You Must Read This

Maybe it’s just our school district—maybe we’re slackers—but I have noticed something that tortured me endlessly in my school days seems to have miraculously faded from popularity. I speak of the dreaded Summer Reading List and accompanying Book Reports.

Maybe it was just the fancy ass private school my parents insisted on sending me to (some drivel about a good education, I don’t know—I actually hadn’t turned down the volume on my Walkman the way I’d been instructed to when they started the conversation), but for years when classes would end in June, they would pass out a list of “Recommended Reading.” Maybe I misunderstood the definition of “recommended” but I was always under the impression that a recommendation wasn’t necessarily a direct order to execute. With a recommendation, you had the option not to participate. That was not the case here. On the first day of school you were to bring back with you some appalling number of reports on books you’d read over the summer.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you

 

I love to read, do now and did then. It was probably my favorite thing to do as a kid (since sports clearly wasn’t high on the list). But to read books and then have to write book reports just plain sucked. In the first place, they seldom picked books that I wanted to read. They always picked all those coming of age books like “Up a Road Slowly” (and really, why did it seem that every heroine in the books on these lists wanted to be a writer? I get it—write what you know, but where does imagination come into play? Couldn’t these people imagine a little girl who wanted to be anything other than a writer, even though that was clearly what they wanted to be when they were kids?) and deep books like “Bridge to Terabithia” and “Where The Red Fern Grows.” Frankly, my problem with all these sorts of books is, they’re depressing. They never picked things like “Starring Sally J. Friedman As Herself” or “Hangin’ Out with Cici” (which is apparently out of print now, but was written by Francine Pascal, so those of you who were “Sweet Valley” high fans might want to see if you can find it at your library).

I had enough trouble with depression as a kid. It was not necessary for me to read about kids with dying moms, dying friends, dying dogs, or other unfortunate circumstances. I had enough trouble dealing with my own problems, I didn’t need to read about problems other kids had that I couldn’t do anything about. And if it was about animals suffering (lookin’ at you “Incredible Journey”) just forget it. Fuck that noise. I was a huge animal lover, and couldn’t stand the idea of an animal in any sort of pain. I didn’t even like “Socks” because of that.

But I had no choice. Every summer I would go through and pick the least depressing of the gloomy lot. Of course now I go look at my school’s website and not only have they changed the requirement (only one book is mandatory, and no reports on the others they have to read), but they’ve added all the good shit—Judy Blume, E.L. Konigsburg (loved “The Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler”—I just read it to my kids, and they loved it too), and J. K. Rowling. Not that J.K. Rowling was in print when I was a kid, but just to illustrate that they’ve really broadened their offerings.

Naturally I never did this exercise voluntarily, or ever particularly early on in the summer. Mid to late August always found my mother hounding me to figure out which books to read, and me spending multiple hours reading books I hated, and then having to write up some sort of stupid summary of them. Part of the reason I hated doing this is because I stink at it—there’s a reason I’m not writing reviews for the New York Review of Books. Although, ironically, I have an English degree, but an English degree is surprisingly easy to fake. If you can’t think of anything else to write, you can pick a pet theory, and apply it to every text.  Treatment of women? Even if you’re reading “Lord of the Flies” (which was one of the dogs I had to read in high school at one point—dear lord how I loathe that book, and I’m sorry to say it’s still required reading if you’re going into Grade 10 at my old high school) you can make it work. Postcolonialism? Sure. Freudian theory? No problem.

But these were “little kid” book reports, not a treatise on the application of a literary theory to a text. Most of the time they wanted the title and author, main characters, and a description of the conflict. Then they wanted you to say something you liked about the book. This was always a huge challenge for me, because, as I’ve said, I almost never did like the fucking book. I would have been glad to detail what I disliked about the books, but my school didn’t want to know (or perhaps my mother wouldn’t let me be honest). They were all “la la la what did you like about this book?” I would have said, “I thought it was depressing as shit and it brought me down for days to have to read about these dreary people in these cheerless, miserable circumstances with bleak prospects.” (Or, you know, the ten year old version of this.) Oh no, in spite of having made me read these lugubrious tomes, they wanted me to say what I liked.

Please don’t think I wanted to read nothing but Nancy Drew or V.C. Andrews or other similar literary junk food. I was willing to read decent books, I just didn’t want them to be such downers. I read and loved the Little House books, “The Secret Garden” (“A Little Princess” not so much), and the whole “Ramona” series. But they rammed “The Bluest Eye” and “The Once and Future King” down my throat (in high school, naturally—not when I was nine). And to be fair, “The Once and Future King” isn’t depressing, but holy hell is it long as shit and quite frankly not my genre.

Absolutely the only good thing that ever came out of this whole experience through which I suffered for more years than I care to count is that I learned to spell the word “character.” At one point I misspelled it on one of my reports, and my father made me write it over some absurd number of times to learn to spell it correctly. To this day, when I write that word, I think “char-act-er” because that was what my brain was saying the whole time I was writing it out to learn to spell it back in the day. But I’d say that’s a fairly small payoff for what I can assure you was hours of thankless work, between reading and writing up reports.

And now it seems the whole practice has either disappeared, or been reduced down to a more reasonable effort. To have been asked to read a single book and just be able to discuss it, without having to fabricate a positive response to it would have been heaven. Maybe that’s why I was actually successful in getting an English degree. I remember telling a professor once that I refused to read “Wuthering Heights” and asking if there would be a problem with that when it came time to write papers. I was reading it, I explained, when my mother died suddenly of an asthma attack two years earlier, and I couldn’t read it again without remembering the whole horrible experience. Her response was that reactions to books are very personal, and she wouldn’t force anyone to read something that would cause them to react in a way that would make them uncomfortable. I wish she’d been in charge of my summer reading program all those years ago. If nothing else, I might have been spared “Lord of the Flies.”

I'm So Over This

You know what’s worse than getting a phone call from a neighbor when you’re on vacation to let you know that his daughter noticed two days ago that yours had lice? Nothing. OK, maybe death or accidental dismemberment, but beyond that, I can’t think of too much. And to answer the obvious question, no, I don’t know why he waited two days to call (I’ll assume the kid didn’t mention it to her dad until then).

We’ve had lice before. We’ve actually had them about five different times. Five bouts of lice times four kids is 20 rounds of treat, comb, repeat. I’m so over the fucking lice that I don’t even know where to start.

I can’t figure out where my kids get them in the first place. I know why they’re prevalent in our community, and if you keep chickens or object to using poison on your kids, please understand that I’m not directing my wrath at you, specifically, but assholes with chickens (because chickens sometimes have lice, you understand, but they don’t bother the fucking chickens. They do, however, bother me and my kids) and those who also shun chemical poisons to kill lice are the reason I have spent what amounts to an entire work week (almost 40 hours by my calculation) over the past three years combing parasites and little tiny bits of parasite shit out of my kids’ hair. I attack these repulsive creatures the way God intended—with hard core poison. None of this tea tree or olive oil shit for me, thank you. It’s better living through chemistry for me all the way.

Where I live, there are many, many people who keep chickens. I have nothing against chickens (they’re delicious, as are their eggs). However, also where I live, there are many people who feel strongly about things like recycling, low carbon footprints, organic everything, and no chemicals. I’m not saying I don’t, I’m just not a fanatic. There’s a guy I know (a very nice guy) who takes his own silverware and napkin everywhere he goes. He eats at regular deli type places, or pizza places, but he doesn’t use plastic forks or paper napkins. For awhile I think he even carried a plate with him.

There are parents in my community who gasp in horror at the idea of their children consuming industrially produced food (such as takeout pizza, or birthday cake from the Safeway). Sometimes they’re the ones with the chickens, sometimes they’re the ones who just shun chemicals, and sometimes they’re both. In either case, I believe that they’re the ones who are perpetuating the lice problem we have. A kid goes out to play with the chickens (and there’s another issue: who plays with a fucking chicken? Get a dog) and his or her head comes in contact with the louse-y bird. Congratulations! Your child now has head lice! Now before they realize it, that kid spreads it to at least one or two other kids. And if the parent is one of these non-chemical types into the bargain, those lice are going to spread further before they can get it under control.

One year the lice problem was so bad that the kids were having to put their jackets and backpacks into individual garbage bags when they arrived at school each day. The bags were then hung on the hooks in the coat room, but they couldn’t touch and therefore spread lice between the contents. It was insane, and it went on until three weeks before school was out. Yes, the lice epidemic was so bad that it lasted from its usual late summer/fall timeframe until May. May. That’s fucking crazy talk.

What’s even more frustrating is that my daughter is the least girly girl to ever have two X chromosomes. She wears her brothers’ hand me downs. She refuses anything pink. She shuns dolls and Polly Pocket (Dear God, while I’m not thrilled with this plague of parasites, or whatever this is I’m dealing with, I want to thank you for not also sending me the Polly Pocket Curse, because I understand that’s pretty hellish as well, and can’t be remedied with a bottle of RID and some upholstery spray. Amen). So I know she’s not sharing brushes or anything like that. Shit, I can’t get her to let me brush her hair, much less have her voluntarily borrow someone else’s brush and do it herself. And my boys don’t wear other people’s hats or anything.

We don’t keep chickens, and I’m clearly pro-chemicals, so how the fuck have my kids gotten lice five times? I can’t answer that, and I’d like to stop thinking about it because every time I do my head starts itching and I think I have lice and freak out.

But I can’t stop because my kids keep getting them.

So we’re going through another round of treatment. I have started treating every three to four days in a two week period—initial, wait three days, treat, wait four days, treat, pray. When we’re combing out in the evenings, we watch The Brady Bunch on DVD. Because if I have to do this shitty job, I’m sure as hell not watching The Fairly Odd Parents, or Sam & Cat or some other asshole show with characters that have voices that would shatter glass and plot lines that are so stupid that they cause me to roll my eyes so far into my head that I can inspect my own frontal lobe. In fact, I’m not sure my kids ever watch The Brady Bunch unless they have lice. I suspect that when they grow up, hearing “Sunshine Day” or seeing Barry Williams will make their heads itch.

To their credit, my kids are pretty patient about all of this. The thing that they really dislike is that they’d prefer to watch their shows, and as I just said, that ain’t happening. They don’t love it, of course, but I don’t hear the same kind of whining that I get with, for instance, tooth brushing or underwear changing. Granted, lice isn’t a daily occurrence (YOU HEAR ME, GOD? PLEASE NO) whereas tooth brushing does have to get done twice a day, and underwear every day (in theory). But then, neither of those things requires them to sit still for an hour while I drag a comb repeatedly through their hair, muttering unkind words about chickens, chemicals, and the jerks who love one and not the other.

 

I know these bastards are responsible somehow.

ü 

I can’t understand how we can replace organs, travel in space, and  have the ability to watch cat videos for days on end, but we can’t make a product that will kill lice eggs before they hatch. This mystifies me. I’m also not clear how RID and products like it can legally claim to “kill lice and their eggs” when they do nothing of the sort. They kill the lice, sure, but the nits left on the hair are still viable, and hatch and then you have to deal with the whole thing all over again. Saying that they kill the eggs is flat out lying.

The last thing I can’t figure out is what I did in a previous life that was so horrible that karma is punishing me with this repeated outbreak of hellish infestations. The only thing I can figure out is that maybe in a former life I was a louse. This is my payback for being someone else’s scourge in the 1920s or 30s or something. Or maybe I was one of those assholes who refuses to use effective remedies for lice eradication. I suppose it could be payback for that, too. Which if that’s the case, I guess I deserve it.

Photo credit

Doing My Duty

Earlier this year, I was called for jury duty by the county in which I live. In my county there’s website or a phone number where you find out if your jury pool has been called to report. When I wasn’t called by Wednesday, I was pretty sure I was off the hook, as indeed I was. By Thursday I felt like a vestigial organ: the appendix of my county’s judicial system. I don’t know why I was disappointed. I guess it was one of those situations where I didn’t want them to need me, but it’s always nice to feel needed and wanted. Clearly, I was neither in this case.

This feeling was completely irrational, because I’ve served on jury duty twice, and I didn’t really enjoy it either time. I was called once before I had kids, once after (so, twice in an approximately twelve year span, in locations three thousand miles apart). The first time was a trial for the accused rapist of a 12 year old girl. It was pretty awful, and I’ll spare you the really ugly particulars, but the defense claimed that she hated the guy (he was some distant cousin, living with her and her grandmother for the summer), and was doing this to get back at him. SRSLY? My argument during deliberation was that she’d told teachers, counsellors, cops, doctors, detectives, lawyers, in short, probably dozens of people, what happened and she never changed her story. Not any detail. There wasn’t the tiniest bit of variation, no matter how she was questioned, nor by whom. I argued that, when I was twelve years old, I couldn’t have made up a lie and told it over and over, and not had someone catch me somewhere—sequence of events, something that was said or wasn’t said, something. Guilty. Eight years in the clink.

After six years in my new state/county on the other coast, I got summoned again. This time it was a far more comical experience.

As Juror 17, I was called into a courtroom that had last commanded the attention of an interior designer in 1962. It was like a fucking Perry Mason set. Sitting at one table was a young man of probably Central or South American parentage in a short sleeved dress shirt and khakis. Next to him was his lawyer, a guy with perfectly moussed and blown out hair in a $3,000 suit from Nordstrom.

Like this, only less stylish

At the other table was an attractive African-American woman in probably her mid-30s wearing a conservative navy blue suit, who was the attorney for the prosecution. Next to her sat a gentleman in Navy dress blues. To this day I have no idea what interest the Navy had in this particular case. 

The backstory is this: the young man came to visit here from another state. He had been in town for a weekend, to attend a christening. With him he brought 40+ vials of various controlled substances—Class 1 narcotics. He was staying at a large local hotel, and somehow got busted. While no detailed arguments were presented, of course, it was stated that the defendant had been in a motorcycle accident, and was taking these medications to control the residual pain. Okay.

At the outset of our juror interview sessions, the judge gave us some information. He explained, among other things, that if it seemed that the lawyers were unfriendly, that was not the case. They had been instructed, he said, to stand and face us when we entered and exited the courtroom, but not to exchange any kind of smiles or other emotive expressions, because they weren’t to seem that they were trying to cultivate our sympathies in any way. Facing us meant they had their backs to the judge. As we walked in and out, the defense lawyer was smiling, winking, and generally doing everything the judge had specifically told us he’d instructed them not to do. I began to wonder if, in fact, this guy was not a massive tool.

For the interviews, they asked lots of questions to try to weed out jurors. Do you recognize any of these people? A few recognized the defense attorney, who’s actually a member of the community in which I live. Then there were the, “What do you do for a living?” type questions—are you a judge/lawyer, police officer, drug dealer, you know, the usual. There was a lot of discussion about courtroom procedure and what it means to be a good juror. It took fucking forever because we kept getting kicked out of the courtroom as a jury. Later I found out why.

They asked questions about our personal histories, our experiences. At some point they asked if anyone felt there was a moral or ethical reason they couldn’t sit on the jury. I raised my hand and said I didn’t think I could give an unbiased verdict. A member of my own family, I explained, had been tried on similar charges (true story for another time). The lawyers just nodded, and noted my number. And while that was true up to a point, the real reason I said I couldn’t give an unbiased verdict is because from what little I’d heard, I already thought the guy was guilty.

I’m not saying I’m proud of my thought processes, but here’s what I concluded in a brief time. The guy came here for a weekend trip and brought 40+ bottles of serious drugs? Unless he was anticipating having his left arm amputated without anesthesia during his visit, I can’t really imagine that anyone would need that much smack. While it’s not fair (or even necessarily accurate) to judge anyone’s financial position based on appearances, it didn’t look like this kid was living on the income from his trust fund. I don’t mean he looked like a homeless person, he just appeared to be a young man of modest means. Although I don't know the defense lawyer personally, I knew enough about him to know that he’s not cheap.  I’m also pretty confident there was nothing “pro bono” about this. Sure, there are charity cases, but this lawyer has a reputation (known to me even then) for taking certain types of cases, so he’s unlikely to work for free. So where’s this guy getting the jack to pay for Mr. Fancy Expensive Defense A-Hole? You just have to wonder. Well, I did. Circumstantial evidence, you say? I won't argue, but I can't help what I thought.

Finally after an endless afternoon of marching in and out of the courtroom, the judge explained that some jurors would be released that day, the rest would need to come back the next day to learn their fate. However, before he let us go, he asked if there was anyone who had any reason beyond what we’d already discussed (in the past six hours), why they felt that they would be unable to serve on this jury. A woman in a grey sweater raised her hand, and the judge acknowledged her.

“Your honor, I’m so terribly sorry,” she began, “but I recently suffered a back injury, and sitting here on these hard benches, I’m really only hearing about every third word that’s said. I’m in so much pain I really can’t concentrate.”

I have what at best could be called an inconvenient sense of humor. At worst, I’m just sick.

When I heard this, my first thought was, “I’m bettin’ Homeboy over there could hook you up.”

I DID NOT say this out loud.

You will not be surprised to hear that I was dismissed anyway.

Now, here’s the postscript to this. When the trial finally began, it grew so contentious, and the behavior of the defense attorney so antagonistic toward both the judge and the prosecutor, that the judge ordered Mister Asshole Defense Lawyer to keep his objections to a single word, threatening to fine him $500 every time he failed to do so. He ended up with a $1500 fine, and, ultimately, faced contempt charges.

Because of the atmosphere, the jury was ordered out of the courtroom multiple times during the day (as we were during the selection process). During a forced recess, the bailiff overheard one of the jurors remarking that he’d like to punch the defense attorney. This was “discussing the case outside the courtroom” and resulted in a mistrial. Of course the defendant would be brought to trial again, but when the mistrial was declared, he had stated publicly that he wished he could sack Mr. ADL. So you know it had to be bad.

In case you think I was judging the defense attorney too harshly, I have friends who are lawyers who know him, and have even faced him in a courtroom. My assessment of his client may or may not have been accurate, but it would seem my instincts for asshole detection are well honed. It was confirmed for me that, indeed, this guy is one of the bigger jackasses in a 200 mile radius. If nothing else, it was nice to have my suspicions confirmed.

Not So Happy Meal

Happy Meals do not make me happy. In theory they seem like such a great idea—food and a toy in a little box with some puzzles, games, or jokes on it to keep the kids busy for a little while. And yet, they suck.

My kids almost can’t fathom that when I was a kid, Happy Meals weren’t something you could just order any old time. They were “for a limited time only,” and came along in connection with a movie or special event that informed the toy. Not so different from the way they’re presented today, but instead of having a Matchbox or Beanie Baby offering when there was no movie or other promotion, there just weren’t Happy Meals. I tell them this story, and then they ask me what it was like when there was no indoor plumbing, and dinosaurs roamed the Earth. Smartasses.

Then someone at McDonald’s woke up and realized that if Happy Meals were available all the time, kids would clamor for them all the time. That’s when things got complicated. When they were available all the time, McDonald’s started taking some heat for not offering “healthy” options, but still luring kids in to eat their food, so they found some “healthy” things to include. That meant that for awhile I had to poll my kids every damned time we went there—did they want the apples or fries? Did they want white milk, chocolate milk, juice, or soda? To say nothing of the initial hamburger/cheeseburger/nuggets option. So that’s 24 possible combinations, times 4 kids equals way too many fucking choices. The lottery odds have lower numbers than the count of possible Happy Meal permutations for my kids.

Now of course they give you both apples and fries automatically, but just last week I discovered that now they’re offering a choice of either apples or a GoGurt. Just shoot me. I didn’t even bother telling them that was an option. They just got the fucking apples.

McDonald’s used to be terrible about the toys. For a long time there was a Toy of the Week and if you didn’t get it the week it was offered, tough shit on you. Ever told a four year old who saw the toys in the display at the drive in, or in the lobby, tough shit you’re not getting Donkey from Shrek because that was last week’s toy? Yeah, I bet that went over well. Then it seemed they changed that, and sent a shipment of everything at once, but then you’d order four Happy Meals and they’d give you four different toys. Seriously? WTF? Come on, McDonald’s. It’s bad enough that I have to listen to the same two lines of dialog from Sulley that sounds like it was recorded through a set of walkie talkies, but to have to listen to them fight over who gets Sulley and who gets Mike  is just the limit.

Eventually they started giving out the same toy in every meal. I don’t know if enough parents threatened to beat the shit out of McDonald’s CEO, or if someone who works for McDonald’s took their multiple kids there for a Happy Meal and discovered that they did this, vocalized the problem, and a change was made at the corporate level, but I do know that now they put the same toy in every bag or box, at least at my McDonald's.

Thing is, my kids are too old for the toys. They’re at that age where they’re old enough to want them, but not old enough that the toys can hold their interest for longer than it takes them to consume a cheeseburger (2.6 minutes, give or take). When they were little, they’d bring them home and add them to the basket of forty thousand other Happy Meal toys, and Remy the Rat and the Madame Alexander Wicked Witch of the West doll would often find themselves in the same imaginary scenario. But now they’re too old to play like that, so they get the toy and fondle it for seven or eight minutes until they’re done with their lunch, then leave it in the car for four months.

 

Yes, you. I hate you all.

Photo credit: Photopin cc

They have what I think of as Trade Show Mentality. You know, you go to someplace where lots of companies are giving out stuff, and you must have one of everything. In spite of the fact that “one of everything” = three pens with various logos, five magnets with calendars on them, plus twenty seven “stress balls” in various shapes and sizes. The industry name for this stuff is “special products” but behind the scenes it’s referred to as “trinkets and trash.” You take this crap home and it clutters up your house for the next four years until you toss it out, but the desire to possess it in the moment is almost overwhelming.

Beyond the toys, Happy Meals no longer offer enough food for my kids. The boys especially are getting into the never-mind-a-plate-give-the-kid-a-trough-and-a-bucket-of-milk-with-a-straw stage, so they want the Happy Meal plus five supplemental items. It’s not so much the cost of this that bothers me—I’ve never bothered to calculate how much the Happy Meal components would cost if you bought them a la carte, so I have no idea if a Happy Meal is cheaper or not. What bothers me is that the more stuff you order, the greater the chance McDonald’s will fuck up your order. You’re with me here, right? If I can order two number whatevers with Cokes, plus two extra cheeseburgers with just ketchup, there are only three things they have to keep straight—what sandwiches, what size drink/fries, and nothing but ketchup on the cheeseburgers. If I order one cheeseburger Happy Meal with just ketchup, one with McNuggets, one with juice, and one with chocolate milk, plus two cheeseburgers with just ketchup, the opportunities for them to fuck up my order are almost countless. And based on my previous experiences, the temptation is just irresistible to them.

For now they still occasionally demand Happy Meals, and I usually give in and buy them, along with the twenty dollars in additional food. I let them have their moment with the toys, and as soon as they walk away from them, I take them and toss them in the recycling. I’ve never had a kid come back a day later and say, “Hey, what happened to that Mario Kart toy car I got yesterday in my Happy Meal?” The day will come when the orders will be simplified and McDonald’s won’t be able to screw them up. Who am I kidding—of course they will. Some things never change.