Put This in Your Pipe and Smoke It

There's been a lot in the news (the UK at least) lately about a woman who has written a thinly veiled novel about parents who kick their teen-age son out of the house for smoking cannabis. This woman, Julie Myerson, has made a career out of writing about her home life apparently. And she did indeed kick her teen-age son out of the house for smoking cannabis -- and apparently being violent toward her and supplying her two younger children with cannabis.

The backlash has been against Ms. Myerson though. And I must say I agree with a lot of it. She didn't consult her son about the publicity surrounding the book and her interviews about kicking her son out. So he went to the press himself and presented his side of the story.

Both sides feel they have been wronged by the other, but I see one side as being more wronged than the other. I think Myerson's son's privacy has been terribly invaded and compromised in his mother's quest for publicity. There used to be a saying, don't air your dirty laundry in public. Some things were family matters and meant to be kept within the confines of the home. That saying doesn't seem to have much relevance these days, what with blogs, facebook and its ilk, Twitter, etc. People -- I include myself -- feel free to write about whatever. Their relationships, their fantasies, their problems, their joys, their fears. It seems almost compulsory to bare yourself figuratively.

But is it fair to do this when the act of doing it bares someone else? The word loyalty comes to mind. I have written here of hubby, son and daughter. They are anonymous to you all and will remain so, I hope. Even still, I do not write everything about what goes on with them because of a sense of loyalty to them. How would they feel if they knew that anyone could read about them?

I think Myerson would argue that by writing about her own dysfunctional family life, she is reassuring others that it can happen to anyone. But here is where her conceit begins. Of course it can happen to anyone, and it does all the time. But not everyone feels compelled to tell the world about it. She and her partner are a certain type you find within the British middle class: educated, articulate, terribly earnest and principled. So principled they wouldn't allow their three children to eat meat. So earnest they wrote about it. They didn't believe any imperfection could happen in their family. When it did -- as in the son smoking cannabis -- they were angry at the son for showing the imperfections in their perfect world. He in turn was angry at them for using him as a topic for many an article and now a novel. I don't know that this fractured family can ever be repaired.

I think anyone who writes about their family in any forum must be mindful of the family's rights too. It isn't the same as having a moan about your spouse or your child to your best friend over a coffee. Setting it down in words creates a permanence. But all relationships, particularly the parent-teen-ager ones -- are fluid beings, full of ebb and flow. What is today will not be tomorrow.

Perhaps Myerson should have known that before all the hundreds of words were written by and about her and her family.

Swivel Hips, Softhands, and Fat Wanker

What you see isn't always what you get. People make assumptions all the time about others based on external factors. For example, at my salsa class I have come up with nicknames for many of the regulars: Softhands, a nice, soft-spoken young man with -- you got it -- soft hands; Swivel Hips, another nice young man who is a funky dancer; BT2, a woman blessed (?) with big tits and big teeth who can't seem to find T-shirts that fit her; Paul the Pillock, enough said; Big Mustache and Small Mustache, two jolly guys with, um, mustaches, though Big Mustache doesn't go anymore and Small Mustache seems to have ditched his wife; Smelly Man, who fortunately doesn't go anymore; Curvy Girl, who likes to shake that booty.

I don't know much about these people beyond twirling around, with, and among them for an hour once a week or so. Softhands could be a right bastard; Paul the Pillock could be a saint. I have made assumptions and judgments based on these assumptions.

I'm not alone. Others have done the same to me, particularly after I moved to the UK. I became The American, with all the connotations -- negative and positive -- that might have. I am also Blonde. I am also a Stay-At-Home Mother. Put all those together, and you might have a very negative view of me indeed.

Even people who have known me for quite a few years can't seem to get beyond these labels. Such as -- dare I mention their name -- the Frenemies. Yes, I should dump them, but it's difficult because our kids are friends and I actually like two out of the five couples. One couple I'm neutral about, and two I can't stand. Anyway, we were having dinner at the home of one of the couples I like on Saturday. Frenemy's husband and the fat, balding know-it-all wanker of a husband of another one were talking about George Chakiris, he of West Side Story fame. I piped up that he had been in White Christmas. Frenemy's husband and Fat Wanker scoffed at me. They fancy themselves Trivia Kings because they've actually been on TV quiz shows. But I know my White Christmas and I held my ground. Fat Wanker said he couldn't possibly have been because White Christmas came out in the 40s. No, I replied, it came out in 1954 or 1956 (you can tell from the clothes and hairstyles). Fat Wanker and I made a £10 wager. Fat Wanker's wife looked it up on her Blackberry on the internet. Guess who won? Guess who didn't get her £10?

They made assumptions and judgments about me and were wrong. In that case, at least.

It's occurred to me that this has happened to Barack Obama his whole life. Assumptions have been made about the color of his skin, his name, his parentage, where he's lived. And yet look at what a cool person he is. No chips on his shoulders.

We label people because that makes it easier to categorize them in our brains. And we humans generally like to categorize. It helps us cope with the unknown, probably a throwback to Neanderthal Man. But we must remember to look outside the assumptions and judgments. These can be wrong. Just ask Fat Wanker.

The Excuses Game

Hey, everybody, let's all play a new game. The Excuses Game. Soon to be a Parker Bros. game. Or Mattel. Maybe a video game. Or Wii.

Actually, it's a very old game, but has gained some new converts in the last few months, mostly in the banking sector. Politicians perfected this ages ago.

Here's how you play: Think of as many excuses in one minute as you can for totally fucking over the world.

After you've mastered this, you can move on to the Blame Game. Even the kids at home can play this one. That's where when you've exhausted all the excuses, you look to blame someone else -- your sibling, your spouse, the government, the economy.

And when you've mastered both of these games, you can run a country. Any country. And a bank. Any bank. Because no one likes to play the Responsibility Game, do they? That would be no fun at all.

Emergency!

Somebody call 911 or 999 quick. Some crimes of fashion are being committed as I write.
These are back in style. Yes, the harem pants, which make you look as though you've dropped a load in your trousers.















And these:























And these:















What will be next? This?









































Or this?

























Or even this?






















Where are the Fashion Police when you need them?

Going Back in Time

Jake has dug a very large hole in one of my flower beds. I have repeatedly told him not to do this, but he persists. I find he does this when he is bored outside. This morning, I had to drag him away from the hole. He didn't like this and responded by growling at me. Just a short, low growl while I was trying to clean his back paws. I backed off and left him. A few minutes later he thrust his nose into my lap, wanting forgiveness. Apparently, I should dig a hole specifically for Jake and toss in some biscuits or toys. I am searching my garden for such a place.

Being a dog owner, for me, is turning out to be far more difficult than being a parent. Or perhaps I would have been a better parent if I'd had a dog earlier.

Hubby recently had some old videos of the kids converted to DVDs. We watched them the other night, completely fascinated by the people we were 10 years ago. Three birthdays, one Christmas and one New Year's Eve party were on the DVDs. I made a few observations:

1. We gave, and give, our kids far too much at Christmas time.

2. I was actually a very good mother.

3. My ass was quite large in those days, not helped by my choice of jeans or underwear.

4. Our kids were incredibly cute and adorable.

5. I've aged a lot better than the Frenemies.

I am nostalgic for my children as they were, so innocent and loving. I suppose all parents of teen-agers go through this phase (and I don't believe a word from those smug people who say they "adore" their teen-agers).

I am not nostalgic for my body as it was. I was two and three years post-pregnancy and still had not given up the extra layers of fat. You know how some people can carry extra weight quite well? They look the same, only slightly larger? Not me. I have a surprisingly small frame -- tiny wrists and ankles. My body was meant to be small, yet there on the screen it was 30 pounds overweight. It wasn't long after that I started a longstanding acquaintance with Weight Watchers, reuniting every once in a while. I still wore big white underpants too, comfy but not sexy in the slightest.

I should be going to the gym today to try to keep the extra layers of fat at bay, but I am feeling the beginnings of a cold and just want to rest. The fat will still be there next week, as will the gym.

Jake is barking to be let out, no doubt wanting to return to his digging. I am resisting and will go play a game with him soon. He exhausts me sometimes. It's as though I have gone back in time to that DVD, constantly watching, entertaining, avoiding tricky situations by diverting his attention. I have a two-year-old again. A hyperactive two-year-old.

Should I resurrect the big white underpants too?

A Tragedy Too Awful to Imagine

The concept of being in the right place at the right time or just the opposite has taken on a completely new meaning with the news of the death in a plane crash of a woman whose husband died on 9/11.

Beverley Eckert was on the Continental flight that crashed into a house in New York state. All aboard and one man in the house perished in a fiery inferno. She was on her way to inaugurate a scholarship in her husband's memory at the high school where the two met.

The newspaper article I read didn't say whether the couple had children. But don't you just wonder at the complete injustice and bad luck and unfairness of it all?

Also over my breakfast coffee I read about the 13-year-old boy in the UK who is now a dad. He impregnated his 15-year-old girlfriend when he was only 12. He is four feet tall and shows few signs of puberty. Experts say it's extremely rare for this to happen. I wonder if Chantelle, his girlfriend (and I didn't make her name up), perhaps had a bit on the side with maybe another 15-year-old? Again, the article didn't state if any tests had been done to confirm this boy is indeed the father.

This gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "toy boy."

I haven't written much of late because my mind has been a whirlwind of conflict and questions. I want -- I ache -- for some sort of peace and calm in my life, for easy solutions and answers to be found, for resolution of long-term conflicts. I question my role in these conflicts, I wonder if I sound too whiny or appear too needy. While this interior monologue goes on, I can't write. I can't organise my thoughts. But while the inside may be a mess, the outside is looking up.

The plan to buy a business is starting to move ahead, with due diligence on the cards very soon. It's scary and exciting all in one. But at least it's some sort of movement beyond the slump that hubby and I have fallen into.

Finally, I would like to point out that within this post are several commas, apostrophes, and full stops (periods). I know where to place these because I was taught where to place them. In the UK there is a movement afoot to ban these from government signs. I think we need to rise up against the tyranny of mis-education (or missed education). SAVE THE APOSTROPHE! It's an endangered species.

Let It Snow

Ah, it's snowing again. We get big, fat flakes of it that don't tend to stick. Still, it's far better than rain.

Lots has been happening in my world. We're progressing in our plan to buy a business. It would take me back to my journalism roots in a way, though not completely. So much to learn and to do. It's scary and exciting at the same time. Hard to believe that a year ago was when all the turmoil in my life was starting. I just live in a constant state of it now. And I have the back pain to prove it.

I went away for a spa weekend (or night) the other weekend with the Frenemies. I had such a good time with them for a change. Till the bill came. The hotel mistakenly charged another table's restaurant bill to my room. Would you believe it took an hour to sort out? And the hotel staff were actually kind of snotty about it. Would you believe the Frenemies blamed ME for it because I said to the very flustered desk clerk that we weren't angry at her personally. Not that they said it, but there was a definite atmosphere when I finally got in the car after paying and one of them later told my daughter I had apologised to the clerk. I didn't apologise to anyone. I was so upset and disappointed that my fun weekend had been ruined that I wrote a very outraged letter to the hotel and received the promised of a cheque for the restaurant bill and a free night for two at the hotel. I told the Frenemies about the promised cheque but not the free night. Why should they benefit from my efforts?

Jake has improved so much since we started walking him on the beach. But he brings back half the beach in his fur. I'm constantly sweeping up sand. He no longer seems to have issues with other dogs, which is such a relief. He's growled at us a few times, but no biting. Previously, I would have sternly told him no growling, but since seeing the doggie therapist, I just walk away. I think he growls because he thinks we're going to hurt him, and it only happens in certain circumstances. What is very hard is not hugging and kissing him. He's such an affectionate dog, or is that neediness? The clicker also isn't working too well. It doesn't work at all on the beach because by the time we catch up to him to reward him for having positive encounters with other dogs, he's moved on. And he's not too bothered about getting treats either.

I have plans to write a collection of poems about the stage of life I'm about to enter. The first one will be titled "I Found My Ex-Husband on Facebook." If nothing else, it will be great therapy.