Charlie Kardashian, the forgotten Klown

In a world of Kardashians I am absolutely a Charlie Chaplin.

Clumsy and awkward, and the ability to make people laugh my only defense.  You might recognize me immediately, but no one is dying to be me.   I made a comment recently about being grateful for being old, fat, and invisible.  And it is partly true.  I no longer feel under scrutiny.  I am the "before picture" and the cautionary tale.  I am the 40's and 50's era reminder that men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses (or sport big asses).

I am the nice girl.  The bookworm.  The involuntary sidekick always.  It isn't a role I signed up for.  It just seems to evolve that way over the years.  "Can you tell her I like her?" turns into "Is your friend single?" turns into "So, tell me about the winterizing on your house?"   I've been demoted from wing-man to Home Depot salesclerk.  Once again, without my awareness or consent.

As the mother of daughters, I don't know how to guide them.  My dating history is minimal and mild.  I don't know how to prepare them for being an object of interest whether solicited or unsolicited.  I can't tell them how to handle a pick-up line, because I've never had to.  I feel under-prepared all the time when I think about where we are headed in fewer years than I care to think about.

While I would almost always rather have someone think I am smart than think I'm pretty, there are still days that I want to be both, and grieve that I've missed my chance.  In the last week I've been told I look "tired", "frazzled", "pale", and "shot from a cannon".  These are not ringing beauty endorsements.

My Facebook invites are to join weight loss and diet groups, and my social events involve meeting up on Facebook at a specific time.  This is not what adulthood was supposed to look like.  

The most challenging part is what needs to change.  What do I want to give up?  What do I want to be different?  If I could go back into single dating life would I?  OMG, No!  If I could redo my college years, would I?  Maybe one or two days....   If I could go back and take up running at eighteen, would I trade the books that I read while others were running?  I don't think I would. 

So what needs to change, I guess is my acceptance of who I am and have always been.  The nice kid.  The invisible girl next door.  I just have to stop making decisions as though who I am limits what I am.  And vice versa.

And so, I put this risky bit of self disclosure out, not to garner reassurance that I'm okay, but because I want to give you advance notice that I am working some stuff out.  I'm coming to terms.  I'm figuring out which parts of me I want to keep, and which ones I don't, and which ones no longer give a damn. 

And to warn the "gentleman" at the gym that "what shape I am trying to get into" is none of his business.   If my grandfather were still with us, he would break you for speaking to a lady this way.  And I am, after all, a lady.  And I was raised in a culture where this is beyond rude.   And my grandpa's warrior genetics rage through my family tree. 

You have been put on notice sir.

I may waddle like a Chaplin, but I read like a champ and I can insult you in ways that you will still be looking up weeks from now.

Family Togetherness

Camping.  Wholesome, virile, rugged adjectives come to mind.  But now, for a moment, allow your brain to stretch into the possibility of camping with children, multiple children to be precise.  Further allow for imagining three children who have never slept out of doors in their lifetime and at least two of three are afraid of bugs.  And just for maximum growth opportunity, imagine you are sharing your campsite with veteran campers, who prefer quiet and solitude, peaceful babbling brooks, and quiet introspection.  Do you feel a bit of smoke curling around the edges of your now super-elasticized brain?  Then, you are almost, not quite mind you, but almost, at the point where you are ready to camp with my children.

It started out innocently enough.  "Let's try something new!" my husband encouraged.  "THIS will be an affordable vacation for our family."
"It's basically housework outdoors," I countered.  "Without electricity or plumbing."
"It will be good memories for the children.."
"Yes, the nights of being gnawed on by rogue bears are sure to leave an impression," I agreed.

And so it went for a good span of time, until all other vacation options were moot given the time, the cost, the care for the dogs while we were away, etc.  And so, the tent, last slept in ten years ago, and moved from one home to another twice, made a debut in our backyard.  The kids were thrilled.  They loved the various and sundry zipper doors and window flaps, and the general musty, dusty, slightly Hanta virus imbued quality of it all.  Soon, the boxes from Amazon began to arrive.  Seam sealer.  Waterproofing spray.  Inflatable air mattress.  Rechargeable pump for inflatable mattresses.  Water shoes for the communal shower facility.

I began to label the boxes "Monday night at the hotel,  Tuesday night..." and so on.  By the time the jaunty UPS man left our door the last night, I was certain I could have stayed a full week at the beach for the outlay of cash represented in Amazon boxes.  The delivery person was probably relieved that we were gone for a few days as the last box was less placed on our step than drop-kicked from the half-way point with a wave that did not include all of his fingers.  (It truly was a frightful number of boxes.)

The morning of the departure, the car is loaded to the breaking point.  The small towing trailer was recruited into service and filled with coolers, bikes, scooters, lawn chairs, firewood, small beasts of burden and a sherpa.  We carried more into the woods for our three day stay than we take to the beach for a week.  (It may have been the wrong time to mention that however.)

Upon arrival, grandparents greeted us excitedly, however the Mr. and I were communicating in death glares and grunts.  As the tent went up and the children fought and cried, I had nowhere to retreat with them where others were not subject to their joyful sounds of childhood, and I regretted the under-packing of wine.  The campers in the adjoining site cast baleful glances at our merry band and moved their party into the solitude of their soundproof, mansion on wheels.

The tent assembled and in position, I point out that our heads are minimally four inches off of the paved road.  "But it's the flattest spot," my husband pointed out.  "Yes, as will our heads be come morning," I observed.  With assistance the fully assembled tent was relocated with no minor amount of grumbling.  Still nearer the road than I let my children play, say nothing of sleep, the grandparents parked their vehicles along the side walls and we parked along the "head wall" and thus our Chevrolet-encrusted castle was deemed ready for occupancy.

 Apprised by the helpful ranger upon check-in that there had been a Yogi Bear type in the neighborhood the last few nights, we were encouraged to keep all foodstuffs sealed and to be certain that all dishes were either washed, or out of range of marauding bears.

"So we are basically sleeping in a giant bag with the tensile strength of wet tissue and bears will be likely outside seeking snacks is what you're telling me?" I queried.
"Don't worry," the ranger offered, "Bears are most interested in carbs."
"Such as the marshmallow that will inevitably be caked into my children's hair, eyelashes and every blessed pore by bedtime?"  I think it odd that the ranger began backing away while quite possibly considering how fast his little golf cart could go when necessary.  Not so helpful really.  Who trains these people?

Fully alert, mindful of bears, and trying to convince the children that they did not need to walk through the damp to the bathhouse yet again, I had no more than dozed off that evening when my husband, snoring loudly enough to ward off not only bears, but possibly a zombie apocalypse, stretched and brushed the edge of the tent with his hand.  "Swiiiishhh," went the tissue paper thin wall and everyone on the north side of the river could hear my scream of "Bear!!!!"

Except the children, who slept through it, having jumped on beds one and two thoroughly enough that they had extracted nearly all of the air, leaving them bed-bereft and seeking comfort on my twin mattress.  Family togetherness.  It's wonderful.  I highly recommend it.   Just not while camping in bear-friendly woods.

And thus ends night one.  I'd tell you more, but modern psychiatry suggests that you only dig so deep.  There's more to tell, but why rush things.  Camping is supposed to be relaxing.  And so, I bid you goodnight.  Sleep tight.  Don't let the marauding bears gnaw your toes and such.

Kiss-Kiss Darlings!