year in a row, put me on top. Let’s face it, on top is my very favorite position.
How else can you prove you care?
How to talk to your children… when they are middle-aged and moody
I feel bad when I hear people who are my age complaining about an estranged relationship with their parents. I’ve always been close with my parents, despite so many differences, and yet what works for us doesn’t always work for others.
A good relationship requires work. Let’s face it. Our parents didn’t understand us when we were listening to A Flock of Seagulls and they don’t always understand us now.
It’s not entirely their fault. Sometimes we are so obsessed with ourselves and our rotten, but loveable kids, we forget that we, too, are rotten and not always so loveable. Older moms and dads don’t have it easy. They are forced to deal with children who multi-task every minute of their lives, yet can’t find time for a lunch date. We retain water and debt, why not patience or the ability to talk to them for longer than ten minutes?
When they think about their middle-aged children, I’m sure they’re surprised. Our moms and dads thought if they loved us through that summer when we spoke MTV instead of English, they’d be home free. My parents, and my friends’ parents, truly believed once we got past piercing our noses, staying out after curfew, and dating mechanics, we’d all begin to understand each other.
For a short while, it happened. Like that old adage, after turning thirty and having kids, we realized our parents, who knew nothing when we were teenagers and young adults, suddenly had become brilliant.
But at forty, I’m seeing a rift develop yet again between Boomers and what Dad calls the “Boomerang” generation.
I’m all about helping my age group understand those who came before us. I often write posts asking the self-obsessed to lighten up when dealing with those who raised us to be self-obsessed.
But it’s not always our fault either. Isn’t it time for the Boomers to meet us halfway? I’ve listened to my peers’ complaints and figured out what my parents do right.
Therefore, here’s what you can do to improve your relationship with middle-aged kids.
5 reasons why a road trip with the family doesn’t completely suck
Every summer, the Durkin Robinson gang usually takes off to see something new. In the past, we’ve visited national parks and majestic scenes like Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, and an unusually large ball of twine. We almost always throw in something historical (read: tragic and slightly depressing) like the site of the Oklahoma City bombing, where Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated, and a Wal-Mart nearby the unusually large ball of twine.
Since the boys are now ten, Husband and I thought it might be fun to visit cities. We began this summer with our old haunts in Boston, driving there and back, stopping in Gettysburg on the way up and a family reunion in Scranton on the way home.
The North End, pastries, Freedom Trail, and Fenway Park.
Fun.
Hallowed ground in Pennsylvania where soldiers died.
Tragic.
PBR-soaked ground in Pennsylvania where only two relatives understood why my favorite aunt gave me a bottle of “Running with Scissors” wine.
Slightly depressing.
How much longer ’till school starts?
My children are definitely becoming preteens. They no longer involve me every time one annoys the other.
After living with these kids for ten years, I’m never surprised when I find something in the toilet after they leave the bathroom. That *something* is usually of an organic nature and a quick, “Get in here and flush!” solves the problem.
When I noticed my oldest son’s toothbrush suctioned to the side of the bowl this morning, it took every ounce of energy I had not to laugh out loud.
I called Youngest into the lavatory.
“This is not okay,” I said.
“He called me stupid,” Youngest said.
I gave him my *disappointed* look for a few seconds.
“You told me to solve conflicts myself,” he said with a sigh.
Youngest was made to clean the bowl and the brush. But not before I took a picture.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’d vote for a pro-life, right-wing, fundamentalist, teabagging Republican who is president of the Mel Gibson Fan Club and fucking Sarah Palin on a regular basis if he’d guarantee year-round schooling by next summer break.
Wouldn’t even have to think about it.
Nightmare at the Dunmore Days Inn
I made hotel reservations at the last minute in order to attend a family reunion in Scranton.
You might be wondering – Why would someone so competent, who’s usually on top of things, wait until the last minute to make hotel reservations when she knew about the reunion for months ahead of time?
I’ll tell you.
For the longest time, we had plans to stay with Great Aunt Edna.* Thinking about our week of travel leading up to the reunion, I was looking forward to stopping at her house and using real toilet paper. Aunt Edna even has pillows that don’t smell like bleach.
Unfortunately, two weeks before the reunion, her son Myron*, my third cousin twice removed, came home from his backpacking trip down the Appalachian Trail with two communicable diseases and an unfortunate rash near his bottom right lip.
We immediately started calling hotels in the Scranton area, only to discover all the decent shit was booked. Apparently, Himself* planned the reunion the same weekend as three conventions and a NASCAR event.
After several days and a dozen phone calls, we got the last remaining room at the last hotel in the area that had any vacancies – the Dunmore Days Inn.
For many practical reasons
Traveling to Boston feels like visiting an old boyfriend.
Imagine, if you will, not just any old boyfriend, but someone special, someone with whom you were deeply in love. Years ago, for many practical reasons, you both realized you could not build a life together. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. You and he were simply too different. And so, after many tears, heartbreaks, and proclamations of undying devotion, you both went your separate ways and promised to keep in touch.
You have been happy without him. You’ve built a life that is both satisfying and meaningful. You no longer belong to him and feel no regrets. And yet you find yourself heading to a reunion of sorts. You both will be together again for the first time in years, and you are suddenly quite nervous. You are lost in thoughts of him. Will he look the same? Will his eyes still change from blue to green depending on his mood? What will he think of you? Hopefully he won’t notice the wrinkles, added pounds, or the stress acne on your right cheek. You hope he doesn’t ever think you are better off without him.
Even though you are.
Like I said, my every attempt to enjoy the great outdoors leads to a near-death experience
Kevin first hired me back in 1996 when I arrived in Boston with a whole lot of hair, looking to begin a career. He made an interesting first impression as well. Kevin was blonde, short, refused to smile, and shook my hand harder than a constipated law school graduate. He meant well; I could tell almost immediately that he was a good person even though he advised me to wear pantyhose and stop cursing.
I’ve long ago forgiven him for an aversion to small talk, and when I moved back to Tampa we continued to keep in touch. At least once a month, I inquire about his wonderful wife and three beautiful children and he responds with hostile narratives about the Obama administration.
He is also one of my three references when I’m applying for jobs. Since I’ve been hired several times thanks to his glowing recommendation, I reward him with a visit whenever we are in Boston.
Usually the visit involves a giant jumping toy in Kevin’s living room where his oldest son teaches my kids new and fun expressions like, “You want a piece of this?”
Our visit last Tuesday involved something a bit different.
My attempts to appreciate the great outdoors almost always turn into near-death experiences
When considering activities to enjoy in Boston this week, a friend suggested we explore nearby rural areas. That suggestion reminded me of a time, several years ago, when I attempted to walk around outside. We are still recovering…
It’s been established that, although the great outdoors should be preserved, I don’t actually *enjoy* being outdoors. Especially during the summer. Bugs, fear of sweat, sun, heat, and assorted animals all conspire to keep me indoors.
However, once in a while, I forget who I am. This immediately calls into question my ability to a) parent effectively and b) make decisions without medication.
While living in The Springs, I took my children to Garden of the Gods for a picnic lunch. Youngest has been asking (read: bugging) me to go hiking since we arrived there so I noticed different trails around our picnic area and thought,
“We can do this.”
Big mistake.
Catherine Durkin Robinson
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VOTE!
she’s crafty
