Sweat Sisters

When we were little savages roaming the streets and yards of our Jersey City neighborhood, one of our number suggested we become "blood brothers." Where he got this concept, I have no clue. Probably TV. Anyway, we all thought this was a great idea. The brave among us proceeded to prick their fingers on thorns and whatnot. I was allowed to use an existing cut on my shin. Nobody cared that most of the "brothers" were actually girls and no one suggested that we change the title to include blood sisters. If for no other reason, there was no catchy alliteration going on with the phrase "blood sisters." For a time, I'd guess approximately four days, we all formed a club and it was good.

Fast forward thirty-eight years and I find myself a reluctant member of another alliteratively pleasing, yet far less satisfying club. I am a member of the Sweat Sisters. Nothing drove this point home to me more than an encounter I had the other night at a party. I was talking with two women who I like, but do not know well. They are both friends of a friend. I never see either of them, except at the home of our mutual friend every once in awhile. Somehow, possibly because we were all drinking wine and feeling flush and uncomfortable, we got on the subject of peri-menopausal temperature changes. Up until then, my conversations with either of these women were limited to polite inquiries about their children and small talk. But suddenly, this unexpected three-way exchange blasted off like a rocket to the moon! Stories of the kind of sweat never before experienced in our lives washed over us and we became animated. We ventured beyond simple perspiration, into weight gain and then on to mood swings. We were rolling. I never realized either one of them could be so funny, so candid and so right on target. Inevitably, this run-away train of validation tore right on into the bedroom. Our nightly battles with sheets and blankets were laid bare. Our need for having skin exposed no matter how cold the room revealed. An abiding love of ceiling fans in the dead of winter was acknowledged. And, of course, the complete cluelessness of our partners when it comes to understanding the inconvenience of their mere presence in bed was lamented. It was heady and fabulous to be understood. The experience could only have been surpassed if it had culminated in a group hot flash--a personal summer gone viral.

Alas, the conversation eventually died off. We moved on to mingle with other people. But even if we never discuss it again, I'll never forget that meeting of minds, bodies and souls. I friended them on Facebook, but we're still basically strangers to each other. The only difference now is that we are Sweat Sisters. If only it lasted for a mere four days.

Just Sayin'

The minute I allow a bit of current lingo to enter my vocabulary, written or spoken, the boy hastens to inform me that no one says that anymore. This is nearly always false information designed to prevent me from embarrassing him. Example. The other day, after a random LOL on Facebook he raised the issue. So I quick texted our daughter--10 years older than the boy, but still young and in the know about these things. Surprised and miffed that he'd attack an expression she still uses, she dismissed him as "crazy," and  gave me the green light on LOL. Perhaps what the boy fears is that I'll become a loltard, which urbandictionary.com defines as "a lamer who over uses LOL and its derivatives after almost every comment, which are almost exclusively non-humorous." This is not the case. I tend to be stinting with my LOLs, never use the derivatives and often opt for the more traditional hahaha.

The girl calling the boy crazy provides the perfect segue to the now popular expression insane or would if insane still retained its original meaning. Instead, insane has morphed into something along the lines of what was once groovy and has since been awesome, excellent, rad, righteous, cool, sick, badass, fresh and fly. One of my favorite recent compliments came indirectly from the boy's drum teacher (a young and undeniably cool individual). He described my iPod collection as insane. The boy came home and said, "Mom, John said your iPod is insane." Though he said it with a sort of grudging admiration, I was immediately insecure. "Is that good or bad?" I asked. The eye roll. "It's good, Mom, it's good." Whew.

Cool, which I have used to describe John, appears to be one slangy word that spans generations. You hear it uttered all the time, comfortably and correctly by nearly everyone in any age group. Anyone can use it and it sounds ok. And it always means the same thing, as wikipedia puts it, possessing a certain favorable aesthetic. Of course, you will have your lamers who can't leave well enough alone and insist upon expanding cool to cool beans, rendering themselves instantly uncool or totally lame. Saying cool beans is what's known these days as a fail. The Mayor and I, however, are not permitted to utter the word fail in this context.We've been read the riot act. The boy won't even say it himself. Apparently its use is reserved for the lamest of the lame. Who knew?

Hot, which, as the traditional opposite of cool should logically be a bad thing is actually, in many ways, better than cool. It is perfectly possible to be so cool that you are also hot. I have no personal experience with this phenomenon, but can readily see how it might happen. Unfortunately, I never wore enough black to be cool until I became middle-aged and overweight, factors which, in and of themselves, seem to have eliminated my potential as either cool or hot. Hey, at least I'm not a loltard.

Yesterday's man, as in "hey man, what's up?" has been usurped by dude, bro and now brah. Dude is more nuanced than man ever was and is often used as a form of address, an expression of shock or even disapproval. Instinctively, I know that I'm not a person who should be saying dude, so I don't say it. Similarly, but more because I just hate it, I don't use the expression stoked --an alternative to my generation's excited, psyched, or pumped. People who use the word stoked, always seem to pronounce it with that 80s valley girl accent. Thus, to my ear, those who say it tend to sound like idiots.

On the other hand, one has to respect both the brevity and versatility of today's seriously. All by itself, it replaces a number of multi-word expressions like you've got to be kidding, are you for real, no way, and oh, come on. The trick with seriously is to first say it interrogatively and then follow up by saying it declaratively. Exaggerated facial expressions are important in the delivery of seriously--you need a look that gets across one of the aforementioned multi-word expressions or if you prefer a simple WTF. Sometimes I use seriously myself. That, or it's closely related and identically delivered really. What does the boy think of this? IDK. And what's more, IDC.

It's Here!!

Voila! The moment has arrived. My $2000 free portrait for your viewing pleasure. We don't look exactly like ourselves, which for me is a blessing. The boy looks eerily older and a little off. By and large, I am happy. If you're wondering what I'm talking about, see Prize of Shame, below.

Just Brilliant

Two TV interviews over the weekend have brought mind a theme that I have mulled, off and on, for years now. First was Friday night's ABC interview with self-described "brilliant" actor Charlie Sheen. Second was last night's 60 Minutes interview with "brilliant" author Christopher Hitchins. As the quotation marks indicate, I take issue with the wanton throwing about of the term brilliant. Charlie Sheen's freak show and ravings have dwarfed any contributions he ever made to the field of acting (using the term loosely when you are being paid a fortune to play a milder version of yourself on a sitcom). Christopher Hitchins, who is clearly a lot better educated and probably IQ smarter than most of us, is apparently not smart enough to avoid falling into the trap of overestimating the value of his intelligence. He is not smart enough to avoid being arrogant. Plus, he supported the Iraq war.

People describe others as brilliant all the time--even people that are clearly bad actors (not in the performing sense). When I taught elementary school, I had a student whose parents insisted he was rude, disruptive and under-achieving mainly because he was so much more intelligent than all the other kids. He was just so bored that all he could do was act out. And, he was bright. IQ-wise, he was equally as bright as another kid in the same class who did all his work, got on well with others and for whom I devised advanced work that he could do just for fun. Now, THAT was pretty smart. As young as he was, I could tell he was going places. The other one was headed for failure and juvenile detention.  In the same vein, I've known more than a few women who praise of the intelligence of men who treat them badly. For the life of me, I cannot see anti-social as smart or a by-product of smart. To me, behaving like an ass is reflective of stupidity and using intelligence as an excuse for that is providing them a cop out. I recognize that what is happening here is divergent definitions of intelligence: raw IQ smarts verses social intelligence. Many people separate the two. I do not.

I contend that you cannot validly be described as brilliant if you cannot navigate your way our of a paper bag when it comes to functioning reasonably, responsibly, fairly and ethically with other people. Of course, valuing social intelligence over intellectual intelligence has been proved to have its downsides, too--reference the appeal to many (never me) of George W. Bush. But to be called truly brilliant in my books you need both. Behaving in ways that defeat your own goals, no matter the reasons, is simply not smart. And if you can't see your way clear to self-correction, you are not that smart. You might be exceptionally good at some things, but I won't give you the gold star.

Functioning intelligently in the world requires seeing the big picture, getting out of your own way, getting over yourself, recognizing the value of others, improving yourself, continually learning and living life with purpose. I think this is why I have trouble with the cults of acclaimed actors, artists, thinkers and writers--those perceived as elite. People think the statement, "oh, but he's brilliant," can override a multitude of flaws. I do not. Doesn't mean I don't appreciate their contributions, their moments of innovate thinking, acting, writing--brilliance, even. But truly bright people are thoughtful, measured, self-aware and ready for improvement every day, not just in flashes. They are the people around you who have it together--either having avoided pitfalls in life altogether or having learned from mistakes. They are the ones you like to be with because they know how to be in company. In short, I think how well you conduct your life, how much real value you bring to the table, the kind of company you keep and the kind of company you are, are the strongest indicators of your intelligence.

Dogs Gone Wild

As I sit and try to concentrate on my morning computer rituals, all I hear is the constant, insistent click of paws on the kitchen floor. I avoid looking down. It isn't pretty--in fact, it's kind of disturbing. They are insane today. Karma, who is scheduled to be spayed on March 16 (a month too late, it turns out) is now in heat. Little Major, fixed though he is, is a dog on a mission. He is the humpomatic that cannot be stopped and what's more, Karma doesn't want him stopped.

In an effort to protect what's left of her virtue, I put Major in the crate. He was, after all, the driving force I thought. It's Karma's crate where she resides when I go out. I closed Major in fully expecting whining objections from him. Instead, Karma began pawing wildly at the latch in an attempt to free him! They are two dogs of but one mind.

The coupling elicits screams of horror from the boy. I am getting used to it, but I will admit that it engendered a bit of horror in me at first, too. I see these dogs, especially Major, as so removed from their natural tendencies that when instinct takes over it's a bit of a shock. Who knew he had it in him? He's had the odd love affair over the years with stuffed toys and pillows, but nothing sustained like this. The song, "Who Let the Dogs Out," takes on vivid new meaning for me.

The only plus I see in all this is that by day's end they will be worn to a frazzle. They must be exhausting themselves because it exhausts me just thinking about it, hearing it, yelling at them for it and when it absolutely can't be helped--seeing it. How long does this heat last? Maybe I could move the vet appointment up to, say, tomorrow!