I Think Golf Had the Right Idea

                    As a proud parent of athletic boys, I was a little surprised and dismayed to hear that high school sports participation is declining, not just in our area but across the country.

                    I’m sure that there are a variety of factors that have contributed to this decline: lack of funding and equipment, lack of volunteers for coaching, and the increase of digital consumption to name a few. But if I had to hazard a guess as to the main reason, it’s the parents.

                    In my experience as a sports parent and frequent spectator at these events, there are 4 main types of sports parents: The quiet supporter, the snowflake protector, the one living vicariously through their child, and the aggressive sports douche that you thought only existed in sports movies. (Surprise! They were actually based on real life events!)

                    Obviously, the quiet supporter is the parent that shows up to support their child and knows how to behave and be quiet. They aren’t there to make a spectacle, will never mutter a word related to “bad calls”, and the word “unfair” will never pass their lips. You’ll usually find them off to the side or sitting away from most of the crowd. They are there to watch their kid and enjoy the moment. 

                    Until the other 3 types of sports parents join the party. Yup, they are the entire reason why we can’t have nice things.

                    The snowflake protector is the parent who never thinks that their kid does anything wrong. They are the most perfect specimen and the standard that every other child should be measuring themselves against. Nothing is ever their fault, and they are never held accountable for their actions. These parents don’t promote learning teamwork because their snowflake is the most special and important player.  They are the type to go on social media and criticize coaches, teammates, and the world in general for ruining their kids’ experiences or demand meetings with school principals when poor grades or actions bench their kid.  

                    These parents think that they are doing their child a favor by being their “biggest cheerleader” when in fact, they are doing their child a huge disservice. This kid is going to be wholly unprepared for the real world that doesn’t give out participation trophies and only rewards those who put in the work. They are going to have problems with people in authority when mommy and daddy can’t be there to swoop in after “mistakes” to place the blame on someone else. They are going to grow up with a sense of entitlement, and the real world is going to say “Hold my beer” while it doles out a case of knocking this punk kid down a peg.

                    The vicarious parent is living through their child in one of two ways: Either they are reliving their former athletic glory days, or they were never athletic and wistful about it. (Cue sad montage of an awkward kid sitting on the sidelines, watching their classmates play sportsball while they are sad and pensive.) These parents are generally harmless but can be annoying in their overachieving need to have a great child athlete and like to coach from the sidelines. I once saw a parent tell their child to move their position on the baseball field that directly contradicted what the coach had told the kid. But since it was his dad, who was he to argue? (This is probably 85% of the frustration of being a youth sports coach.) These kinds of parents are the reason I mutter “Let the coaches coach” at least once per every single game I’ve ever attended.

                    Sometimes, however, the vicarious parent crosses over into aggressive sports douche territory. This is the parent who is yelling criticism at his kid during the game, loudly complaining about the ref’s calls, or making jeering comments about the opposing team’s players. These meatheads, male OR female, are the worst kind of people and sincerely need to be reminded that these are CHILDREN. An adult making negative commentary or insults about any child is just an abusive bully. Act your age and get a freaking grip. This is a sport with school aged participants. These kids aren’t pros. They aren’t being paid millions for their performance. They are being taught skills and teamwork by volunteers who are taking time away from their own lives and families. They are not asking to be berated by Donny D-bag whose only current skill is being loudly aggressive and a moron. Sometimes it’s Danielle D-bag getting in on the action though. Cheering too loudly when the opposing teams makes a bad play or when the pitcher strikes out a kid. There is a difference between being supportive and being passive aggressive. If your “cheerleading” relies on putting someone else down, well, that’s not support, that’s back into bullying territory.

                    I’d like to say that this is solely the behavior of high school sports parents, but it’s not. At my son’s most recent 12U baseball game, the opposing team’s coaches were berating their kids and the parents were aggressive in their whoops and cheers for an overthrow from our boys. It’s at that point that I just begin to feel sorry for those kids. What kind of example are those immature people setting? Do they think that yelling at the ref for his “bad calls” is helpful to their child's team? The refs, may I point out, that are also volunteering their time so that your kid can play this sport?

                    While I am fortunate enough to tune most of the negativity out, sometimes I tune back in to catch snippets of conversations that make me chuckle or scratch my head. I present the following gems that were overheard at my son's last game:

                    “I’m going to wear my house coat….AGAIN.” (Zero context for this, which made it even funnier.)

                    “Let’s go Killer!”

                    <Growling>

                    (Opposing coach to their pitcher) “Remember that game in coach pitch when I hit you because the sun was in your eyes? (Was this his version of a pep talk??)

                    “Put some sauce on that meatball!”

                    (Opposing coach in their dugout) “There needs to be a hero in every game.” (Way to teach teamwork champ. Eyeroll)

                    I really do think that golf is onto something by making their spectators be silent. And if they can’t put both their phone AND their mouth on silent, the bouncer gets to eject them from the viewing arena posthaste. Can somebody please make this happen?

 

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Perhaps Medium League is More Apt

             This week marked the official start of the Little League season in our household. As with many other Northeast baseball parents, this means that we get sunburn one day and hypothermia the next. April, and sometimes much of May, are not for the faint of heart for outdoor sports in these parts. It's best to be prepared with your sunscreen, wool socks, portable fan, umbrella, and electric hand warmers to be on the safe side.

            This season is a little bittersweet as it's the last one's last one. (Translation: The last child is in his last year of little league.) Next year I won't have to worry about the chaos of trying to keep the book while simultaneously trying to keep 10 through 12 year old boys from killing each other. It's the last year of mouth fart noises and cliched sayings that I don't understand anymore because I'm old. It's the final year of dugout-momming.

            And I'm not going to lie and pretend that I signed up for this gig in the first place. My husband volun-told me to help out in the last one's first one. (Translation: The last child's first year in little league.) I remember how out of my league (pun intended) that I felt because a book nerd has no place in sports ball. Truth be told, the first week of every season brings that feeling back, though I now get over it a heck of a lot more quickly. So the irony of this final year being such a poignant moment, that I didn't even think I'd want to do, isn't lost on me.

            For any parent who coaches, dugout parents, or even just volunteers, I appreciate you. I don't even know you, I just know that you have the courage and grit to wade through those child infested grasslands and come out the victor. Because, as any parent who has chaperoned a field trip or been a classroom parent can tell you, it's a big job. It's like herding cats in an open cat nip field using only one arm and having both shoes untied.

            Ok, ok, so not ALL the games are like that. Just the ones that are on days ending in "y".

            Not to mention that there's something more feral about a gaggle of kids than a few. Once you multiply them past a handful, they become exactly that: a handful. They also seem to escalate their energy levels three notches past rambunctious. I'm not sure exactly what that level is called, but it does sometimes require an ibuprofen after 2 straight hours of exposure. 

            Even if you end up with a mostly great group of kids, there will always be one or two who will make you need the ibuprofen all on their own, no extra help needed. I'm guessing that these are the kids who are enrolled to "get the wiggles out" or who need to "channel that energy somewhere productive". This is, of course, parent code for "Oh my god, I just need a break. Please go be someone else's problem for 120 minutes."

             Not that I am familiar with this strategy at all. <awkward laugh>

            So if you see me in the next 2 months, just know that I am doing my best to stay sane. And if sometimes that looks like hiding in a quiet closet for 40 minutes to decompress on game nights, well, move over vacuum, I need some prime floor space.

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Screen Shotting My Way to Mediocrity

             As a busy working mom of an athletic kid involved in year-round sports, sometimes I find my brain to be an unreliable source of information. I am not sure if I am just cramming too much data in there or if my processor has slow retrieval options, but it’s not as great of a system in my 40’s as it was in my 20’s.

Here is where my phone has come to the rescue. I’ve always embraced technology but admittedly never adopted it as a personality…like I have with my phone. Face it, if that’s lost, I don’t know anything anymore. Zero. Zip. Zilch. (And other z-words that mean nothing.)

But who can blame me? It’s a camera, an appointment calendar, a music player, an entertainment source, a bank, a vacation planner, a communication center, a television, and occasionally it’s even used as a telephone. This tiny little 6-inch box is pretty much my life made portable.

And while all that is great, it’s also enabling some bad habits. Most notably the screen shots. Of recipes. Jokes that I want to remember to tell a co-worker. Funny memes I want to post later. DIY projects. Gardening hacks. Online shopping receipts. More recipes. I might even have a picture or video on there. You know, using the camera function “old school” style.

Although this is super helpful sometimes, it also annoys the OCD side of me that constantly likes to declutter and organize. My camera roll is a haphazard mess of kid pictures, recipes that I’m convinced I’ll actually make, and random screen shots of things that I don’t want to forget, but will also probably never look at again.

Every once in a while the OCD troll comes out and decides to clean up the camera roll by going on a deleting frenzy or writing the recipes down on a paper and putting them into the recipe binder, thus increasing the chances that I might actually try them. In order for this to happen though,  there’s usually some sort of down time component involved (or a frenetic cleaning spree) and lately I haven’t found that elusive down time. I’ve tried penciling it in multiple times but keep having to reschedule. So annoying.

Until I find a better plan, however, I guess I’ll continue to screen shot my way to greatness. Or if not greatness, mid-level okay at least. Perhaps one day my brain’s internal storage drive will get an upgrade, maybe take some St. John’s Wort or ginko biloba or whatever. Let's be honest, unless a breakthrough in human CPU capacity is discovered or I find the lottery cure for free time, memory supplements are probably my only hope.

 

 

 

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I'm Prone to Finding Rabbit Holes

             I seem to have a knack for finding new rabbit holes to fall into. I'm not sure if it has anything to do with my propensity to leisure scroll or if I just have an unknown and useless talent. (Perhaps both?)

            One of the most recent spirals was the "AITA" forums. If you don't know what AITA stands for, it's "Am I The A$$hole". (Honestly, I feel like if you have to ask...)

            Generally, these people will post on a forum like Reddit, or some other forum that shall not be named (mostly because I don't know any others). Then, because this is the age of video media someone will make a channel devoted to reading these stories and giving their opinion of the assholishness. Sometimes they have ratings or cool red flag graphics, but they are generally just time wasting videos that kill brain cells if you watch too many in a row. (Brain cells are overrated, right?)

            If you ever want to lose faith in humanity real fast, listen to some of these AITA stories. I swear to God, I thank my lucky stars that I don't have to deal with the level of dipshittery that these authors have, because there's ALWAYS someone who definitely is an A-hole, regardless of whether it's the OP (the person who posted it) or the one the story is about (the culprit 91% of the time). Sometimes there are multiple D-bags in a single story. (Yikes, you need to surround yourself with better humans, STAT!)

            I thought that I was pretty much a realist, but these posts show me that I really live in a rose-colored glasses kind of world. I'm just la-la-la'ing my way through life compared to what some of these people deal with on a daily basis. Toxic mother-in-laws seem to be so prevalent that I am praying to ALL the gods that I will be a better M-I-L to the partners that my kids choose. Some of the things that have been posted are not even borderline bad, but straight over-the-line-by-a-mile evil. 

            The second most stories are about controlling or abusive behavior from partners or family and generally within the first paragraph you have identified 11 red flag behavior patterns. These just make my heart sad for the people being victimized. Sometimes I can't finish hearing them and have to scroll on until I reach the vacation or foodie part of my algorithm again. 

           I think that my main takeaway from all of these stories are:

           1.) There are there are a lot of stupid and/or entitled people in the world.

                (Holy crap. So many.)

           2.) Victim blaming is a competitive sport.

                (Some of these people have gold medal level blame skills.) 

           3.) There are a lot of dysfunctional families out there.

                (Don't worry, they put the "FUN" in dysfunction.)

           4.) People are really unsupportive of the humans in their life.

               (Like 1,000% unsupportive.)

            5.) With friends & family like these, who need enemies?

                (Please watch your back in all AITA scenarios for quality assurance purposes.)

            Sometimes these videos make me feel like humanity is screwed and we are in desperate need to have Mr. Rogers back as soon as possible. I need reincarnation to be real and he needs to make a cardigan-ed appearance NOW.

            Alternatively, does anyone know a good voodoo priestess? (Unrelated to the urgency of the previous request of course.)

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Contrary to Popular Belief

             I’m probably going to make a lot of people mad when I say this, but…I don’t like tacos. Actually, let me re-phrase that. I don’t like traditional tacos. I’ve had brisket and pulled pork and chicken BLT tacos and they were all amazing. But regular old Taco Tuesday does nothing for me.

This alone isn’t really that shocking. I mean, tons of people have food preferences and it’s not really an earth-shattering revelation. But I also don’t like iced coffee. Or Taylor Swift’s music. Or margaritas. Or those Stanley cups. I didn’t watch The Tiger King or Squid Game. I didn’t participate in the Ice Bucket Challenge, or take part in the Dubai chocolate movement, and I think the fashion trends are mostly ugly and uncomfortable.

All of which makes me wonder if my subconscious is contrary on accident or if it is on purpose? I am in favor of embracing what makes a person unique, but going out of your way to avoid popular trends seems counterintuitive. (Yet apparently, on brand for me.)

Perhaps it’s because I’m a Gen X. Or because I’m a “stubborn” Taurus. Eldest daughter syndrome maybe? Or is it that this trifecta has culminated in a perfect storm of “You’re not going to tell me what I like”. Because that’s what it really boils down to, right? Bucking the general consensus that is trying to dictate what society likes at a specific moment in time?

I think I just accidentally shrunk my own head and explained my entire life to myself. Hold on a minute while I recover.

Okay, reloading...

Every time I wish that I conformed to societal norms, do I really only have myself to blame? Like when I'm annoyed that I can't buy the shirt that says "Buy me tacos and tell me I'm pretty?" because I don't want tacos. Yeah, I like to joke that I’m petty but if it’s inherently an ingrained trait that I haven’t had to consciously cultivate, I think that brings it to a whole new level of petty. I don’t even think that’s a strong enough word description. Is there a pettier word for petty? Pettyful? Pettytastic? Super-cali-fragi-listic-petty-ala-docious?

Personally, I might be a little proud that my individualistic tendencies are so strong that I don’t even have to put thought into them. I subconsciously reject all super-pop culture on principle. (Which to be honest, requires less mental effort and keeps my mental load lighter, so why would I ever complain?)

Plus, it’s not like I’ve ever been “normal”. I have always marched to the beat of my own drum. I have encouraged my kids to do the same. Normal is overrated and quite frankly, extremely boring. Would you rather hang out with the friend who talks about the weather and current events or the one who is slightly unhinged and you never know what they’re going to say next? I know which one I’d choose, and choose to be, so if you choose door number 1, we are not the same.

For all my fellow odd ducks, black sheep, and anti-followers, I hope you find your tribe. May they find your eccentricities endearing, your quirks to be par for the course, and your individuality inspiring.

 Now pardon me while I try to find a shirt that says:

Buy me books, and tell me I'm pretty weird.

 

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I'm Only a Scrooge AFTER Christmas

The winter solstice marks the shortest day of the year. After that, the days begin to accumulate daylight again. Which is good, I guess. It’s nice to know that one day we will be able to see what the sun looks like without relying on pictures to remember what Upstate New York is like when it’s not a frozen wasteland.

The question is, what difference does it make?

It’s still going to be cold and crappy and dark until we start hoarding daylight again in March. So, who cares if every day we get a couple more minutes of precious light back? I can tell you for a fact that my miserable ass is going to be hunkered down in my house, cursing winter and the cold and the fact that I wasn’t born rich to escape to my Pied-a-terre on a tropical island somewhere. I will lament that my family didn’t choose to reside in Florida or California or Arizona… or anywhere else where “frostbite” has to be Googled because they don’t know what it is. Sure, Florida has alligators. But they are probably much smaller than the case of winter blahs that I’m hauling around.

I really do think that the solution to this problem would be to rearrange the calendar. We peak with Christmas at the end of December and then have to suffer through 3 more months of gray and white before we start to have a spark of hope again. So why don’t we push Thanksgiving a few weeks to the second week of December and then move Christmas to the end of January? Then we’ll roll into Valentine’s Day and Mid-winter recess before partying with St. Pats in March. Before you know it, Spring Break will be here, and we will have hope that our fingers and toes will defrost soon.

See? It’s a much better flow.

As a win-win, it would extend the length of time between Thanksgiving and Christmas so that peace, love, and Christmas cookie bubble could last longer. I know that all those festive Christmas decorations would brighten up all 97 days in January! For surviving the longest month of the year, we’d get Christmas as our reward. Right now, surviving January just brings February and bleak winter drama. No one dreams of a white anything after December 25th and snow might be a little more tolerable if we have dreams of a White Christmas dancing in our heads.

As a win-win-win, maybe my poor husband would stop hearing me vehemently exclaim “I &^#%^* HATE winter!” 92 times a day. Ok, ok, that’s a lie. I’m still going to hate the cold no matter if it’s Christmas, Elvis Presley’s birthday, or the second coming of Christ. Cold just sucks. Not only the temperature, but the nasty sleet, freezing rain, and snow that it travels with. Winter’s entourage is filled with a bunch of sniveling, snot nosed jerks who love to make your nose simultaneously stuffy and runny.

It’s been weeks since my feet went an entire day without feeling like they’re refrigerated and my naturally pale skin hasn’t been exposed to sunlight in weeks. I’m practically translucent. I'm hitting record lack of pigment levels over here. So if you’re looking for me anytime between January and April, look at the blanket covered lump on the chaise lounge or huddled under the comforter in my bed. Actually, I take that back. Don’t bother to look for me. I’m going into hibernation.

I’ll see you when the Daffodils make an appearance.

 

 

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You're Not the Boss of Me Alexa!

    Ok, we’ve established that I’m a gal who likes a handy gadget. It’s also been previously determined that I have an unhealthy Alexa obsession. (Although, in my defense, it’s more of a convenience obsession.)

                Apparently, Alexa, or  I guess Amazon, has decided to test my limits this week. Or rather, I decided to test my own limits. Completely by accident. Let me back up and set the scene.

                It was an ordinary Wednesday night, Thanksgiving Eve to be exact, when I noticed the Echo dot in the family room was disconnected from the internet.

                How did I find this out you ask? She told me. (She’s good like that.)

                So there I am, reconnecting her to the internet, and trying to figure out how to get people to stop pushing the couch too far back and muting her, when it happened.

                I accidentally upgraded to the new Alexa version.

                Now I knew that there was an upgraded version available to try for at least a few weeks. And I knew this because on the Echo show in the kitchen, she popped up multiple screens that were designed to make me take the bait. Oh, but I wasn’t falling for that nonsense. Not even when the screen said, “Alexa, let me hear your new voice” and my curiosity was killing a dozen cats. I was determined to keep my normal O.G. Alexa.

                The problem is, I don’t think new devices are being given the option. They are automatically defaulting to the new AI assistant, which is what happens when you are part of the resistance for as long as I was. When the echo dot had to be reconnected, it apparently decided that it was a new device, even though it’ s been in that room for approximately two and a half years. And it wouldn’t have been that bad if it had just upgraded that one device. After all, I use the kitchen one the most and the others are basically just the speaker network for when I want to play music throughout the house. But noooo, this one stupid reconnection upgraded ALL THE ALEXAS.

                Since I was pulled into the new version unwillingly, I figured maybe I’d give it a chance and see if it was better than the original program. I can accept change. I’m groovy and hip. (Just by saying that, you can obviously see that’s true.)

                That is a lie. I DO NOT LIKE CHANGE!!! Unless it’s in the form of paper currency or coins, I detest change. Like many humans before me, and like many generations to follow, any change that is not self-initiated will be the bane of my existence. I will be forced to lament this new abhorrent status with copious amounts of whining and complaints. There will be no reprieve until I grudgingly accept that this is the new norm and that I must make peace, or in the very least, stop bitching about it.

                You may be wondering what, specifically, about the new version is so heinous. And even if you’re not, I shall tell you, with the highest level of disgust dripping from my voice, as this is the height of all digital assistance treachery.

                For starters, they changed her voice. HER VOICE! When I automatically complained to her about this, I was informed that there were 4 female voice options and 4 male voice options.

                I’m sorry, excuse me? Alexa’s voice has always been feminine. At the risk of sounding a little sexist here, you can’t just change Alexa to Alex and think I won’t notice.

                I’d like to say that I listened to all 8 choices but alas, I demanded that she immediately change back to her classic Alexa voice. (Which, if you’re wondering, is “Feminine 2, like pulling on an old, comfortable sweater”.)

                And even though the upgrade was instantaneous among all the devices, changing the voice type has to be done on each individual device. What kind of horse shittery is this?

                If that wasn’t bad enough, evidently, they have made her chattier for some reason. I asked, “Alexa, what is the daily recommended ounces of water an adult should drink.” And after she answered the question, she asked ME a question. “What are some ways that you can stay hydrated?” And me, being a smart ass, said “Drink water.” (Snicker) “Yes, that’s a good way to stay hydrated. And then she asked ANOTHER QUESTION. 

Wait, what is going on here? I don’t need more inane conversations in my life thanks. Please stick to just answering the questions. She agreed to be less conversational, but I haven’t tested that out yet. Partly because I don’t have a questions, and partly because I’m not in the mood for her digital sass.

            So if you see me arguing with my toaster, it’s because it has unfairly sided with Alexa and I am trying to get it to see my side. Either that or it burned my toast again. Damn toaster.
 
               
 
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No Worries, I'll Just Be Sobbing in the Corner

               Tomorrow is Halloween, that most sacred day where creepy children taunt you until you give them candy. For over over 2 decades I have participated in the “dragging your children through the the darkened streets in search of sweet treats” ritual.

                Until this year.

                Yes, this is year that Halloween officially broke up with me.

                It started when my youngest was indecisive and vague when I questioned what he was thinking about for his costume this year. I didn’t think much of it at the time as we were busy and it was the first time I had asked. I figured he needed time to think about it.

                When I asked again a week later and still got a wishy-washy non-answer, I started to become a little concerned. A few days later, concern turned into full blown (internal) meltdown when I found out that he did NOT want to go out trick-or-treating this year.

                Um, excuse me? Run that by me one more time. Did you just tell me that you are abruptly ending this decades long annual tradition without any warning what-so-ever? Did you just throw down a milestone ending without even a teensy bit of preparation?

Sir, you are eleven. That is far too young to become cynical and jaded with the institution of organized candy goblinization. Who do you think you are?

The thing is, I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed Halloween too. Walking with the kids while they begged strangers for candy meant that we got to see all the amazing costumes. We got to chat with fellow mombies and deadies who are stalking their candy grubbing heathens too.

I guess I thought that, because his siblings all went out until age 13, that I had a few more years before he outgrew it. I wasn’t expecting to have the rug pulled out from under me so unexpectedly. I thought that I had plenty of time.

Parents like to talk about the all the first milestones…first tooth, first word, first day of school…but not one single person prepared me for the last milestones and how much of a struggle it would be to let go of their childhood. Especially when it’s the “last last”.

Because this child IS the ”last last”. That baby making factory has been out of business for so long that it’s covered in graffiti and has dust bunnies colonizing. Even if the factory wasn’t closed, those workers unionized and bargained for younger working conditions in their prime. There’s no chance they’d come back to work in this crummy old place. 

And I’m fine with that. Mostly. It’s just that I usually have some forewarning that this is the finale. This came out of the blue. Without any warning I have a tween on my hands. One that’s apparently too cool for Halloween. (Until he grows up and misses the carefree days of his youth and starts reliving the glory of Halloween with office work parties…but that is some time away from now.)

So check in on your parent friends who may also be on the brink of this transition. Because it can happen in the blink of an eye. Just be there to offer support and a small bag of assorted candy that they can sort like their kids used to do. It’ll help. I promise. Especially if there are milky way midnights and Almond Joys.

 

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Lifestyles of the Rich But Not Famous

            My love of writing started in the fourth grade when I was the only student in my class who got a perfect score on the state writing test. It was like those cartoons where the lightbulb lights up over the character’s head when they have an idea. Or in my case, an epiphany. (Wait, do fourth graders qualify for epiphanies? They aren’t age specific right?)

            From there, my writing evolved as it does when you start writing as a nine year old. I actually think that I did more reading than writing in my younger years. But it definitely helped me find my love of the written word. (Thus firmly establishing the nerdy background that would form my middle and high school experiences.)

I’m not sure if it’s a rite of passage (pun intended) or if it was just a weirdo me thing, but I feel like a lot of writers go through an angsty poetry phase. At least I did. As a teenager I even had a few of them published. (For a nominal fee of course.) Still, there was something thrilling about seeing my name in print with other wanna be poets that was satisfying to my artistic soul.

I had a long lull between the angsty poems and the blog. In fact, the blog wasn’t even my idea. It was a coworker who thought that my humor and cynicism should be shared with the world. (So if you’re wondering who unleashed this ranting, blabbermouth onto society, you can blame her!) I’m not sure I agree some months, when I’m in a creative slump and don’t have one original thought populating in my brain, but I continue to string words together in hopes that they have some sense of cohesion.

You may be thinking that the natural evolution of my writing would then be a book, right? Well, I would like to say that you’d be wrong (just because I’m contrary today) but alas, I have “started writing” a few books in my time. The problem is that they tell you to “write about what you know”. I know how to be a sarcastic smart ass with a strange outlook on everything. That doesn’t really translate into book material. Or maybe it would, if I was a well-known comedian and not just some common Jane who writes as a hobby.

Plus, there are a lot of questions that come with writing a book. How do I get published? How much rejection could I handle before crashing out? Who would even read my book? What if I failed? Worse, what if I succeeded?

And therein lies the crux of the problem.

What if I accidentally became famous (or, well, famous adjacent) and had to actually do book tours and meet people and be (shudder) social? I don’t think I’d like that at all. There are days when I am not sure I can handle going to work because of the people component. (I mean, I still go, but very grudgingly.) I know there are people who think I am joking when I say I am an introvert, because I can be quite social, but I’m dead serious about my solitude. In a perfect world, I win the lottery and buy a house with an acre on each side of me, just to avoid having neighbors. Not that I dislike my current neighbors, but because peopleing in general would be discouraged in my fortress of solitude.

So if you really want to know, yes, I am an author. Of 4 starting chapters, one full book outline, and 12 harebrained mental outlines of things that I’ve briefly considered writing about. Maybe one day I’ll push past that anti-social devil on my shoulder and live la vida writer. Until then, can I interest anyone in a mildly amusing short story?

 

 

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Will You Sign My Yearbook Summer?

            I saw a video montage with beautiful autumn trees with the caption “Happy September Eve”. I’m not going to lie; it made me a little sad.

For some odd reason, I seem to cocoon myself in an autumnal blanket of denial once we hit the final week of August. Yeah, yeah, technically there are still three weeks until fall moves in for real, but everyone knows that the unofficial start of fall is Labor Day. That’s the official end of magical summer vacations and (thankfully) tourist season. (Unless you happen to live somewhere with “fall foliage”, then you’re blessed with another 6-8 weeks of “leaf peepers”. Eye roll.)

Ironically, autumn has my second favorite seasonal decorations. (Sorry, they will never dethrone the twinkling lights and glittery garland of Diva December.) The reds and oranges and pumpkins and fall y’all puns just bring a twinkle to my eye. If you add a candle that smells like apples or pumpkins, it brings that eye twinkle to a full-fledged sparkle.

I do truly enjoy the 2 weeks of fall weather we get, in between false fall, Indian Summer, and First Winter. There are so many awesome autumnal features. Like apple picking and crunchy leaves, cozy sweaters and s’mores, football and comfort food…but it’s a quick and slippery slope and then bam! True winter pops in and makes me fervently miss the joy of summer sunsets at 9 pm instead of 4 pm and popsicles that I eat instead of the ones in my gloves.

To make matters worse, the internet is rubbing it in too. I saw a post last week that said “today is the last 8:00 sunset until April” and I was like ‘Whyyyyyy do you need to point this out?” Please just let me live in this lemonade dream, this sunscreen smelling fantasy just a little longer. I need a porch sit with warm weather and the soundtrack of lawn mowing in the neighborhood…the smell of fresh cut grass layered with the smell of bug spray and/or citronella.

(SUMMER! The musical. Coming soon to a theater near you!)

Maybe to put myself in the right frame of mind I need to think of all the summer things that aggravate me. Maybe that will help me welcome fall with open arms.

Um, let’s see.

Bugs! I really, really hate bugs. They are annoying, bitey, and creepy. For some reason they are unfazed that a giant 4,000 times their size just slapped them down with a hand the size of a planet and come right back to fly in your face. How the hell do they defy the law of physics? Or whatever law they are currently breaking. (Personally, I have an arrest warrant out on a fruit fly who has managed to stay alive and in my vicinity for longer than 3 seconds, which frankly, is extremely rude.)

Ok, ok this is good. What else?

Motorcycles. Those damn things are so annoying when they scream by on the road. The worst is when you get a herd of motorcycles, and the noise lasts for what seems like an eternity. And I am not sure why motorcycles seem like they are 200 times louder than they were when I was a kid. Either my old age is starting to show, or the motorcycle people are doing it on purpose. Either way, I am not a fan.

Yes, just like that! Summer is starting to get on my nerves. One more might just tip it over the edge. What else do we have?

Plus, I get the whole summer off from making my kids lunches or worrying about spirit week…. abort! Abort! This is the wrong direction. Turn around immediately.

I’m ready to stop worrying about how cute my toenails look in my open-toed sandals. Let’s face it, it’s just another chore, and one that I don’t have when I get to cover my feet with socks. I am allowed to have ugly toes in the winter because no one other than my husband and my shower get to see them. So far neither one has run screaming from the room at the sight of them, so I think they’re probably only mildly ugly.

You know what? Now that I think about it, eff you summer! Drag it. And take your sun soaked, watermelon sweet, beach holiday bliss with you.

I’m just kidding baby. Come back. I didn’t mean any of it, I promise.

 

 

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