Eyes of Emulation

                “I.  Am.  Sooooooo.  Bored!”   My son lamented in a dialect best described as ‘Ugh’ and simultaniously moved his body in a similar fashion to the rubber band Gumby toys I had as a child where when you push the button the band goes slack and the entire thing collapses on itself.  It may soon be scientific fact that children’s bones are made of a similar material, yet instead of a button the band goes limp any time a request is uttered from a parent’s mouth.

                “Only boring people are…..” I couldn’t finish.

                “Oh my god mom!  BORED!  Yeah, I know!   I hate when you say that!”

                This is a phrase that has been passed down generationally.  My mom said it to me with similar results to the ones that I receive.  She ended hers with, “If you can’t find something to do, I will and you won’t like it.”  This was always my cue to stomp into my room before she could introduce my hand to the vacuum.  After I’d shut myself in I would vow to never say that kind of stuff to my kids should I have them.  I wish that I could go back in time and laugh in my ‘all knowing’ preteen face.  Repeating things from our childhood is natural.  Whether it’s phrases or traditions or favorite meals or even a vicious cycle of drugs and abuse (while I certainly don’t suggest the last one) the perpetuation of these things is something we are all guilty of in some way.  The one thing I feel I missed out on is that now not only is it frowned down upon to ‘beat our kid’s asses’, but somewhat illegal in places.  Don’t get me wrong I wasn’t looking to met out corporal punishment or anything, I’m just sad that I will probably never get to say:

 “This will hurt me more than it will hurt you.”

“I hit you because I love you.”

“I’m just trying to teach you a lesson.”
“Wait until your father gets home and he’ll ‘tell’ you again!” or

“You made me do this.”

I suppose I must rely on my wits and bribing techniques instead of the back of my hand.  Really is too bad. 

                While camping recently my sister’s mother in law joked that when my son grew up he would likely write a book titled, ‘Growing Up Angie’ and that she would buy it.  I countered that instead of a college savings I should make it a ‘therapy account’ to help him become normal.  This did cause a bit of introspection though about what sayings and things from his childhood that, while he hates them now, as an adult he’ll find the wisdom in and perpetuate.  I have compiled some of my favorites that I well and truly hope continue:

“Only you have the power to embarrass yourself.”

“Don’t sell yourself short or someone will pay the clearance price.”  (This is sometimes ended with, “and you’re worth more than that.” depends on how much energy I want to expend in my parenting syllabus.)

“Yesterday is not today’s fault.”

“Jason Mraz songs have subliminal messages in them to make people want wieners.  That’s why girls really like him.  Prolonged exposure for guys will cause gayness.  That’s science.”

‘Soooo not true, everyone knows people are born gay, they don’t become it.’

“Mr. Mraz hasn’t been around that long.  You’ll see I’m right.”

“You’re welcome to as many negative comments as you want, but must counter them with three positive.  Negative rolls downhill and if you go too far it’s a long hard climb back up.”

“Don’t say, ‘I can’t.’ but ‘how can I?’”

“You can’t control people, only how you react to them.”

“It’s not what you say, but how you say it.”

“The most important thing you can make people feel is appreciated.”

“You get bed bugs from strip clubs.”  (Among other things.)

                Maybe he’ll repeat all of them, maybe none, maybe only two, but most likely I’m telling him these things as a reminder to myself.  I can make a million speeches about eating healthy, but if I do it while shoveling fast food into my mouth the words become moot.  I can’t just say the things that would make me a better person, I have to be them to ensure that when my son looks at me with eyes of emulation, I’m proud of my reflection.

My Singlet Situation

                Spray tan.  It’s most likely the best alternative to an actual tan.  You still get the ‘been at the beach’ look, without all the cancer causing side effects.  Also it eliminates those pesky tan lines that make a strapless dress look a little odd, or when you go to the nonfiction beach your stomach is not a grotesque shade of flesh.

                “I’m not thinking I need a spray tan.” I announced while having a salad lunch with the ladies, “I just got back from camping and spent a good amount of time in the sun.  Plus I finally put in my garden, so I should be good.”  Well that’s what I thought at least.  Upon further review it seemed that I was wearing shorts and a tank top when I received the gift of sun styled pigment on my skin, so without the help of clothing, it appears as though I am wearing a flesh colored wrestling style singlet.  Maybe even glow in the dark.

                “Hey Apes, what date is it that ‘home base’ is an option?  I’m going on number five tomorrow and I’m afraid that when ‘business time’ arrives he may be more than slightly taken aback by my choice in tanning styles. There’s a very real possibility that upon stripping he might get out a wrestling mat and some oil in preparation for what I’ve clearly (un)dressed for, a Greco Roman grappling competition.”

                “Maybe you could get some body paint, outline it, and add like a team name or superhero symbol?  Then it’s legit.  If there’s a team name it’s ok.”

                “Like team Cock Pocket?  Or Salami Drawer?”

                “I was thinking more along the lines of team Milkshake or an acronym, like STD.”

                “Or HPV?  I hear 1 in 4 people is on this team.”  (This was before Michael Douglas got himself the cancer by the way, otherwise I feel our jokes would’ve been even better.)

                So on and on this conversation went.  At some point we decided that it should be done in henna so that it wouldn’t wash off.  Also colors must be chosen, we both concurred that red was out.  The idea of a Varsity Blues style whipped cream singlet (instead of the bikini she wore) was also a very viable option to try and hide the unfortunate tan line happenings.  I also lamented on whether I should warn the fair suitor ahead of time, or to make it a surprise?  Well, everyone likes surprises, right?

                Now if I want to bust out the honesty card my acronym would be SC.  Self Conscious.  That’s what it’s all about anyway.  That maybe this brilliant man, a Language Artist if you will, would find something about my human form to be unattractive enough to not only call off the date midway through ‘adult time’ but to also lose my number and block my Facebook.  Completely illogical on my part.  Not that I’m the mayor of It’s Just Me-ville or anything because I’m quite certain that even the most secure of people has something that makes them hesitate to bare all (this is as much mentally as physically).  Maybe it’s stretch marks, a ‘spare tire’, arm fat, explosive sneezing, a big nose, back hair, arm hair, no hair, compulsive talking, falling down, giggling when nervous, uneven teeth, uneven legs, a stutter, commitment issues, stalker issues, stage five clinger tendencies….. etc. 

                After multiple costume changes and a multitude of expended energy on worry about hair, shoes, makeup and other date worthy stresses I made it out on the town.  Just like my uncontrollable urge to share the ‘jelly jam joke’ it didn’t take long before I went ahead and laid out my singlet situation.  Response, “You could start a club called ‘All the Singlet Ladies’”.  Brilliance.  So maybe, just maybe, sharing my insecurities instead of pretending that they don’t exist or going the ostrich approach, would lend itself to comfort and acceptance instead of confusion and angst.  Most likely the things I worry about the greatest, mean little to those that care.  I view myself with the most critical of colored glasses (not sure the spectrum on that, but I’m positive it’s not rose hued.  Maybe grey?  Or can I not use that color without thinking about porny novels?  Hmmmm), which is beneficial when it comes to personal growth and overall physical health, but otherwise, I think it’s about time I cut myself a break.  I’m worthy of wits matching with a wonderful wordsmith and if my pigmentation turns groping into grappling, so be it.  Plus, I bet it’d be memorable.

This beauty right here is was texted to me by my lovely sister with the caption "Date outfit choice #1."  So at least no matter what I'm worried about I can always count on my family to make a joke out of it and laugh at me even if I can't.  Awesome. 

Lessons Learned and Ladies Rooms

                  “What if I don’t know what one of my cards means?” My mom inquired, as we sat down to play a family game of ‘Cards Against Humanity’ each armed with a ‘non’ alcoholic beverage (not thinking that ‘non’ was the case, but whatever).

                “Urban dictionary it mom.”  My sister states.  I love that urban dictionary started as a website and by all intents and purposes was classified as a noun, it has now morphed into a verb, like google. 

                “Well what is the word mom?  Maybe I know what it means.”  I’m trying to be ‘helpful’, but I’m certain that not only is it 99% likely that I know the meaning, but it’s an equal percentage that I probably don’t want to be the one to define it for my mother.  After she flashed me her card it was clear that I was indeed correct on both points.  Well shit.  Lesson learned.  If you don’t feel comfortable providing a definition to your mom, don’t bring it up in her presence.  This is a lesson I will most likely never really get a grasp on (no worries on hiding your own mothers, I only have this verbal vomiting with my own mother.  You’re welcome mom!)

                “I’ll be right back niecey.  Aunt Angie has to run to the restroom, and by run I mean sprint because there’s good chance that I may not make it in time.”  (Speaking of yourself in third person to small children does no real good.  It just seems the only true time in real life to use third person without sounding like a huge dick bag.)

                “Oh, well if you don’t want to walk all the way to the potty you can always take this out into the woods and go in it.”  With a serene and serious, devoid of the eventual sarcasm that all in my family possess at some point, smile she extends her hand, in it a doggie ‘business’ bag.  It’s purple, logically. 

                ‘”But I just have to go number one.” was clearly the appropriate response.

                “That’s fine, it’s not just for poop.”  This last line came with a little turn and mimed demonstration, complete with a bounce and then dropped the bag right into my hand.  Oooookkkkay then.  Lesson learned.  A five year old is the master at procuring a temporary potty, even if it’s indecent exposure by some state laws.  I suppose when you’re only a few years removed from just going whenever the mood strikes you and then that transforms into the ‘get a treat for bodily functions’ year, it’s easily to feel that taking care of business in a one gallon purple baggie isn’t such a bad plan.  I kept the baggie, just in case.  

 

                “Look mom, I don’t mind going into the men’s room alone during the day, but at night it really gives me the creeps.  Someone drew a faceless face in the first stall and I just don’t feel comfortable after dark being in there long enough to change and brush my teeth.  If there is no one else in the lady’s room, can’t I just come in with you and Grammy?”  My son pleaded as we prepared ourselves for another night in a tent.

                “Well honey, I don’t see anything wrong with that if there’s no one in there.” My mom stated and I concurred her opinion.  At twelve my son is right over the cusp of being 'ok' to be in the lady’s room.  Under nonfiction circumstances, like the grocery or target or school, there’s NO WAY I’d find it acceptable.  Yet something about being in a campground after dark and all logic was thrown to the wind.

                I checked the coast, and while it wasn’t completely clear, there were no women in the immediate vicinity so we sneaked ('snuck' is not a real word, I always thought it was until this week when my mind was blown by that knowledge) the boy in.  After entering we realized the both of the shower stalls at the end of the row were occupied, (I should preface this with the fact that the showers were stalls with an area to dress in.  It was not a large community shower room filled with nozzles and steam and naked women.)  Seeing as how usually females shower for an extended period of time and we were only looking at 5 to 10 minutes to complete our nightly mission of tooth brushing, contact removing and face washing we figured that there would be plenty of time to get in and get out before anyone was the wiser about the fact that a male had breached the women’s room boundary.  Alex, looked around with a wide eyed look of one having opened Pandora’s box and shuffled quickly into the first bathroom stall (clearly different equipment than the shower ones at the end).  He went to work changing into his nighttime garb of sweatpants and a hoodie, his silence for once can only be interpreted as reverence.  Mom and I went about our rituals at a quickened pace when suddenly both shower takers finished up.  We did not expect that the teenage girls would be quick change artists and they both emerged before I could collect my preteen son and mosey on out.

                ‘I have soooo many layers on.’

                “Oh my god so do I.  I have three shirts on and two pairs of pants.”

                ‘I’m wearing two pairs too!  One is like a legging and the other more like a sweat pant.’

                “Yeah, and for shirts I’ve got on a tank top, a long sleeved and then this sweatshirt.  Do you think we’ll be cold?”

                ‘Oh I think we’ll be fine tonight, we’re both wearing a lot of layers.’

                As this very current event filled conversation flooded the bathroom I quietly in more of an Austin Powers type more than James Bond-like, retrieved my kid, flipped up his hood and walked him outside.  Relieved that we weren’t busted I immediately started laughing.

                “So is that REALLY what girls talk about when boys aren’t around?  How many clothes they’re wearing?” He said practically aghast as all of his hope and dreams were washed right down the drain of an insect infested campground bathroom. 

                “Yes son, that’s really what girls talk about.”

                Lesson learned.  Contrary to what visions of the ‘forbidden land’ my preteen son had, that women’s restrooms are simply fraught with topless ladies busy fondling each other/themselves in front of mirrors while simultaneously reciting Roman gods in alphabetical order and interesting facts about ancient Egyptians (he’s into anthropologist stuff right now, don’t judge), this is simply not the case.  I almost regret the whole experience because of the despondency in his voice when he stepped out of the sacred Land of the Ladies with his boobie colored glasses shattered, knowing that girls really just talk about what they’re wearing.  Almost. 

When I Think About You I Sext Myself

                “I noticed last night that so and so ‘liked’ one of your pictures from awhile ago.  I think maybe he has the hots for the Angie.” a friend texted me.

                “Yeah, I saw that.  I guess I was uncertain of what that meant.  What am I supposed to do now?  ‘Like’ one of his pictures from awhile ago?”  I replied, (and with proper grammar and punctuation because I can’t stand lazy texters, also I have a hard time deciphering what all the acronyms stand for.  I feel like it’s a slippery slope that once I throw the first LOL out there people will get the idea that I KNOW what they’re talking about when they fire me back a BTW ATOL AFK…… I don’t.  Plus if it also happens to be a real word as well as some whipper snapper speak I may think there’s just emphasis on it and not that It’s a whole phrase.)

                Six months ago I walked away from a four year relationship that for most of which I thought would be my last (not in an ominous if-I-can’t-have-her-no-one-can sort of a way).  I of course had become lax in dating, for obvious reasons, (not that I was ever really good at it to start with) but when I looked around and found myself in the land of Social Media Dating and Undating I felt as if I needed a tutorial.  By ‘tutorial’ I mean like maybe a semester at the community college or even an Associate’s degree. 

So to start things off I did all the things that I believed to be required in a break-up in the age of social media, you know, changed my status, blocked his Instagram, de-friended all of his work friends, and deleted any pictures of the two of us in relationshipped bliss.  Gone are the days of just throwing away his number and hoping you don’t ‘remember’ it when a few drinks makes a 2 AM conversation sound like the best idea EVER!  No, now like a near death experience, you’re quite literally having your relationship flash before your eyes in the form of tagged and posted photos as you listen to a Nine Inch Nails/Fiona Apple/Scissor Sisters break-up playlist (hey, don’t knock that ménage trois until you’ve tried it, you won’t know whether to dance, cry or cut yourself) trying to remember the bad times while you publicly delete all the good ones.  It is a necessary Facebook evil though.  Heaven forbid that I meet a large manlier version of Prince Charming who is gainfully employed with emotional baggage that is carry-on sized, and he creeps my Facebook only to come across a camping picture of myself and the ex that I missed when ‘cleaning house’.  (Side note, after writing this I went and creeped my own Facebook only to realize that I did indeed miss photos.)

Next step, get rid of my relationship status entirely.  After careful consideration I found that for an over thinker such as myself it’d be best to just do away with that little baby.  I mean there just weren’t enough choices to adequately sum up what my ‘relationship status’ has been over the last six months.  Options that would make me change my mind on this (and in timeline order):

‘Fragile.’

‘Completely emotionally and mentally unavailable, but if you’d like to make out sometime I might be game….. but maybe not.’

‘I’m not sure if I want to date anyone when I’m sober, but after a few drinks…..’

‘I might be seeing someone…. um, maybe not.... hold on I could be.... nope nevermind’

‘I’m awkward, but your face is neat.’

‘Recovering commitmentphobe.’

‘Coffee and blow j’s.’

‘Is in a really great place in her life and holding out for someone who’s looking for imperfection.’

These, make sense. 

Now originally I had a whole paragraph devoted to what my idea of ‘dating’ was in years gone by and after careful review of this it seemed that I had never ‘dated’ like I did in my mind, or that of the movies.  There were no grand chance encounters that ended with a romantic, not too eyebrow raising, kiss while ‘Endless Love’ played in the background.  Only one time in my illustrious 32 years of life has a man picked me up and brought me flowers. Hell if I get all ‘age of smartphone’ on you I can say that being on the receiving end of someone who’s just ‘fired off a dick pic’ (affectionately called) is like a partridge in a pear tree for me (you know, once).  I’m more ‘Girls’ than ‘Sex in the City’.  I’ve always just ran into someone, had a conversation, traded numbers, got all sweaty (sweaty like nervous, not like all porny sweaty.  Ok, well that was certainly involved as well.  I’m no saint.), swapped some spit and called it exclusive!  I guess playing the coy lady waiting on a man to make the move while I sit back and fan myself wasn’t in my repertoire.  I’m becoming more and more ok with it.  I mean I’m still susceptible to all sorts of ‘lady’ things…. Flowers, flattery and bourbon to name three, and  I’m certainly not implying that I’m a closet dominatrix just waiting for a less than strong willed male to come by so I can don my leather and force my will upon them (I’d look awful in leather, and I’d be sooo sweaty!  This time not ‘nervous’ sweaty but actually sweaty.)  More of an acceptance of the blurring of the gender roles in the dating game is all.

  I also had written a good portion about Facebook and all the nuances about ‘what it all meant’ (thus the intro), but as I mentioned earlier, I’m an over thinker.  My twelve year old son put it very succinctly today for me on our drive home. 

“Mommy, I just don’t get the guys at my school.  They all want the hot chicks!  Well that’s plain dumb.  I mean, they’re good looking and all, but they KNOW they are and all the guys flock to them.  So they think they can be soooo sassy and you have all that competition.  I like my girls in the middle.  You know, the ones that are cute, not hot, smart, and funny.  Then once you find out how smart and funny they are, you are the guy that knows the secret………. that your girl is hotter than theirs.”

And that happened.  I may be the proudest mommy on the whole planet.  With all the media, social and otherwise it’s easy to get caught up in how it all SHOULD be instead of how it actually is.  Dating is confusing and messy.  It has highs and it has lows and we all do it differently.  Sometimes it takes a twelve year old on the verge of getting a new voice with no experience past a ‘Will you be my boyfriend?’ written on a bubblegum wrapper, to remind me that we make it waaayyyy more than it should be. 

Now, if you need me I’ll be busy enjoying being in the best place I’ve ever been….. Comfortable with who I am and holding out for someone who’s looking for imperfection.