The Facts of Life. The Real Ones.
Mamacita says: Not all facts of life are about sex. The sex facts, kids believe. (They have a hard time believing WE had sex, but the facts? They’re okay with those.) It’s these other facts of life they think we’re pulling their legs about.
I know my parents never had sex. The whole concept of that is ridiculous.
When I look at my high school yearbook, it’s like a panorama of horrible hair and worse fashions. Cat’s eye glasses didn’t flatter anybody. The sideburns on the guys, and the mini-skirts on girls that barely covered the subject . . .Bangs that almost covered our eyes. Turtlenecks on guys.
But when I look at my mother’s yearbook, everybody looks pretty good. I don’t remember them looking good at all when I was a kid, looking at mom’s youth. Those old pictures seemed silly then. But now, those forties hairstyles and clothes look a lot like the hairstyles and clothes the kids are sporting in my classes, today.
Stick a cell phone in my 17-year-old mother’s hand, and she’s ready to rumble with the kids of today.
Stick a cell phone in my own hand, at 17, and you’ve got a serious warp in the space-time continuum.
I’m not going to tell anybody how old I was when I finally stopped dotting my i’s with a little circle instead of a dot. I’m not embarrassed about it, though, because it used to be cool to do that.
Really, it did.
It also used to be cool to spray my hair into a rock-hard sculpture that could withstand a windstorm. And to get out Mom’s sewing machine and ‘peg’ my pants till they were so tight I had to lie down flat to get them fastened. Picture Mary Tyler Moore, with the eye in the back of her head. “I seeeeeeee you!”
The long garters that held up my hose were cool, too. I hope the guy who invented pantyhose is a millionaire now. Miniskirts and garters were a difficult combination.
Then again, who wears pantyhose any more?
Jeans? I didn’t own jeans till I was in college, unless you count the Polly Crocket pants Santa brought me that time. Other kids were wearing them, but Mom didn’t believe in jeans. On my third day at college, I bought jeans. Stylish jeans – hip huggers, that barely covered my rear. Huge bell-bottoms. I was so with it. I hope those never come back.
Thinking back over my first few years of teaching, I don’t think parachute pants are coming back any time soon, either. But at the time, weren’t they COOL? Weren’t they? Well, they were, weren’t they? Tee hee.
Mom’s yearbook pictures became cool again. I don’t think mine ever will. I kind of hope not, too.
Yeah, just wait till your kids start looking at YOUR yearbook photos.
Me Magazine: Still Waiting
Mamacita says: Magazines are not written for me. When my kids were little, I used to subscribe to several parenting and household magazines, and few if any of my problems were ever featured anywhere in there. Maybe on the joke page, but never in an article with advice and solutions. Where were the articles about snakes and albino rats and a garden full of rotten tomatoes and little boys, and how to hang a swing on a tree when the branches are all taller than a four-story house, and how to tell a good yard sale from a bad yard sale just by reading the ad so I wouldn’t waste gasoline driving in from out in the country, and how a handful of chocolate chips won’t hurt your child in the long run, and how to pack a school lunch when neither of your kids like sandwiches, and what to say to a school aide who made your kid sit at the back table because his lunch was smelly, and what IS that smashed thing on the carpet, and how do I persuade a raccoon to get the heck out of my kitchen, and is there really such a thing as clothes my size that really are flattering or is that just condescension, and how do I get all that sand out of the car’s carpet without shelling out the big bucks at the car wash. . . . Etc.
It’s still that way. Magazines don’t talk to me. I’m not sure who they are talking to, but it’s somebody way richer and more normal than me.
Now, my kids are grown so I don’t subscribe to parenting magazines any more, but I like to read magazines about Beautiful Homes. Surprisingly, my own admittedly unique problems are NEVER in there, either.
For example, today I walked into the big bathroom and saw three slices of pepperoni on the sink. Where did they come from? Why are they there? Nobody in the publishing world can tell me. Nobody in the house seems to know, either. I’d also like some advice on how to remove that mysterious footprint from the hall ceiling. And why is there a watermelon growing out of the cat’s litter box?
As for the Cooking magazines, well, most of those are not for the likes of me.
See, when I read an article called “Quick and Easy Summer Meals Your Whole Family Will Love, Using Ingredients You Already Have In Your Pantry,” I do NOT expect the first recipe to start out with “Sprinkle 2 tsp. of saffron and 1/4 cup freshly-squeezed lime juice over two pounds of octopus, let marinate for an hour, and grill, grill, grill!”
Whose family, and whose pantry, are they talking about? I love to cook and bake and I keep a pretty good inventory of spices and herbs, but SAFFRON? Who can afford saffron?
Lemons. I have no limes, but I always have lemons. The octopus I don’t have either, but maybe I could substitute the frozen catfish that’s been in the freezer since. . . . well, for a while.
I guess I can make this dish anyway, by substituting lemon for lime, paprika for saffron, and catfish for octopus. Do you think anyone will notice?
Not in this house they won’t.
I’d also buy a magazine that told me what to say to a daughter who had to take her beloved cat to the vet and have it put down, and whether I should sneak into her apartment and put away its dishes and toys before she got back or whether it would be therapeutic for her to do that herself, and how do I comfort my son after all those funerals, and in a house full of diabetics, where did all this candy come from, and how do I keep a watermelon plant alive if it’s apparently thriving in cat litter and might not want to be moved at this point in the summer, and why didn’t I notice it before since I sift that litter every single night? Okay, it’s usually pretty dark when I “do” the litter box but still. It’s a pretty big watermelon plant, and there are blossoms on it.
Magazines. They’re all fantasy unless you’re normal.
(By the way, if you haven’t already discovered “Stone Soup” by Jan Eliot, you’re missing out on a really wonderful comic strip. It’s one of my favorites.)
Over Ten Years Blogging. I’m Old School!
Mamacita says: Ten years and three months ago, a former student told me that I should start a blog. “You’ve got such a lot to say about the world,” he said. “Who cares what I think about the world?” I replied. “Lots of people would,” he said.
I couldn’t imagine that. I’m nobody. I wondered if he was right. I guess he was, because I’ve been to conferences all over the country, and spoken to crowds of people, both individually and on panels. People seem to recognize me even before they see my name tag. People tell me that such-and-such a post really helped/spoke to them/influenced them, etc. It’s really, really humbling. And exciting. And humbling. Who would have thought it? Me, with a large readership and people who seemed to like me and take me seriously? It’s like a dream. The good kind, that comes true because you never dreamed it would be possible but it really did and you’re in shock and awe and Oz and Wonderland. And Narnia and Hogwarts. And the Tardis.
I’ve met so many wonderful people during this journey. Some of them are still virtual friends, while I’ve met many face-to-face, but I’ve also learned during these ten years that online friends can be as real as face-to-face friends. Sure, there are creeps out there, but no more so than the number of creeps at the mall.
I’ve learned not to be afraid of the world. The world is actually pretty awesome, and it’s full of cool things and fantastic people. Sure, there are fiery volcanic pits and treacherous waterfalls and cockroaches and people who lie, cheat, & steal, but there are also rainbows and sunsets and flowers and people who are good, true friends. The forever kind.
That I would still be here ten years after beginning this funky little blog is amazing to me, and yet, it’s also unthinkable to abandon it, as many are abandoning blogging for the shorter Twitter and Facebook. Oh, I’m on those, too, but this blog saved my soul alive ten years ago and it’s done nothing but nourish me ever since. I am so grateful to the internet. Really, I am. It’s a world that was always there, but we had no way of accessing it easily. Now, we can travel anywhere, see anything, contact anyone, and work for a business that’s a thousand miles away, in our pajamas, at midnight.
Thank you, dear readers, for making me feel special. Ten years is as an eternity in the internet 
world, but somehow I don’t feel old when I’m here. I’m happy when I’m on Scheiss Weekly. I’m happy reading your comments. I love visiting YOUR blogs. I love visiting with you on the other social media sites, too, but I don’t think anything could ever completely replace a blog. In ten more years, I guess we’ll find out.
Also, I wonder if you really understand the title of this blog. Scheiss Weekly. Who speaks German? C’mon.
I was traumatized when I began it, and the title reflected that. I’m fine now, but the title keeps me humble. And fairly sane. Time marches on. Time flies. And yet, it really doesn’t. Time stands still. We march. With every blink of the eye, yes, and briefer even than that, our lives are moving ever swiftly towards their ends. It’s this middle that we must make the most of. I am. I hope you are, too.
Here’s to ten more years. At a time, anyway.
I love you all. Literally.
