The tao of Sacha

Me, reading this: He tells me that God is a word.
Sacha: God isn’t a word. God is a Hebrew person.
Me: Well, we can’t really know what God is. Lots of people believe he’s not a person, and he doesn’t belong to anyone.
Sacha: God is a man!
Me: What makes you think so?
Sacha: Well, if you look at him, you can tell that he’s a man. Also, sometimes he goes invisible.  
Me: How can you look at him if he’s invisible?
Sacha: I know because it says so in the pledge - god, invisible, and justice for all.
Me: Indivisible, not invisible. Do you know what that means?
Sacha: Just read.

******

Me: Go sit on the steps.
Sacha: No.
Me: Now.
Sacha: I don't want to!
[Sacha sits.]
Sacha: I don't want to sit on the steps! It's not fair!
[Me, going about my business.]
Sacha: You're not listening to me! I'm telling the truth!
Me: I’m sure you are. You’re still not getting up until you settle down.

******

Me: TV time’s over. 

[I turn off television.]
Sacha: Hey! Don't do that.
Me: I just did.
Sacha: Never do that!
[I leave the room.]
Sacha: New rule. Never turn off the tv. Without asking. A kid for permission first. I just made that up.

******

Me: Sacha, pick up the cards.
[Sacha continues to play.]
Me: Sacha, pick up the cards!
[Sacha continues to play.] 

Me: Sacha!Sacha: I’m not your servant. Sheesh.
Me, silently snickering: Go to your room.
Sacha, on way up stairs: Ah, finally, I get to rest!

[I pick up the cards myself, while Sacha plays happily in his room.]

Put your rage on the page

Toward the end of the school year, Sacha had a particularly bad day at school, during which he accidentally clocked his teacher in the chin hard enough to send her to the doctor midday, after she forcibly brought him to the sink to make him wash his hands. 

In my completely unobjective opinion, the bitch had in coming, but that is a story for another day. For now, suffice it to say, it does not take a military tactician to point out that if you find yourself embroiled in a power struggle with a hyperactive, oppositional five year-old, you’d best step down, as experience has taught me that you will always come out on the losing end of that showdown.

Sacha was feeling pretty bad about himself, and I was feeling drained from soothing his addled nerves, and so, when we got to the pool, I let him go to the shuffleboard court on his own. I wanted a little time to myself, and instead of checking on him at my usual 5-minute intervals, I stretched it to 10 minutes. When I did check on him I watched him from the edge of the court — see ticking time bombs, sleeping dogs, etc., —  and from my vantage point, he seemed to be playing happily with a bunch of kids.

Twenty peaceful minutes later, a lifeguard brought my screaming child to me, explaining that he’d been interfering in people’s games. I apologized to the lifeguard, and attempted to comfort my extremely low-frustration tolerant son. I gave him the requisite talk about not disrupting people's games, but my heart wasn’t quite in it, because I knew it was really my fault.

I spent the rest of the afternoon limping around the pool with Sacha clinging to my leg screaming. I was in this position when a woman approached me. "Excuse me," she said, "is that your son?" I took this to be a rhetorical question, what with the clinging and screaming and the strong familial resemblance, but nonetheless, I answered, “Yes.”

“Could you please watch him on the shuffleboard court?” she asked.
“I know; I’m so sorry; the lifeguard told me. I was checking on him, but clearly I didn’t get close enough to see what was happening, and I read the situation wrong.”

“He really shouldn’t be left alone there,” she continued, “He was very disruptive.”
“I’m really sorry,” I said.
“He kept messing up my daughter's game. He kept moving the puck around, and changing the scoreboard. He made it impossible to for us to play.”

At this point, I started to lose my temper. My brain said, “Look, second bitch I have encountered today, you should put on your listening ears, because I have just said, ‘My bad.' Twice." I have taken responsibility for my son’s actions, and social convention dictates that no matter how pissed off at me you are, and perhaps rightly so, you should, at this point, graciously accept my apology and go on to resent me for the rest of your life, if you like.”

Instead, I repeated, with all the politeness I could muster, “I am terribly sorry, and as you see, my son also feels pretty awful too.”

With that, I hobbled off on my screaming peg leg. I think it is safe to say it was not the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Asshole alert

Some people have fine-tuned gaydar — which in this day and age, is really not that impressive. I, on the other hand, have exquisitely honed assholedar, and lately I've been attracting them like a magnet. I could tell many stories of encounters I've had lately, and perhaps for the remainder of the summer I will make this a regular feature, but for now, consider the following:

We recently got a new car insurance policy, and I had to bring our car in to a designated photo-inspection facility. I called in advance to see when was a good time to come, and was told to show up at an appointed hour. I arrived promptly, and announced myself to a mechanic, who told me to wait in the office for his boss. Although the boss wasn't busy, he scowled at me and kept me waiting for ten minutes before he began inspecting my car.

Boss: Pull up over here.

[I pulled up over here, parked my car, and got out.]

Boss: No; pull up here. [Nods head 3 feet ahead of where I pulled up.]

[I got back in the car, and pulled up here.]

Boss glowered his way through the inspection. When he finished, we had the following exchange:

Boss: Do you know your front tire needs to be replaced?

Me: Yes, I do. It's on my list.

Boss: You know that tire could blow?

Me: Yes, I do.

Boss: I see you travel with babies in the car.

Me, internal monologue: That is technically untrue, although I can see why you would make that assumption, because I do have one car seat in the car. But since I don't want to give you any information about my personal life, I will let this slide.

Me, aloud: Yes, I do.

Boss scowled his way though the paperwork and dismissed me. As I got into my car to leave, Boss said, "You really should replace that tire."

Me: I know. I'm going to.

Me, internal monologue: Can you shut the fuck up already?

Boss: I would hate for to injure someone, or kill yourself, or your babies.

Me, aloud: Thank you!

Me, internal monologue: Thank you, asshole, for pointing out to me what I've already acknowledged that I know. I agree that it is of paramount importance to replace the tire. I am so sorry that I am a busy woman with three children, and, seeing as it's summer, a great deal less free time on my hands. Thank you so much for continuing to berate me and show me the error of my ways. I appreciate your concern for my "babies," and for every other sentient being on the road who I am endangering, and thank you for pointing out that I have no concern for my own children, life, or human welfare. In departing, let me add that if you have miraculously managed to find a mate and procreate, I pity your family for having to endure your domineering, authoritarian manner and passive-aggressive communication style, to say nothing of your poor listening skills. I also thank you for acting like you are doing me a favor by inspecting my car, which, while I am not personally paying you to do, you are being suitably compensated for by my insurance company. May your business continue to thrive and prosper!

Department of minor complaints

JUDGEMENT DAY

There is a man I see everyday when I drop Sarah and Gabriel off at camp. He has two children in the same classes as them, and we often wind up walking the halls together from one room to the next, chatting pleasantly about nothing.

The other day as I was driving away after drop-off, a car began to pull out in front of me, setting us on a slow motion collision course. I issued a light warning honk and swerved. But the driver ignored me, peeled out and cut me off. I looked over to see who this asshole was, and IT WAS MY HALLWAY FRIEND. I’m pretty sure he saw me too, because the following day, as we passed in the hall, our smiles were significantly less friendly, and there was no idle chit-chat. I took this as a sign that he was either ashamed to have been outed as an asshole, or more likely, had hardened into a self-righteous stance in order hide from himself the fact that he is an asshole. Either way, he shall heretofore be known to me as Mr. Not-As-Nice-as-I-Initially-Thought.

ENABLING REQUIRED

Camp policy requires that parents sign their children in to class every day. I can understand this in a pre-school, or on the first day of camp, when children may not know where they’re going. But at this point, Sarah and Gabriel have seven years combined classroom finding experience, and they have a one-hundred percent success rate. I am decidedly in the pro-autonomy, anti-helicopter parenting camp, so boo to you, Working Advantage, for making my children take a small step back.

POTTY TIME

1. There have been several times in the past few weeks when I have used public restrooms, and the person in the stall next to me has left without washing their hands. It’s kind of interesting, in a social experiment way, to see the gap between self-reporting and compliance in action. I would like to give people the benefit of the doubt, and assume that if they’re not turning on the faucet, it’s because they carry their own bottle of hand-sanitizer. But still, as I tell my children, SOAP ALWAYS FOR NUMBER TWO. So for the sake of appearances, fellow bathroom going compatriots, couldn’t you at least turn on the faucet for a few seconds? I would be none the wiser, and it would make me feel a whole lot better.

2. Single occupancy restrooms in which the toilet is directly across from the sink, over which there is a large mirror, are an exceptionally poor design choice. The large mirror is good for fixing yourself up, but unless you scope out the joint in advance, and then remember the layout when you’re done with your business, you have the unfortunate experience of watching yourself wipe. I’m sure there are some fetishists out there who find this erotic, but I suspect, like me, the general populace does not.

On the other hand, props to single occupancy restrooms for allowing people to not wash their hands in privacy.

Scenes from a mall

Although I hate malls with an abiding passion, this year for Sarah’s birthday, I set her and two friends loose there with some spending money. While I waited for them, I sat in the bar in Ruby Tuesdays. The White Horse Tavern it was not, and I could not even finish a single beer without fear of imperiling my ability to drive home, but I brought my notebook with me anyway.

I was still getting over the effects of my horrible ear infection, so I tried, as best I could, to eavesdrop with my one good ear. I overheard this conversation between a twenty-something bartender with Luddite* leanings and a conspiracy theorist patron slightly ignorant of musical history.

Bartender: I still think the best generation’s music was 1965-72.**
Patron: I just want to be alternative from everyone else.
Bartender: I am anti-Kindle. I still prefer CDs. I sample things on-line, and then I go out and buy them.

Unintelligible mumbling

Patron: If only she had talent she might be a crazy stalker girl.
Bartender: What do you listen to?
Patron: Depeche Mode, REM, Country (sic) Roses***, the Cure.
Bartender: Is that 80s music?
Patron: Yeah. Back in the eighties they used to call it college music.
Patron: Wasn’t Michael Jackson big in the eighties?
Bartender: Yeah, but I’m not even that upset he died.
Patron: Elvis and Tupac died, but obviously there are still spottings of them.
Unintelligible mumbling
Patron: All that classical stuff, like Beethoven and all that, it’s public domain now.
Patron: Didn’t Sirius and XM merge?
Bartender: Yeah; they have a nineties station.
Patron: So there’s only one alternative.
Bartender: Have you seen the Westfield Mall app?
Patron: Give me a number 2, make it strong; pineapple, Jaeger, lager.
Bartender: With a kick?

Unintelligible mumbling

Bartender: It’s your sister, so she doesn’t have you on a leash like a girlfriend does.
Patron: Yeah, I can’t get rid of that bitch.

Bartender: I don’t like the Wii. If I play video games, I want to sit.  

Unintelligible mumbling

Bartender, to me: What are you writing about?
Me: Oh, nothing, just taking notes.
Bartender: So you’re a writer?
Me: Not really, but I like to write.
Bartender: Have I given you any inspiration?
Me: Yes, you have.
Bartender: Alright! So if you can put something in your book about a really good looking bartender named Will, that would be great.
Me: I’ll do my best.

I was flattered to be taken seriously as a writer; apparently carrying a Moleskin, while pretentious, does connote a certain authority.

So Will, for you, here are your fifteen minutes.  

*****************

*Although this is the common usage, I recently learned that the Luddites were not so much anti-technology as anti-poor quality technology, which, in modern terms, means they were PC, as opposed to  Mac users.

**Given how I feel about classic rock, this especially chaps my ass. Of course you are entitled to your opinion, but you weren’t even alive during this era; was there no music made during your youth that was worth listening to? I think not.

***Stone, not Country, Roses. Youngsters, learn your musical history!