Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Feel Free to Put That in Your Tell-All Book

If I wrote a parenting book, it would be called, “If You’re Not Snorting Crack Off of Your Kid’s Toy Box, You’re Probably Fine,” because that’s true. You are DEFINITELY going to fuck your kids up somehow, and you’re PROBABLY not going to fuck them up the way you think you are, so you might as well have a sense of humor about it and just genuinely do the best job you can. In that spirit, here are the chapters of my parenting book:

Chapter One: Go Drink Some Water – Whenever my son had a physical ailment, the first thing I’d say was, “Go drink some water.” As it turns out, water cures about 90% of a child’s problems, including overheating, exhaustion, hunger, headache, itchy skin, leg cramps, boredom, and hypochondria. One thing water doesn’t cure: a broken foot. I learned that the hard way.

Chapter Two: Well, Robbie Is Probably Going to Be A Serial Killer – Your child will insist that Robbie, or whoever his friend is, has the best life, and he has the worst. What your child doesn’t know is that Robbie is probably going to end up in the State Pen when the authorities find body parts under the basement of his house. Or at least that’s what I told my son would happen to his friends who: went to PG-13 movies before age 13, got tattoos, smoked the Mary Jane, skipped school, drove a car without a license, or drank more than one soda a week.

Chapter Three: Talk to Me About How Awesome Robbie’s Parents Are in a Few Years – When your kids further complain about how Robbie-the-future-serial-killer gets to: go to co-ed sleepovers, carry a loaded gun, see Wiz Khalifa, wear a baseball hat with the bill facing sideways, or eat popcorn, despite the fact that he has braces, remember the title of this chapter. Right now, your kid won’t understand that Robbie’s parents start drinking at 3 pm, are constantly cheating on each other, don’t pay their taxes, and are wanted in Texas, but one day he will.

Chapter Four: I’ve Already Passed Tenth Grade – There will come a time when either your child, one of your child’s teachers, or one of your child’s coaches will suggest to you that your child’s life would be easier and better if you would just do his homework for him. You think I’m joking, but I’m not. And I KNOW that many of you have fallen for this, because it is a FACT that a Kindergartener is INCAPABLE of making an exact-to-scale replica of the White House, complete with pocket doors and vintage wallpaper in the Lincoln Bedroom without considerable help from you. Whenever someone suggested that I just do my son’s schoolwork, I would simply reply, “No thanks. I’ve already passed (whatever grade your child is currently in).”

Chapter Five: That’s Fine, As Long As You Understand that It’s a Cult – At some point, your child will want to join some weird, charismatic youth group. He will bring home a brochure that has healthy-looking kids doing wholesome activities, and will boast a membership of hundreds of thousands of kids across the country. In smaller print, it will mention that homosexuals, Muslims, non-believers, preggos, sluts, pinkos and members of Greenpeace are not allowed, nor is dancing, communing with the opposite sex, fingernail polish, makeup, or free thought. Still, your child will want to join, because they have pizza on Wednesday nights, and every other kid in the school has joined. Your response: make your kid watch the original version of Footloose, and let him know that you’re fine with him joining, as long as he understands that it’s a cult, and that he will probably have to get born again several times.

Chapter Six: Welcome Home. Please Let Me Shine this Flashlight In Your Face – As it turns out, underage drinking is totally illegal, and I refused to harbor a criminal. I had absolutely no problem waiting for my kid to get home, making him breathe in my face, and shining a flashlight in his eyes. And I seriously didn’t care that Robbie’s parents let him drink. As we all know, Robbie is going to be a serial killer.

Chapter Seven: Only Idiots Make Deals with Children – Have I mentioned that kids these days are soft? They are, and they think that everything is open to negotiation. I say negotiation is for suckers. Your kids want a collective decision-making process? They should get a lawyer. They want a democracy? They should write their own damn constitution. My house was a dictatorship, I was the dictator, and that’s the way it was. When you live in a world where people blow up buildings, swindle people out of their savings, train dogs to fight each other to death, and let other people go hungry, a dictatorship is a pretty safe place to be.

Chapter Eight: Feel Free to Put That in Your Tell-All Book – Inevitably, you will have to make decisions that are unpopular with your kids. Even wildly unpopular. I know plenty of parents who can’t take the heat, and cave under their child’s disappointment. I never had any such qualms. I would just cheerfully suggest to my son that any unfair, stupid, mean decision I made would eventually earn him big bucks when he wrote his tell-all book about his miserable childhood. “I’m not being mean, I’m investing in your future book profits,” I would add, a big smile on my face. “You can thank me later.”

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Saturday, September 21, 2013

All Players United

On Saturday, a handful of football players from Georgia, Georgia Tech, and Northwestern wore the letters “APU” on their wrist tape. APU stands for “All Players United,” and is a protest of the NCAA’s treatment of players on issues ranging from concussions to compensation.

Now, to begin, I don’t know about Georgia (I could find out, but Wikipedia is tired right now), but I know for a fact that Georgia Tech and Northwestern are fine, fine schools. These are not dumb kids who don’t know what they’re doing. Furthermore, a quick glance on ESPN.com (it’s not as tired as Wikipedia) tells me that this effort was coordinated and carefully orchestrated by the NCPA – the National College Players Association – to bring light to the dirty practices of the NCAA in regard to college athletes.

The NCPA is an advocacy group supported by the US Steelworker’s union, which, for some reason, some people hate on principle. Because they have been brainwashed by Rush Limbaugh. Sane people, however, understand that unions are simply a way for many people to be able to speak in one voice. They are not a tool of the liberal left wing, or an effort to make us all socialists. In fact, unions are the reason why you’re not living in a tenement with black lung, eating hot dogs made out of cats. So unwrinkle your underpants about unions.

Anyway, as you probably already know, the NCAA runs a billion dollar slave ring, where college athletes sign over all of their rights for the length of their college athletic career, while the NCAA has complete control over their image, likeness, and well-being. In exchange, these athletes are given scholarships, which may be great, but, if I went to my job, and at the end of two weeks, my employer said, “I am going to give myself a paycheck, and I will give you a scholarship,” I would think that was pretty jacked up. People act like being part of a NCAA Division I school only involves three hours on Saturdays from August to January, when in reality, it is a full-time job, with considerable risks and an uncertain future. I took a few classes with football players (Troy Smith was in one! When he walked into class after winning the Heisman, we all clapped!) and those kids had to do the same class work as me. The difference was, I got a paycheck for my full-time job, nobody was allowed to sell my face for money without my permission, and if I got a concussion, I could go to a real hospital, instead of having someone holding up two fingers in front of my face, slapping my ass, and telling me to get back in there.

The NCAA also has the power to impose – or not impose – sanctions on players and teams that bear no rational connection to the act committed. For example, football players from Ohio State who sold their own belongings, specifically memorabilia from games in which they themselves had participated in and incurred substantial risk to their health and future, were suspended from play, and the entire program lost scholarships, vacated wins, and forfeited participation in postseason play for a year. Johnny Manziel, notable douchebag and a real firecracker, was penalized for a half a game for (possibly) selling HIS OWN signature. Not drugs, not porn, not NCAA-owned equipment. His own signature. Members of the Penn State football team were hugely punished for an act committed by someone who was no longer a member of the football staff. This is like YOU being punished for something the manager of McDonalds did last week, because you worked there five years ago. No rational connection.

Wearing APU on their gear is an act of incredible guts by these current football players. These kids depend on their college football careers to get them to the next level. They depend on their scholarships to get them through college. For them to stand up to the NCAA is akin to you putting a sheet in your window that says “FUCK YOU, ELECTRIC COMPANY,” when the actual electric company guys have climbed the actual pole that connects your actual electricity to your actual house, and hold whether or not you can use your hair straightener in the palm of their hands. And then smiling at them and flipping them the bird.

Make no mistake about it, it is a huge risk. Remember Curt Flood? He was one of the first baseball players to fight for free agency in baseball, and he is widely credited for giving baseball players the ability to control their own destiny. But he was a casualty of the business – although baseball changed as a result of what Flood did, he lost his fight, and played only a handful of games after taking his fight to the Supreme Court. He was a great, great player, and lost his career to fight the good fight.

So here’s to the men who are continuing the fight: David Andrews, Jeremiah Attaochu, Chris Burnette, Kain Colter, Synjyn Days, Kenarious Gates, Kolton Houston, Vad Lee, John Theus, Justin Thomas, Anthony Williams, and likely countless others who were not captured by the TV cameras. You represent the famous Gandhi quote, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” Whether this is successful or not doesn’t matter. What matters is that you stood up to The Man, and fought for your own humanity. Good for you.

Friday, September 13, 2013

My Trip to the Liquor Store

Here is a secret, shameful fact. Despite all of my bluster, I am not a big drinker. Now, immediately I have to qualify that by saying that law school increased my alcohol consumption exponentially. But to me, getting rowdy is having two glasses of wine, and probably not finishing the second one. I’m a lightweight, I’m pretty sensitive to alcohol physically, and I do not like being drunk. I know too many secrets to want to get my tongue unloosened.

So, it should come as no surprise to you that the liquor store was especially challenging for me.

I’ve been in the liquor store two times before – once to buy my dad some Beefeater or Johnny Walker Black or something else for Christmas or a birthday or something, and then once when I was picking up some Crown for a friend. Both of those times I had cash, I had a job to do, and I got in and out without looking around.

This time was a little different. I was going on a business trip, but instead of flying commercial like a regular asshole, I got to fly on the company jet like a PRINCESS! Here’s how the company jet makes you feel like a princess: the minute you walk in the hanger, the pilot greets you and takes your bag, saying, “Please don’t worry your pretty little head off. We’ll keep your things safe and sound for you.” Then, once your whole party is there, you just GO! You don’t have to follow boarding protocol or anything those sad bastards in the terminal have to follow. There are warm blankies, reclining leather chairs, all the Pringles and candy and healthful snacks you could want, and a real bathroom, like real people use. As long as the seatbelt sign is off, you can do whatever you want: trained animal shows, competitive Twister, sword swallowing – the sky’s the limit.

Here’s the problem though: no wet bar. At least not one that I saw. Normally when I fly, immediately after passing through security, I take myself to the nearest barstool and order a double vodka – to quell my horrible fear of flying. In a private jet, there IS no convenient bar, so I was forced to make my own damn cocktail, hence the trip to the liquor store.

Right after work, I drove to my trusty CVS to purchase some grapefruit juice. I like grapefruit juice - it’s tart enough that it feels like just a little bit of a punishment for pounding the booze. But a good punishment. From there, it was off to the liquor store, a mean-looking building with steel bars criss-crossing its windows despite the fact that it’s in, arguably, the safest part of town. I’m just saying that I don’t think Arlington moms are thinking of breaching the fortress if they find it closed. But, you never know. Arlington does have a lot of women who look and act drunk all the time. Like that Donatos lady. She totally looks like she might kick in the window of a closed liquor store.

In any event, that wasn’t a concern here, because the store sign clearly said “OPEN.” I had one mission: find one airplane-sized bottle of vodka so I could make one drink to brace my nerves before my flight. And to chase down the massive amounts of anti-anxiety medicine that went with it. Lo and behold, there is a WHOLE WALL of vodka in that joint!

I really only know three kinds of vodka: Absolut, which tastes like someone mixed ground pepper and cigarette ash, Grey Goose, which tastes like the kiss of the tiniest angel, and Stoli, which is what people give you if they hate you. However, at the liquor store, they had brands like Trotski’s Revenge, and Gulag’s Finest, and after that I started having a psychotic break, so I had to go find a person to help me.

Thankfully, the guy who worked there was coming out of wherever I’m sure he keeps the sawed-off shotgun and surveillance videos. I know for a fact that I was acting very suspicious, because I was basically turning around in circles, and then looking right, left, right, like a maniac.

“You need something?” he asked, because he was the James Earl Jones type. Not messing around. Air of authority. Played Darth Vader.

“Yes, um, sir, I do. I would like one airplane-sized bottle of vodka , please. And yet, I have searched the store, including the extensive vodka choices, and have been unable to locate such an item.”

“We keep them behind the counter,” he said, waving his arm toward an assortment of airplane-sized bottles of things.

“Oh, I just want one,” I said.

James Earl Jones gave me a look of patience. “Well, sadly, we only sell them in multiples,” he replied.

“Hmmmmm,” I said, flummoxed by this. He just looked at me, growing more and more entertained by my dilemma.

“I just…I really don’t need all of that,” I murmured.

“You don’t have to drink it all at once,” he whispered.

“Oh, yeah!” I brightened. Good point! “Okay, do you have multipacks of Grey Goose minis?” I asked him.

A sad look. “No, we only sell Grey Goose in regular-sized bottles.”

I looked above the airplane bottle and saw a slim, chic bottle of Grey Goose. Seventeen bucks.

“Let me see if I have the cash for that,” I said.

“We take credit cards,” James Earl Jones said. Okay, that was new. I must have looked at him suspiciously, because he calmly pointed to the credit card swipe machines.

Hmmmmm,” I said. “I’ll take the Grey Goose. To be purchased by credit card.”

“Okay,” he said, grabbing it off of the shelf and ringing it up. I waited patiently, card out, for the charge to appear on the card swiper thing. And waited. And waited. And waited. And finally…

“Sweetheart, I’m on this register,” James Earl Jones said gently from a totally different register than the one I’d been standing at for five minutes.

“Ah, there’s the problem,” I said, fully three times crazier-acting than when I’d entered the store.

“How about we just check your ID,” James suggested, not, I’m sure, because I looked young, but more likely to check me against the DO NOT SELL LIQUOR TO THIS WOMAN list behind the counter. I wasn’t on it! He completed the purchase and put the liquor in a bag. I stared at him, waiting for something to sign.

“There’s nothing more I can do for you,” James said correctly assuming that, at least in this store, I couldn’t make a move without checking with him first.

“No receipt to sign?”

“No,” he said. “You’re free to go.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, and ran as fast as I could.

Thursday, September 5, 2013

25 Things

I didn’t get on Facebook until 2009. My friend Jay has reminded me several times that, prior to joining Facebook, I was like, “Screw that! Nobody needs to know MY business.” He then further reminds me that, within a week, I was on Facebook and had started a blog. In for a penny, in for a pound, I say. Anyway, right when I started Facebook, there was this wonderful thing going around called 25 Random Things About Me. If you got tagged, you had to post 25 things about yourself on your wall. That, my friends, was my crack. I couldn’t get enough of peoples’ 25 Things. Your kitten in first grade was named Boo? Dynamite! Cilantro is your favorite herb? Keep talking! You’ve lived in ten different states? WHAT STATES, GODDAMMIT?! DON’T KEEP ME IN SUSPENSE!!!!!

I missed out on the 25 Things craze because I was too busy freaking out about how bad I sucked at law school to think of them. Recently, however, I was trolling on a new Facebook friend’s page, I noticed her 25 Things, and I was taken back to those glory days. So here’s my take on 25 Things. All true.

1. I didn’t know that yams and sweet potatoes were totally different things until I was 26.

2. And I’ve been busy smacking people with the yams/sweet potato truth ever since. Look it up, nonbelievers!

3. My son forbade me from buying wedge shoes for several years. He called them Slut Shoes.

4. I don’t think my son’s knowledge of sluts is very good.

5. There is an onsite pharmacy at my job, where I am on a first-name basis with the pharmacist.

6. As a matter of fact, when I was off of work for two months to study for the bar, the first time I walked into the pharmacy after my return, the pharmacist shouted, “WHERE have you BEEN?!”

7. I have a pet pencil at work. Its name is Pency. I get a little panicked when Pency wanders off.

8. When you talk about your child’s food allergies, I am rolling my eyes on the inside.

9. Do you think moms whose kids are eating out of garbage piles in India are bitching about whether or not their child’s trash-picked dinner is gluten free?

10. How am I doing here? Number ten? Woot! I’m on a roll!

11. I am the opposite of a compulsive liar. I am a compulsive truth-teller.

12. One time, I was at an open house for a business – I was there for the free cookies – and someone asked me if I already owned the product they were selling. “Yes,” I mumbled weakly just to get away. And then thirty seconds later had to confess. I still took the cookie, though.

13. I really suck at Words With Friends. But I actually think that makes me a better friend.

14. I think it’s a person’s solemn duty to try to charm his or her way out of speeding tickets.

15. I mean, seriously. You think you’re helping yourself by acting sullen to a police officer? Amateur!

16. There is a grammar rant coming up on facts #19 and #20.

17. Sometimes the tragic stories of my life make my shrink laugh so hard she starts crying. So I guess I’m getting something wrong in the delivery.

18. I have taught my dog all of her commands in English and Swedish. Which, in truth, means that she just does whatever the hell she wants.

19. If you’re an adult, and you still don’t know the difference between “your” and “you’re,” I really think there is something the fuck wrong with you.

20. And when people say, “Well, I’m just not good at grammar,” I nearly flip my lid. Guess what? I’m not good at directions. Do you think I use that as an excuse to drive to the casino every day instead of where I’m supposed to be going? No! I figure it out!

21. My last quarter of undergrad, I took two classes pass/fail: Hip Hop Dance and Hip Hop Music History. Go Bucks!

22. There are so many times that I want to say to people, “Snitches get stitches.” There is nothing funnier than a middle-class white lady saying that.

23. The 23rd fact is always the worst.

24. I love the word “forbade,” as used in fact #3.

25. I used to think I was pretty smart. Then I went to law school.