Bad Parenting

TBG discovered that his friends in the early morning spin classes all watch Leave It To Beaver as they get ready for the day.  He thought it was charming.  I found it alarming.  

Yes, it's funny and surprising and interesting that they all ended up there.  But the thought of all those people starting their routines in a hailstorm of bad parental behaviors makes me squeamish.

Take today's episode, where June invites Wally's secret crush on a family picnic.... without asking Wally's opinion on the matter.  Or last week, when Ward and June, snooping through Beaver's diary filled with imaginary adventures,  believe the tales are real and decide he's become a reckless and dangerous human being right under their very noses.  Do they talk to him?  Of course not.  They react and act out and the confusion is supposed to be funny.

Whoever said that helicopter parenting began in the 21st century?

I don't remember any of this.  I was five when it debuted and eleven when it ended; that's pretty much my whole childhood.  I remember thinking that high school would be sock hops and boys driving their fathers' cars.  I remember that the boys cleared their plates after asking to be excused.

I remember the friendships.  I remember .  I remember Gus the Fireman, and Miss Landers as a paragon among educators, and Fred Rutherford.

I don't remember being confused by the parenting any more than I was confused about parenting in general.  So much of what adults did in real life was unfathomable, inscrutable, and not to be questioned.... at least out loud.  And I was a kid.  The people I related to were in Wally and Beaver's orbits.  

The parents are on the periphery of my memory but now are front and center.  

It's not a pretty picture.

Happy Absolutely Nothing Day

We had a wonderful day celebrating our anniversary on Sunday.  It became exponentially more wonderful when I declared it a No Unpleasant Thoughts day.

Starting a conversation then stopping became thinking a thought and banishing it before it made its way to our mouths.  It didn't take long.  

TBG says he still had the thoughts, he just didn't share them.  I was blissfully unaware of that, and I don't think it mattered at all.  There was a lot less foot tapping and random grimacing (I can tell when he's thinking about FFOTUS) and no ranting at the universe.

We were curating our space.  Despair was not invited.

I woke up on Monday and wished TBG a Happy Absolutely Nothing Day.  I decided to declare that the day came with only one requirement: No Unpleasant Thoughts permitted.  

We've been celebrating it ever since.

We are citizens of the world, however.  After we get our morning fill of the news (a short shot, not even 10 minutes before we start squirming), only new developments are shared.  Most of the time.  Sometimes it just boils over and we can't help ourselves.  But one of us will start to back away from the conversation.  No Unpleasant Thoughts are permitted.

Yesterday, Linda commented: Whatever brings joy is good with me.

It's good with us, too. 

Tay-Tay and Travis

TBG read the news on the chyron scrolling beneath one of his ESPN talking head shows.  We called Little Cuter immediately. 

Our daughter got to squeal (just a little) to us before she said that she couldn't wait to share the news with FlapJilly.

Um..... honey.... the kid's in middle school.  

My guess is that someone discovered the news right away (a text? scrolling? an alert?) and the scream started there and quickly spread through the student body, releasing joy and love and I knew it would happen into the ether.  

TBG and I have been imagining the wave of sound, the jumping up and down, the impossibility of teaching anyone anything until the good news has been properly processed.  

She'll be excited when she gets home.  There will be much hugging and Instagram scrolling.  Joyful behaviors will occur.

Mom just won't be first.

After years of carefully curating the flow of information to her children, that has to be a bit of a shock.

August 25th

It was my Cousin Hilary's birthday.  It's the Kibbitzer's birthday.  It's the day after our wedding; G'ma had a birthday cake for them at our party.

The Kibbitzer arrived at our wedding with a world class bruised eyeball. the result of a bike accident best not recounted.  I mention it only because G'ma remembered the fact of him and his injury long into her dementia.

It's funny, the things we remember.

I spent August 25th thinking about the hand me downs that I hated and the cousin I revered.  She introduced me to Seventeen and the nail polish ads therein.  We watched the 4 o'clock Million Dollar Movie on her living room floor.  She took me on a double date when I was just 14.

For some reason, G'ma thought that was a good idea.

She played the flute and read lots of books and her college boyfriend (now her husband) introduced me to my first serious boyfriend.

The Kibbitzer drives to Tucson every winter, and sometimes we're lucky enough to have The Doula (one of my very favorite people) join him.  We do what we did when we were graduate students in Chicago, 50 some years ago.  We go out to eat at interesting places.  We listen to live music.  We talk.

There are a lot of good memories flying around today.  Our 51st year together is starting off with a smile.

and the wonderful people both of the birthday people married.  My cousin-in-law, an old school liberal, introduced me to my first serious boyfriend.  The Doula is one of my favorite people on the planet; the kind who picks up right where we left off even if it's been a long, long time between visits.   

To me, August 25th always felt like the beginning of the end of summer.  A long week with no camp, just shopping for school supplies and clothes and spending every spare minute at the beach.  Then, the Labor Day bbq for any and all comers  Daddooooo was at the grill, G'ma was chopping fruits and vegetables and giving instructions (mostly to Daddooooo, who could not hear them), my siblings and I were opening the woven lawn furniture.

I Took The Day Off

Spent the day with my sweetie. 

I'll be back tomorrow. 

It was a great anniversary. 

50 Years

In September, 1970, I hitched a ride with a cute blonde in a red convertible.

In August, 1975, I married him in my parents' back yard.  

On Sunday, we will celebrate the passage of time, even though I remember it all as if it were yesterday.  

We may be gray and wrinkly in real life, but in my mind I see us like that picture.  Me, in my perfect hat and dress.  He, sweltering and smiling in a three piece suit in the humidity on Long Island after a night of rain.  We were surrounded by those we loved.  

Fifty years later, we haven't aged a bit.

Alternative Facts?

 Anonymous commented on yesterday's post, that it matters where you get your news.  They (using a non-gendered pronoun) heard that when flying back from Alaska, Trump said he was calling those European leaders and they were invited. To add to it, he called Putin after the meeting to tell him what was done as he said he had promised he would do.

Others agreed with my reply: I believe nothing that comes from the White House.

Misinformation influencing foreign policy is nothing new (Teddy Roosevelt's Remember the Maine?  Mission Accomplished?).  What we are witnessing now, though, is a total disregard for facts (D.C.'s crime rate? mail in ballot fraud? 7 wars ended?) across the spectrum. 

The man picks up a Sharpie and all of a sudden hurricane Dorian is hitting Alabama.

https://tinyurl.com/4r4dkntp

So, even though it's really trivial in the grand scheme of things, I think it makes a difference whether the foreign leaders were invited by President Zelensky or FFOTUS.  

Can we can believe the President of the United States when he opens his mouth and speaks?  Personally, I think one does so at one's peril. 

And I'm not even going near FFOTUS calling his puppet master, just as he promised, just as my kids check in with me when they are safely on the plane.  

The infantilization of what was once arguably the most prestigious post in the world makes me nauseous.  And I think that would be true no matter where I source my news.

They Dropped Everything

On the Riviera, (French President Macron) was having fun with water sports. Giorgia Meloni, the Italian leader, was on vacation in) Greece.  

Just a typical, sleepy, Saturday in August for the leaders of the free world.  

Except FFOTUS was kowtowing to his puppet master in Alaska.  

By Monday, they, and U.K. Prime Minister Keir Starmer, German Chancellor Friedrich Merz, Finnish President Alexander Stubb, President of the European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen, and NATO Secretary-General Mark Rutte, showed up on FFOTUS's doorstep. 

They were not invited.  They showed up with the guest of honor, Ukrainian President Zelensky.  Checkmate; he couldn't turn them away.  

He thought he could demand Ukrainian capitulation to the Russian Empire with impunity.  Turns out there are grownups in the world who have no interest in giving Putin a stolen foothold in Europe, and they showed up both to support President Zelensky and to protect their own countries' defensibility.

The official photo says it all.

https://tinyurl.com/yn5kry2w

Everyone looks displeased.

In Dnipro, Queen T's brother hasn't slept in three and a half years.  It's not safe; the drones or rocket launchers or other nefarious devices could drop on your house at any moment.  He hates the invasion.  He wants the killing to stop.  He wants his life back.  

I'm really glad the grownups showed up.  I hope they prevail.

Grandma's Garden

I promised that the garden would be open today.  I wrote it in chalk on the outer wall.  I could not disappoint them.  The triple digits registering on the thermometer could not deter me.

If only I had remembered to bring my water bottle.

I met the kindergarteners in the cafeteria, exchanged hugs and high fives with the third grade as they came in, and walked back to the garden.  By the time I had opened the umbrella and used the key to turn on the water, in came the third grade garden leaders, with some friends in tow.

What can we do?  That's a good question given that the soil is much too hot to host new life.  The weeds are deeply entrenched; not a great first project of the year.  But I remembered that the Much Adored Principal asked me that morning if my water was on.  They are so hot out there.  Did she mind if they got wet?  No... with a smile... Actions have consequences.   

With approved water play in mind, the garden leader on the left if filling watering cans for the girls who are using foam brushes to paint the bricks.

Don't ask me why they love this, but they do.  

The gardener who saved the marigold seeds last year wanted a real job.  I sent her into The Forbidden Zone to collect the rest of the watering cans and arrange them along the fence, spacing them as she pleased.

By the time the 5th grade arrived, I was hot and dirty and thirsty and very happy.  Once they determined that there was nothing to be done in the way of gardening, they took up the chant.  

Wet us! Wet us! 

Everyone looking for a soaking gathered outside the garden gate, behind which the hose and nozzle with its twelve settings and I held court.  Did they remember the rules?  

No complaining about being wet.  

No asking the nurse for dry clothing.  

And so began the deluge.  Varying the setting from shower to mist, I waved my magic wand.  The social worker strolled over to say hello; I stopped watering and began hugging her.  The wet ones begged for more.  Hang on.  I need my hug. 

After years on our Kind Campus, they understand the power of a hug and the value of friendship.  They waited, respectfully.    

We weren't long and the shower continued until their whistle blew and then they were gone. 

I picked up some random trowels and turned off the water.  I closed the umbrella.  I took a look behind me as I closed the gate.

The weeds were still there.  The beds were bare of anything but one stubborn something.

But it felt a lot fuller than when I arrived.  It's good to be back.

No Comcast? No Problem.

For the third time this month, Comcast decided that our service was an expendable part of their inventory.  Appointments were promised but never fulfilled.  We stayed home and waited, three times, with no technician knocking at my door.

After each failed appointment, the next step was to spend an hour or so trying then managing to reach a supervisor after navigating chat hell.  Everyone along the way wanted to help me reboot the tv.  They didn't seem to care that we'd been there/done that with several prior iterations of the same request, all to no avail.

Supervisors eventually entered the chat, all with Southeast Asian names, all totally delightful as chat partners, none remotely capable of securing a technician to resolve the issue.   At the end of each chat session, with an appointment time in hand, I gave the agent a rating of 10.  None of those promises resulted in a solution.  Unfortunately, there is no way to go back in time and change their ratings.

At 7pm, after 12 hours of this endless cycle of hope then despair, I expressed skepticism that the final scheduled appointment would actually happen.  The supervisor replied that this was a certainty since "I shouted at them that they must be at your doorstep between 8 and 9pm."  I complimented her on her attitude, thanked her for taking drastic measures, rated her a 10 out of 10, and  waited.

Nothing.

I called back, spent another hour connecting to a supervisor, and after securing an appointment for Monday afternoon with a waiting list prayer for Sunday afternoon, we put Saturday to bed.

TBG needs his television.  His mother spent her days with the tv as background noise. He spent his working life surrounded by screens.  It feels unnatural to him when the room isn't connected.  The DVD player kept him occupied with Zorro while he wasn't fuming about the lack of service.  That worked for Saturday.  

Sunday found him rummaging in the pile of old DVDs (never complain about my packrat tendencies again!!).We had only one season of Justified; I enjoyed ogling Timothy Oliphant for a couple of hours. 

But the rest of the day loomed before us.  We swam.  We drove to Dairy Queen for milk shakes.  We tried to be outside, but the heat drove us back to the DVR and the pile of cd's.  

And there she was, our savior, the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher and her murder mysteries. 

The clothes, the cars, the stories, the acting - there is nothing to improve, nothing to dislike.  In between the pool and the milk shakes and the mandatory walk around the house after each episode to insure that we did not permanently bond to our seats, we watched episode after episode (with closed captions, of course).  We had a picnic dinner.  We watched the sun set (purples and oranges and a brief shot of red at the end).  

Woke up this morning with the vague hope that someone will come and hook TBG up to his electronic world.  Between his spin class and my visit to Prince Elementary school to open the garden, we should be happily occupied until the technician is scheduled to arrive.

Scheduled. 

I have no confidence at all that this will happen, but I'm not worried.  There are more discs to watch.

My Facebook Problem

I haven't logged on to the app in more than a year.... probably closer to two years.... or for however long ago I decided Mark Zuckerberg was unworthy of my clicks.  

The reward was immediate - I had so much more time.  

I checked on FlapJilly's softball team's fundraising posts until Little Cuter said she'd send me the donation links directly.  Other than that, I was gone.

I use it to keep up with my family and friends.  That's what most people reply when I say I'm not on the platform any more.  

I now have textual evidence that this is true.

Based on the number of phone calls and texts and emails I received last week, I surmised that Little Cuter had posted a picture of our last visit in Indiana.  Their comments told me that most of our adventures had been documented and shared.  

It was wonderful that people reached out.  I was benefiting without doing the work.  As long as this keeps happening, I see no reason to return.

Look Who Came To Visit

The Lesser Goldfinch, distinguished from the American Goldfish by the males' black armpits, have been around lately.

Yes, apparently birds have armpits.

The zinnias have been a food truck 

for all kinds of birds and beasties.

The finches are my favorites.

Project 2025

Sending the National Guard is in there, along with declaring martial law.

It's a lot easier to start in a place with no Congressional representation, whose existence is dependent on rules written by that Congress.  

Since that Congress is the hand puppet of FFOTUS, and since the geniuses writers of Project 2025 are the ones getting manicures before approaching the orange menace with instructions, it's not that hard to see where this could be going.  

I was depressed and disgusted by his first term.  

This time around, I am officially terrified.

I've read three books in three days.  

Actually, it will be five books in four days if I stay up tonight to finish Lisa Gardner's stuck on an island with a serial killer on the way thriller.

I walked past one of them and had to pause and think; I couldn't immediately recall the plot or the characters.  

The library reminded me of due dates. That's what got me going.  It's too hot to do anything outdoors and there are only so many restaurants we can visit.  Tucson is not Chicago or New York; you can't spend three months in museums here.  Mahjong is a rare occurrence; everyone is going someplace for some amount of time.  And JannyLou isn't next door to distract me.  

So, I read.  

The books were collected from two public libraries' Lucky Day shelves.  Some are parts of series I enjoy; while I'm immersed in them I can remember each character's backstory.  Some are in large print, which really helps at night.  All of them, equipped with gripping plots and surprising twists, demanded my attention.

It also means that I have not paid any attention to the world around me.  I've left my phone unattended, my Substacks unread.  

This makes me happy.  

Defining Success

We've been doing some gentle musing on success, after a conversation with a young entrepreneur.

Most new businesses like in her arena fail.  Outlasting the competition might be one measure of success.

Running a profit is an obvious metric, one that takes time to achieve.  During that period of deficit/investor financing, is it possible to feel successful?

What if this is in some ways ancestral, and that connection is meaningful in an irreplaceable way?  

Can spending your days doing something that fills the soul be called success?

And who is judging?  Do you answer to anyone other than your investors?  The people holding the financial lifeline certainly have a stake in your definition of success; they probably want a return on their investment.  

But they also have a stake in you.  Watching a protege, a mentee, a family member learn and grow and try to do a very hard thing is an intangible reward.  Your success is their success, because they helped make it happen.  

But without you, there is nothing.  And right now there is something teetering on the verge of breaking even.  And you created that something.  

Take a moment, a deep breath, and get back to work.  

Seriously?

Dr. K and Not-Kathy left our house at 10 last night.  We opened the door and gasped.  It was still much too hot.

It's a dry heat, so the plants suffer, too.  Evaporation is immediate and there's no condensation to be found.  The water cycle is definitely screwed up.

The zinnias' leaves are being sucked dry.  The little bugs are draining the veins and nibbling the edges and the little birds are feeding on those little bugs and the flowers are unhappy.

Not-Kathy turned on the air conditioner.  This is a woman who made herself hot chocolate because she was cccccooolllldddd when it was in the upper sixties outside.  She cuddles under my cashmere blanket (thank you wonderful cousins who sent it my way when I was perforated) while we watch tv, the rest of us in shorts and light tops.

It's apocalyptically hot in every parking lot in town, newly blacktopped (like at Prince Elementary School) or old and potholed (most everywhere else).  The occasional tree may shade an occasional spot or two, but the heat reflecting off the cars and the carts and the pavement and the walls of the stores is intense.  Unloading groceries into the trunk and returning the cart to its resting place left me glowing (horses sweat, men perspire, ladies glow.... according to G'ma).

I went out to the garden before 7 this morning.  TBG needed me about half an hour later.  I came in dripping from every pore, from the top of my head to the tops of my feet.  

My car's air conditioner is doing its best, but cooling the interior after sitting in the sun for several hours takes a lot of effort.  I feel like apologizing for asking so much of it.

Still, I'd rather wear minimal clothing and race from one air conditioned space to another, than bundle up in everything I own and wait at a bus stop in the snow.  There's nothing for me to slip on, nothing for me to shovel, no blast of frigid air greeting me when I open the front door.  

And the sun shines every single day.  

America

Early in my freshman year at Cornell, I sat next to a dorm mate at lunch.  He was the only person I recognized and there was an empty space on the bench beside him.  We ate, chatted, and moved on, separately, to our afternoons.

That evening he told me, kindly but emphatically, that I couldn't do that any more. That side of the dining room was for Black students.  

I hadn't noticed.  I never did it again.  It was a fast and furious lesson that the world was not operating the way I imagined.  

I believed the melting pot theory of Americanism.  Put us all in the soup, stir rapidly, and serve a multi-ethnic masterpiece.  We make Americans out of the raw material that comes our way.  It's what differentiates us from all the other countries.  It's the genius of our republic.

That was sold to me in elementary school; I remember the page in my 3rd grade social studies book.  It felt right to me, the grandchild of 4 immigrants who were very proud to call themselves Americans.  I thought everyone saw the country that way.  

I was wrong. But I was not disheartened, because I saw real change happening.  Growing up, racial slurs and caricatures that were common in the media (and roundly criticized by my parents) gave way to the notion that those views were impolitic at best, down right rude in reality.  

Did the pendulum swing too far?  Asking for universal kindness and attention to what matters to others has a long history - the Golden Rule, anyone?  But the rock has been turned over and all sorts of ugliness is everywhere these days.  

I came to these thoughts because I came across this:  the keffiyeh is the hipster swastika.

Nazi's were hip?  Arabs are Nazi's?  Hipsters hate Jews?  Who's bombing Gaza?

Really, who cares?  It's the fact that the sentence is out there in the world, evoking menace and hate and an astonishing lack of nuance.  

I really don't understand the world anymore.

Travels

How much will you pay for comfort?  That seems to be the calculation used by every airline and car service I've encountered this summer. 

Lyft offers an upcharge for a roomier, somewhat more special in an unspecified way, ride to the airport.  I'm small, have no trouble getting into any vehicle, and I travel light.  There's no attraction for me there.  

However, if they offered a clever driver option, like the Russian speaking gentleman who transported me to SFO, I'd pay just a little bit more to have that ride through neighborhoods and roads I'd never traversed, avoiding the inevitable traffic jam through the city and the park, and using Google translate to agree that moving was much better than standing still.  It was a delightful slice of what America is all about,  (I tipped well.)

But the airlines are another story.  For the two hour flight to the Bay area, I can feel comfortable in any size aisle or window seat.  I can't see over the top the the seat in front of me no matter where I am in the plane, nor do my feet reach the floor.  Leg room is not an issue.  

TBG's frame is unhappily squished in the small amount of room between his knees and the tray table.  He can suck it up for two hours on the aisle; anything longer moves from uncomfortable to torture.  Exit row charges translate to mobility the next day.  I'm happy to pay.

It seems that no matter when I travel, the price of a ticket to San Francisco or Oakland is pretty much the same $250ish.  Flying to South Bend is another story entirely.  

Little Cuter and I live near two small airports.  Unfortunately, the only direct flight to hers leaves from another small airport, about 2 hours away.  It's on Allegiant Air.  They fly out on Wednesday at 8am and return on Monday at 11pm (which is 2am South Bend time).  

It's rarely worth the effort.  But I stumbled upon a deal where two tickets sold out of Mesa for less than the price of one ticket out of Tucson, I booked the flights.  I forgot that we vowed never again the last time we did this.  

The morning flight gets us in for half a day with the kiddos; we do just fine with an early alarm.  The plane wasn't full; we shared the three seats pretty comfortably.  The way home was a different matter.  It left South Bend at 9:30pm. We were pretty tired already. The flight was completely full. 

For more than 4 hours I groaned in a middle seat that did not recline, leaning on TBG's shoulder as he tried to maneuver himself into something approximating a comfortable position.  The perfectly sized woman in the window seat kept to herself.  There were many adorable little children, one with flashing lights on her headphones.  There was a large labradoodle service dog.  There was an emergency (Is there a medical professional on board?  We need your assistance immediately!) and a stretcher to remove the patient when we landed. 

It was agony.  Sleep was beyond elusive.  It was a far fetched dream.  As yesterday turned into today, I was too tired to yawn.  We slept in a comfortable hotel bed 3 minutes from the airport, had lovely check in and breakfast experiences, and used an app to unlock the door, which thrilled me immensely.  There was no traffic in Phoenix and we were home and unpacked and ready to nap by 10am.

Was having the extra funds to lavish upon my family worth scrunching myself like a sardine?  Was avoiding changing planes and a 2 hour layover in DFW a wise choice?  There's probably no such thing as a comfortable middle seat on any airline.  

Would I do it again?  Probably.

There Will Be...

Pictures of adventures. 

Musing on race.

Accessing information. 

Defining success. 

The perfect summer weekend. 

It will come.  For now,  I am residing in the bosom of my extended family.