Scheiss Weekly

Mother's Day. Appreciate It.

Posted on May 10, 2012 by Jane GoodwinMay 10, 2012

cassat Mamacita says: I was reading an article somewhere, by somebody*, that stated that no matter how old we get, there are still times when we want our mother. Our fifty-year-old mother.

When our mothers are young, we don’t consider them ‘friends.’ We don’t consider them young, either, because when we’re very young, all adults are old. Heck, our 12-year-old cousins seem like adults. Our 22-year-old teacher and Grandma: one and the same, age-wise. No, to a child, most adults are old; they’re not sweet young things. They never were; it’s not possible.

Our mother was always a mother. She had no life before us. She’s just Mommy, when we’re young, and when she’s young. We don’t even know she were young till we look at old pictures. And then we’re blown away because, “Oh my gosh, look how YOUNG she was there!”

But as we get older, our mothers seem to stay the same, and somehow the years between us don’t matter as much as they used to.

They stay the same, that is, until we take a good long look at them and it hits us that they look old. Not just mom-old, but OLD. Wrinkly. And you know there’s white underneath the Miss Clairol. And they aren’t as sure-footed as they used to be.

This is shocking, but it’s okay, as long as the MOM is still there inside the stranger-every-day body. You know, MOM. The lady who can make magic with a word or a touch? Her? That’s the one.

Good thing WE’LL never get old like that, huh.

I’ve read that when we are in our twenties, the fifty-year-old mother is somehow at her peak of Mom-ness and Friend-ness. Our fifty-year-old mother is an expert in so many things.

What we don’t realize is that our fifty-year-old mother is still missing HER fifty-year-old mother.

And what very few of you know yet, is that your fifty-year-old mother is still as insecure and wondering as she was when she was in her twenties. Your fifty-year-old mother is still beating herself to death over mistakes she made when you were three.

How do I know this? I’d rather not say.

The seventy-year-old mother is still cool. Still Mom. It’s just that the fragility is starting to show, and the mortality thing comes to mind more than we’d like.

The fifty-year-old Mom is the epitome of Momitude. She KNOWS things. We should listen more to our fifty-year-old Mom.

Unless she’s a meddling idiot with outdated stupid ideas and a lot of unwanted advice, of course. You don’t have to listen then.

Chances are, however, that if your fifty-year-old Mom is mean and judgmental and delights in hurting people’s feelings, she was exactly the same when she was in her twenties. Bodies change a lot**. Personalities seldom do.

The following has been making the internet rounds for a long time now, and most of you have no doubt seen it before. However, I’m posting it anyway, because for some reason, it means more to me with each passing year.

============

The Images of Mother

4 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mommy can do anything!

8 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mom knows a lot! A whole lot!

12 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mother doesn’t really know quite everything.

14 YEARS OF AGE ~ Naturally, Mother doesn’t know that, either.

16 YEARS OF AGE ~ Mother? She’s hopelessly old-fashioned.

18 YEARS OF AGE ~ That old woman? She’s way out of date!

25 YEARS OF AGE ~ Well, she might know a little bit about it.

35 YEARS OF AGE ~ Before we decide, let’s get Mom’s opinion.

45 YEARS OF AGE ~ Wonder what Mom would have thought about it?

65 YEARS OF AGE ~ Wish I could talk it over with Mom.

======

Let’s talk things over with Mom while we have the chance.

If your own mommy doesn’t appreciate you, come right on over here. I’m not saying exactly how old this Mommy is, but she’s in her peak and prime of Momitude. I do, however, screw it up sometimes, even now. I do my best. That’s all we can do, in any and every phase.

I have a lot of advice, but I’ll wait till you ask me for it***.

*If I knew the author and the name of the article, I’d have mentioned it up above, silly.
**Unless you’re Jamie Lee Curtis.
***Most of the time.

A Sympathetic Reply to Your Email, Student Dear.

Posted on May 7, 2012 by Jane GoodwinMay 7, 2012

Mamacita says: Now ordinarily, as anyone who knows me already knows, I’m a firm believer in staying up late and sleeping in, whenever possible. When I think of all those exhausted teens being dragged from their beds because some early-bird adult thinks that because he’s up, everyone should be up, I get really angry on behalf of the teens. Let the kid sleep, for crying out loud. Let the poor exhausted kid sleep. Not everybody likes the early morning hours. Me, for instance. I sympathize, students; I honestly do. Morning people who wake up the whole house because they believe it’s just, well, PROPER, to get up in the early morning, make me start sympathizing with ax murderers.

However. My sympathy ends when there are genuine obligations.

But students, in spite of my total sympathy your desire to sleep in, and my firm belief that you should be allowed to sleep for 15 completely uninterrupted hours if that’s what your bodies are screaming for, I’m going to have to say, in all honesty, that deciding to sleep in on the day of your final exam was a really bad idea. I also think it might have been worth the excruciating pain your hangnail/hangover/tummy ache/sore throat/deep throat* (who do you think you’re trying to fool?) would have given you, to come to class and take your test. The room is large enough that you could have sat in the back and kept your germs/moans/pain/whining to yourself, and when you were finished you could have taken a nap, completely undisturbed. Yes, I did receive your email explaining how you had to work late last night and were really, really tired, and when the alarm went off you just couldn’t get up, you just COULDN’T, so for the sake of your health you turned over and went back to sleep, and you thanked me in advance for understanding because you know I remember how it felt to be young and so tired it just wasn’t humanly possible to get up for just a test. I didn’t answer it because it’s hard to type when I’m laughing that hard.

Who do you think you’re talking to, kid?

I remember being so tired it wasn’t humanly possible to turn OVER, let alone get up. But I got up anyway, because I had responsibilities. I sleep-walked across campus many times, to take a test. I took tests with migraines so severe there were sparks shooting out of my head and I could barely read the questions. I took tests that I’d pulled two or three all-nighters in a row to prepare for, and I really believed I was prepared! I have fallen asleep with my head resting on my completed test. I took an important astronomy test in my pajamas, and it was well before public pajama-wearing was “in.” I never once cut class on a test day, even though there were plenty of times when I wanted to. Every time, for example. But I showed up. I am a walking definition of “Night Owl,” but when I have an obligation, I get up. And you need to, too.

I think, dear student, that a great way of telling whether a person is an adult or still a child is watching you to see if you are, on a regular basis, dragging the ol’ carcass out of bed to do something because it’s there to be done, you’ve committed to doing it, people are waiting for you to get up and get there to do it, you signed up to do it, you promised people you’d be there to do it, you paid money to do it or you’re being paid money to do it, and by golly you’re just SUPPOSED to be there to do it. No excuses.

I’m very glad that you now feel rested and alert and are rip-roaring eager to take that test. Unfortunately, the semester is now over and your options are gone.

See you next semester. Don’t sell your book.

Big Business Meets Its Match

Posted on May 7, 2012 by Jane GoodwinMay 7, 2012

Mamacita says: I have seen many versions of this story, but this translation from Paul Coelho’s blog is the best so far.

There was once a businessman who was sitting by the beach in a small Brazilian village.

As he sat, he saw a Brazilian fisherman rowing a small boat towards the shore having caught quite a few big fish.

The businessman was impressed and asked the fisherman, “How long does it take you to catch so many fish?”

The fisherman replied, “Oh, just a short while.”

“Then why don’t you stay longer at sea and catch even more?” The businessman was astonished.

“This is enough to feed my whole family,” the fisherman said.

The businessman then asked, “So, what do you do for the rest of the day?”

The fisherman replied, “Well, I usually wake up early in the morning, go out to sea and catch a few fish, then go back and play with my kids. In the afternoon, I take a nap with my wife, and when evening comes, I join my buddies in the village for a drink — we play guitar, sing and dance throughout the night.”

The businessman offered a suggestion to the fisherman. “I am a PhD in business management. I could help you to become a more successful person. From now on, you should spend more time at sea and try to catch as many fish as possible. When you have saved enough money, you could buy a bigger boat and catch even more fish. Soon you will be able to afford to buy more boats, set up your own company, your own production plant for canned food and distribution network. By then, you will have moved out of this village and to Sao Paulo, where you can set up HQ to manage your other branches.”

The fisherman continues, “And after that?”

The businessman laughs heartily, “After that, you can live like a king in your own house, and when the time is right, you can go public and float your shares in the Stock Exchange, and you will be rich.”

The fisherman asks, “And after that?”

The businessman says, “After that, you can finally retire, you can move to a house by the fishing village, wake up early in the morning, catch a few fish, then return home to play with kids, have a nice afternoon nap with your wife, and when evening comes, you can join your buddies for a drink, play the guitar, sing and dance throughout the night!”

The fisherman was puzzled, “Isn’t that what I am doing now?”

The World Is Full of Joyful Noises, Even If We Can't Hear Them

Posted on April 26, 2012 by Jane GoodwinApril 26, 2012

Mamacita says: Today is the last day of the rest of your life class before finals – next week is final exam week, every student’s favorite week, naturally.

I predict that several students will come to class the NEXT week, and be all astounded and sputtery that the semester is over and the lab is empty and they can’t take the final. But then, most of this kind of student didn’t even know when the final WAS, or what it was about. Tuition was paid, by somebody, but the student seldom showed up and is still enrolled, which means he/she will get an F on the transcript. It happens every semester, and it’s scary. For the nation, I mean. SCARY. (Did I mention that each student has four opportunities to take the final exam?)

Sometimes, even at this level, a parent will call me at home to tell me why Junior was absent and to tell me that he’ll be at the college on such and such a day to take the final which I will please hand-deliver to him at his convenience and monitor (without pay) the three hours he’ll need to take it. To which I reply that I am not permitted by law to even acknowledge that I’ve ever heard of Junior and there is no way I would ever tell someone over the phone who is and who isn’t in my classes. Then the parent will get all huffy and imperious and say something about paying Junior’s tuition, blah blah blah, and I’ll start to snicker silently on my end, because after all those years of having administration force me to kowtow and give in to this kind of parent, I am finally allowed to be sensible and professional about it, and simply hang up on anyone who raises his/her voice to me. If the parent tries to go over my head, it won’t work. At least, it hasn’t yet. My department head is awesome. (Thank you, Carol. You rock.) Helicopter parents are a pathetic joke at any level, but if this attitude extends into a kid’s college years, heaven help the universe!

I am giving exams at three different campuses next week, and I’d bet money, if I had any, that I can tell you exactly which students will be there, pencils sharpened, alert, and ready to take that test, and who won’t be. And who will be there, but will have to borrow something to write with because he/she “forgot.” Again.

Have work ethics changed much? Darn right they have. And not for the better, either. Sigh. I’ve had younger students, used to years of community classroom supplies, actually expect to find colored bins of pencils, free for the taking, in a college classroom. (Community classroom supplies are the devil.)

Dear Helicopter Parents of College Students: Your kid is raised. Stop raising him. If he’s still an immature weenie, let life hand him/her some consequences. It’s about time somebody did.
Love, Professor MeaniePants

P.S. Your kid is nineteen years old and still can’t remember to bring a pencil to school. And no, he can’t borrow mine. Suck it up. If he wants a grade on a test, he can go down to the bookstore and invest in a two-dollar collegiate-licensed pencil. Yes, they are too expensive and yes, it’s ridiculous. At Target he can get a whole package for a dollar, but then he’d have to remember to bring one to class. You are not allowing your kid to grow up, and he doesn’t have what it takes to do so himself. This is your fault. Back off. Let him struggle and fail, and then perhaps he will struggle and succeed. No, this is NOT being cruel. Cruelty is keeping your kid a kid too long, and doing all the work for him. Step back and don’t give in when he comes crying to you about how hard life is.

Remember Helen Keller, who had to be removed from her doting parents’ home in order to be educated properly, because her parents were so sorry for her that they gave in to her every whim and turned her into a smelly obnoxious beast who demanded her own way and got it in every situation. Poor little Helen, let her have it; she’s been denied so much! We can’t expect poor little Helen to do anything; she can’t SEE or HEAR. Just let her be. Cater to her every whim. Put up with tantrums, etc., because she’s disabled. Poor, poor little Helen. We can’t expect her to be able to do things other children do. We musn’t require it. Annie removed her from her parents’ home and forced her to live up to her potential. It wasn’t pretty. But it worked.

Annie Sullivan wasn’t sure exactly what would work for Helen, but she knew enough to know that catering to the child’s every whim was definitely the wrong approach. She was willing to try new and different things to try to reach Helen through the silence and darkness, and she knew that sometimes, trial and error ARE the best approach. Helen’s parents knew they were not up to dealing properly with their daughter because nothing they tried, worked; they were too close to the situation and couldn’t bear to see their child unhappy. Mr. and Mrs. Keller gave Annie free reign with Helen, and Annie’s methods worked. Say and think what you will about Annie’s methods; they WORKED. Why can’t modern parents and administrators see it? Nowadays, Annie would be in the Rubber Room and Helen would be a smelly obnoxious adult with no future, no real life, no way of earning her own living, barely “put up with” wherever she was taken, illiterate, unmannerly, with no self control, and with her intellect imprisoned and unused, instead of the successful college graduate, public speaker, writer, and advocate of education and human rights that she was able to become thanks to Annie’s unorthodox but successful methods. (Helen was also on vaudeville, and in a couple of movies. She’s one of my heroes.)

Thank you, my good students, for being what you’ve been all semester. I’m so proud of you. Oh, and don’t sweat the final; it’s nothing but a piece of paper. Do your best with it, but don’t let it boss you around. Each of you is more important than a few pieces of paper. (This batch of students will bring all the proper materials on finals day, do their best, and their best will be great!) I’m not worried about my students this semester; they’ve done well (the ones who come to class, that is) all semester, and they’re going to do well next week, too. They’re awesome, and I’m not wasting that word. Awesome, like a rainbow over the Grand Canyon. I’ll miss them.

The world is a mess, but each of us can, at least, create order in our own homes and lives, and creativity out of chaos, if we work at it. It takes a lot of hard work, I hope y’all realize.

Life is good. Dig it.

And when life isn’t good, dig it anyway. If you keep digging, you’ll strike gold eventually.

Oh, and bring a pencil to class on test day. Them nasty professors will show you no mercy; they can’t, because they have no hearts. Nope.

They have no heart, and they never fart. That’s why they’re so mean all the time.

And now you know.

Word, students: when you think you’re down to nothing, make a vuvuzela with a balloon and a hex nut. You don’t really need a lot of stuff to make a joyful noise. Or to share it with the people in the lab down the hall.

Wishes, Fairies, Achenes, and Clocks

Posted on April 21, 2012 by Jane GoodwinApril 21, 2012

Mamacita says: I will never understand why people will pay out the wazoo for lovely nursery-bred flowers to plant, and then pay out the wazoo for someone to kill the lovely golden blossoms that are already growing.

Is it because dandelions are so common, and grow so easily, that we take them for granted and prefer flowers that really aren’t all that much prettier but which are harder to grow, expensive, and are a bit less common? If dandelions weren’t sprinkled everywhere, turning plain green lawns into starry universes, common, easy, beloved by children, would they be more popular?

Whenever there are too many of pretty much anything, we tend to take them for granted and consider them less than first class. Take a look at our overcrowded classrooms, for example. But I digress.

If we examine each individual child flower, we will see that it is wondrously made, unique, adds to the quality of the universe, and is worthy of attention.

No florist’s creation will ever rival the Dixie cup with a few short-stemmed dandelions plunked down in it.

Nothing store-bought or paid-for will ever rival the dandelion even in its death, turned into a white fuzzy clock that will tell a child the time, according to the number of breaths it takes to blow all the fuzz away. And, of course, FAIRIES love to ride on the soft, fluffy achenes, granting wishes right and left. Every child knows that if you can blow ALL the achenes off with one breath, your wish will definitely come true.

How sad, to be a child without dandelions on the lawn, to have nothing but plain green landscaping that he can’t even play on because of all the chemicals, to have expensive blooms and blossoms that he can’t pick. How sad the house containing children but no Dixie cups of short-stemmed dandelions all over the countertops. My heart actually breaks over the thought of children living in a house where blowing dandelion clocks is forbidden, lest the seeds take root and ruin the “look.” No wishes or fairies dare come near such a domicile. There’s a big difference between a house and a home, and to people like me, who believe firmly in fairies, wishes, and stubby little bouquets in paper cups, a house has a green, chemically-treated velvety lawn, and a home has grass, sprinkled with tiny golden stars. And, if the children are especially lucky, lots of little purple violets, as well.

I believe that dandelions are flowers, in the same way that those expensive hybrid roses are flowers, and every bit as beautiful, especially when they’re thrust in our face by a grubby little child, put in a Dixie cup, and placed where everybody can see and admire them.

Dandelions represent summer, and childhood, and the love of a little girl or boy for a parent, and a Dixie cup of stubby dandelions means more to me than anything delivered by the florist’s truck.

Put that Dixie cup on the coffee table between two cereal bowls containing floating periwinkle blossoms and catalpa blooms, and House Beautiful can go blow. I prefer the individual touch when it comes to home decor.

I also welcome the fairies. Heaven knows I can use all the wishes I can get.

What’s that? You’re afraid of the bees? Sissy.

Dick Clark and Our Sofa

Posted on April 18, 2012 by Jane GoodwinApril 18, 2012

Mamacita says: Dick Clark has died.

This will make little difference to most of you, save that your New Year’s Eve will be hosted by someone else now. But to me, this is another one of so many things, lately, that I call “The end of my childhood.”

When my sister and I were little, my parents used to roll up the rugs and dance to American Bandstand. Other Sister and I would sit on the couch, the buckles of our Mary Janes catching on the upholstery and pulling out long oval threads until we kicked and broke the thread. Our couches always had long threads waving about in the breeze from the two open, “screened-in” windows in summer or the breeze from the registers in winter. Our sofas, when OS and I were little, always looked like something that had been rescued from the sunken Titanic, infested with tendrilled sea creatures.

We loved watching Mom and Dad dance. Occasionally they had friends over, and all of them danced. We had records and a player at home, and a radio, but they didn’t dance to those; they danced to American Bandstand. I overheard Mom say to a friend once, that “American Bandstand makes me feel like I’m at a party.” I think it had that same effect on a lot of young people back then.

Mom and Dad would have been in their twenties during this period; two twenty-somethings with two little girls, and I know now that those two little girls were the reason Mom and Dad did their dancing at home, and not at a real dance.

Except that, watching them laugh and dance, whirl and twirl in our living room, rolled-up rugs leaning in one corner, rock and roll music blaring from our black and white TV, I realize now that these not-all-that-long-out-of-their-teens young parents WERE at a real dance. As for my sister and I, sitting on that couch, legs so short they were sticking straight out, picking upholstery threads with our shoe buckles and breaking those threads right and left with our wiggles, we were like old-time movie children watching the ball from between the bannisters.

It was as if those dancers were someone else, not Mommy and Daddy, someone from the TV dance, laughing and jiving like real people who weren’t parents at all.

Like American Bandstand people. Magic people on the TV screen, only in living color ahead of its time, not black and white.

Dick Clark made that happen. It wasn’t just on TV that he encouraged young people to dance, and exposed them to new music. He did those things for people in living rooms, too.

Our living room. Our southern Indiana living room, where the American Bandstand theme music caused rugs to be rolled up, Mommies and Daddies to kick off their shoes and rock the casbah, and little girls to turn a sofa into a mess of fringe.

Thank you, Dick Clark. In my heart you’ll always be young; you know, like you appeared to be even when you were old enough to be a grandfather, like the Picture of Dorian Gray. To me, you’re not a New Year’s Eve host, or a game show host. You’re Dick Clark, of American Bandstand, teaching the world to cut loose and dance, and encouraging us to listen to new and different music.

I’d tell you to rest in peace, but I know you never wanted that kind of peace. Crank it up to eleven, angels, Dick Clark is in the building now.