Essay: Life Sucks and Then You Die

by Pam Victor

Every morning, I wake up thinking about the futility of life. I've never been a graceful greeter of the morning dew, and I'm definitely not getting more chipper in the morning with age. No, I wake up an existentialist and becoming gradually more optimistic as the day progress. By 10pm, I'm in love with the world and all God's creatures. After a couple hours of  this renewed hope in the future, I hit the hay and the whole cycle starts again. Cue to my alarm clock and the thought, "Life sucks and then you die."

This morning, I decided to hop on the train of pessimistic logic. Life is meaningless. We are doomed. The human race is a spoiled milk long past its expiration date. Ok, so what then? Here I am with my feet on this shit-hole earth. What is the best way to make this most of my time before we're all blown to oblivion or drown with the rising tides or simply disintegrate from lack of intelligence and culture? And here's what I got:

Ease the burden of other people. Make other people's lives better. Pay it forward.

Look, I'm no Mother Teresa, for fuck's sake. Much as it embarrasses me to say this, I don't volunteer at soup kitchens. Though we do try to be as generous as possible, we don't have enough money to give to charity out the wazoo. I'm not even always such a friend indeed to a friend in need. But what I can do is try to say yes when I have an opportunity to make a difference. (As long as it doesn't inconvenience me, of course.) So I will probably throw $20 to sponsor your run for cancer or whatever. I'll put $10 towards your Kickstarter, most likely. And every year, I put some time into raising money for the high school I graduated from, a small, private school for supposedly "gifted" kids in Michigan called Roeper School. Roeper is the place where the lucky square pegs go to live after giving up on the round holes. 

Life sucks and then you die. But at least I can help a former outcast nerd be captain of the basketball team or "non-prom" queen or star of the musical. Because  if my $20 helps that kid's life suck a little less, then maybe life is not so futile after all.

 Roeper School

Quickie: My New Lover

I may be a latecomer to this experience, but I have arrived. So I must admit to you that I have a new love and I call him Pando.

Pando is so accommodating. He’s always asking me, Do you like this? Is this good for you? But not in an obnoxious, co-dependent way. He doesn’t mind when I don’t answer. But if I do answer, he hums contentedly, storing away this information to bring out for a sweet surprise when I’m least expecting it. Aw man, that guy knows how to rock my world.

And he really seems to value what I have to say. He listens to me, but he challenges me to try new things too. Not in a pushy, peer-pressurey way, but more in an ego-free, open way. And you know what? A lot of the time, I am completely delighted and satisfied by his suggestions. But if ever I don’t like something he’s doing, I just tell him and he stops instantly. No apology needed. No processing sessions.  No hurt ego. He just stops and never does it again. Ever. Ever. Ever.

Pando gives me just what I want, how I want, anytime I want it. If I change my mood, he is incredibly flexible, and always without complaint about my erratic behavior or mood swings. He never asks me if I have PMS when I’m crying over something he’s offered. He just shows up, sits there with me. Like any good partner, he is constant and reliable.

If I feel like putting on my leg warmers and reliving my Flashdance phase, he doesn’t roll his eyes. Low down and funky? Yeah, he’s does that for me if I ask. Say I want it fast and crazy – Pando does it. Slow and sweet – he’s right there with me. My dear Pan makes my every wish his command.

He doesn’t get all macho or passive-aggressive when I ask him to be more like others I love. He doesn’t whine or get his feelings hurt.  He doesn’t go all Ceelo on my ass (unless I want him too.) On the contrary. If I ask him if he can be more like so-and-so, he always tries! Then he asks, How’s this? Did I get it right? He doesn’t pout. He keeps trying until he gets it right. And, oh baby, believe me, he eventually gets it right.

Reliable. Flexible. Intuitive. Surprising. My new love Pandora is all that and more.

Quickie: Secret Toast

If only ninjas lived in my kitchen. They would sneak in stealthily, creep about on silent toes while hidden fingers produced ample nourishment. And leave without a trace. I would enter the kitchen, set about my business, in carefree ignorance of my ninja housemates. If only my children were ninjas (black masks optional), they would know how to make Secret Toast.

Secret Toast is a careful recipe of minimal ingredients, yet it apparently takes enormous skill to make. When you make Secret Toast, you leave nary a trace beyond the yeasty waft of comfort. But by the time the homey aroma reveals your task, you’ve vanished in thin air. Poof.

My children make all-caps TOAST. Yelling Toast. Sherlock Holmes would be offended by their inability to cover their tracks. A half-blind, feeble-minded dolt could crack this case. A trail of crumbs a mile wide litter the counters (Why two? How much space does it take to butter toast?) Ah, the knives (again two!) lay plain claim to butter and jam. But if there was any doubt, significant samples of both condiments blob the area in front of the toast. Yes, the toaster, the epicenter of Yelling Toast. An explosion of burnt crusts and crumbs too large to be called proper crumbs but apparently too small to be considered worthy of a plate. A plate? Who am I kidding? There couldn’t possibly have been a plate involved in this preparation. Oh, wait. But look again. There it is, unrinsed and globular, in the sink. Next to the softening butter and warm jar of jam, so close to their home in the refrigerator, but yet so far away.

O, Secret Toast, how I yearn for thee. 

Quickie: Yabba Dabba Doo for Older Men

Ok, yeah, I balked a little at first when I realized I was invisible to men under 35-years-old. I remember the day I walked down a busy street in a flirty skirt and realized that skateboarder dude didn’t even look up reflexively to check me out. But news flash young men loitering on park benches, I don’t find you attractive either! Ha! Take that (and pull up your damn baggy pants while you’re at it because I so don’t need to see your underwear during my lunch hour.)

I discovered my preference for slightly crinkled faces while waiting at the orthodontist’s office, perusing People’s hottest men of the year issue. (I swear to you, I’m not using the ortho as cover. I didn’t buy the magazine. You hear me? I do not buy People magazine.)  For some bizarre reason, People had broken down this year’s hunkiest into age categories. I was buzzing through the sweeties in their 20s thinking, “Really? So don’t see it. I would rather pat him on the head than on the ass.” The guys in the 30s were okay. A couple cuties, but nothing to leave my husband for. My interest didn’t really get piqued until I turned to the page with the men in the 40s and 50s. Now we’re talkin’. Hell, everybody knows George Clooney didn’t start getting spectacularly yummy until mid-way through E.R. That man can work a wrinkle like nobody’s business.

Much to my surprise, it turns out I don’t find a man alluring until he’s earned some gray hairs the hard way. I like a man who has been around the block and can stop and ask for directions if he can’t find his way back. I like a guy who knows how to win a woman’s heart (by cleaning the kitchen without being asked.) Know what’s really hot? A guy that has had his spirit broken by a tantruming toddler.  I mean Yabba dabba doo!, know what I mean?

So, yeah, skateboarding hooligan, keep contemplating your wheels while I’m walking by in my cute skirt. But, dude, can you hook me up with your dad? I bet he’s smokin’ hot.

Quickie: Apparently I am Not a Bad-Ass MILF

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Quickie: The Social Music of Extended Family

I love the lyrical pattern of a large group. The best music is made by people who know each other well, over the course of many days, preferably vacationing in a beautiful place together. We are celebrating the 50^th anniversary of my husband’s parent’s marriage by convening the families at a large and lovely home on the beach. My in-laws have three sons, my husband is the middle, each son has a wife, each couple has two children ranging in ages from almost 17 to about 8-years-old.

Though we are all different in many ways, the natural interweavings of genetics and chance connect each of us to the others. These moments of connection are where the music plays. The pulsating rhythm of meals shared together choreograph a dance that starts off as a pas de deux.

“We should eat soon.”

“Yeah.”

Moving toward the kitchen, other people weave in and out as as the meal is prepared until finally all the dancers push together in a modern dance-styled cacophony whose chorus sings, “Please pass the…”

Throughout the day, there are amebaotic, symbiotic outshoots of connections. While the whole group lazes around the room, alone but together behind their books, an auntie takes refuge with a cup of coffee on the porch. Lured by the quiet solitude, the youngest nephew feels pulled toward her. Separated by miles, he hardly knows his auntie, but he is drawn to the idea of her, not to mention her elfin mischievous giggle.

Two adult brothers pull away from the group to show off their mad martial arts skillz. Playfighting, they are connected by a mountain of memories of childhood brawls and pummeling. They are pretending to be grown up.

“Want to go for a swim?” one cousin asks another, putting down the book and standing up.

“Sure,” she replies. They are the only two girls of the half-dozen cousins, close in age and inseparable this week. They’ve pushed their beds together, to stay close even in sleep.

One by one, people peel away from the group. The music dissipates and quiets.

Until finally, at just the right time, the melody builds again.

“We should eat soon.”

“Yeah.”

Quickie: When is a Scrap of Paper Not a Scrap of Paper?

A riddle for you married folks: When is a scrap of paper not a scrap of paper?

(Jeopardy theme song.)

Time’s up.

The answer: When it is a test.

Ah, now you may ask: When is a scrap of paper a test?

The answer: When said scrap of paper has been lying on the bathroom floor for five days in silent protest.

Really? You still have questions? Ah, dammit. I’ll just spell it out for you, and I’m sure you’ll catch on soon.

The scene: Wife is sick and tired of being the one always cleaning up the same crap day after day. (Why does someone always spill juice within an hour of mopping the floor any way?) One morning, Wife is greeting by the now infamous scrap of a paper on the bathroom floor. A receipt from CVS, if you must know. Wife sighs with the knowledge that this is but a long line of scraps that will be picked up only to be replaced by another long line of scraps, wet towels, and a supply of socks that never seems to end. Wife wonders how long the scrap would sit on the floor if she didn’t pick it up. Wife forces herself to ignore the Scrap from Hell, hotfooting it out of the bathroom.

Minutes then hours then days go by. At each visit to the bathroom, Wife is greeted by the Scrap from Hell. Sometimes it waves gaily. Sometimes it sticks out its tongue and says, “Neener neener neeeee-ner.” Sometimes is flips her the bird. But always, it remains untouched, ignored, invisible to the rest of the household.

Finally on Day Five, Wife concedes defeat. In one graceful though heavy-hearted swoop, the scrap is deposited in the recycling bin, a mere three feet away.

How many Scraps from Hell would party down all night long in a Husband-run household? Is Wife an overly tidy shrew? Is Husband a thoughtless slob? Are Children spoiled ingrates?

Stay tuned for the next installment of Matrimonial Jeopardy.

Quickie: A Mere Hour or Two of Self-Control

My improv comedy troupe was doing a show with The Rainbow Players, a troupe of differently-abled adults. We all are having much fun playing together – those guys are so funny. In the middle of their set, two women with fairly significant cognitive disabilities go gallivanting off the stage, bee-lining it down the aisle to the back of the room where some of their peeps were watching the show.

“Did you see us on stage? Did you see us? Did you see us?” They pepper their companions with unabashed enthusiasm and joy. “I was funny, right? Did you hear everybody laughing? Everybody was laughing! Did you hear them laughing? Did you see us on stage? Did you? Did you?”

Their pleasure is as entertaining as the official comedy show still being performed on stage. Because I recognize their sentiment. I know exactly how they felt. I have felt exactly that same way. I do exactly the same thing to my husband, though I save it until we get home after a show. A mere hour or two more self-control is all I have over those women. And barely that.

“How do you think the show went, honey? What was your favorite part? What did you did you think about that scene in the shower? Could you tell I didn’t know what the heck I was going to say next or did I cover it well enough?” I mercilessly pound my husband with questions.

But really all I’m saying is, “Did you see me on stage? Did you see how much everyone was laughing? Was I funny? Did you think I was funny? Did you? Did you?”

So then my poor husband and I go through our post-show routine where I inundate him with questions and he claims not to remember anything specific. Until finally I get completely frustrated with him, abandon all hopes of striking gold, and call my comedy partner Laura.

That conversation has taken on a bit of a routine as well.

“What did your wife think of the show?” I’ll ask Laura.

“She claims not to remember anything specific,” Laura sighs. “What about your husband?”

“Same,” I moan. “What a bunch of losers.” (I’m pretending to talk about our spouses.)

Pause.

“We were really funny tonight,” she finally says.

“Yeah? You think so? You think we were funny? Did you? Did you?” I ask with unabashed enthusiasm and joy.

“Totally.”

Aaaah. Now was that so much to ask?

Quickie: Look, Don't See

What I’m thinking about is private and personal. It’s an “inside my head thought.” You can tell because my mouth is closed and my lips aren’t moving. I’m standing in front of a window, looking at unseen flowers, pondering my private, personal thought. Turning an idea over in my mind, rubbing it comfortingly and maybe a little sadly like a smooth stone.

“What are you looking at? What are you thinking about?” That’s my daughter. My mind-reading daughter. The one who thinks (quite often correctly) she can read even the most fleeting of facial expressions.

“Nothing.” What else can I say?

“I can tell you were thinking about something,” she pushes. She always pushes. Always, always. She is the original dog with a bone.

I turned away from the window, turn away from the smooth stone that I took five seconds from my busy morning to cling on to.

“I was just trying to decide where to plant the flowers you got me for Mother’s Day,” I say, finally seeing the flowers in front of me.

“Really?” she prods. Prod, prod. “You looked like you were thinking about something else.”

At this point I flee into the safety of the bathroom, the only room a mom can lock the door behind her without question. I give in momentarily the lure of the window, taking a few seconds to look without seeing anything before turning away once and for all and start the day.

Quickie: Word at Random - Scare

I opened a book and pointed to a random word. Scare. That is my inspiration for this Quickie. Think of it as an improvised monologue inspired by "scare."

Normal people are scary. You always know what to expect from them, and that gives me the willies. Plus, normal people feel so high and mighty, being at the pinnacle of the bell curve of normality, that they tend to get judgmental about the rest of us.  And I never fare well with judgmental people.

Yes, I am judging judgmental  people which makes me bad (hand slap, face slap, slap on the ass...oops, that was fun in a distracting, non-bloggy way. Where was I?) And, yes, I'm basing my sweeping, gross generalizations and anti-normal bias on the assumption that I am not normal. And neither are you. Well, at least most of you aren't. And I mean that in the kindest possible way.

I started contemplating the downside of "normal" a couple months ago when a friend described a woman thusly, "I can't say there is anything particularly unpleasant about her. She was just really, you know, normal." Sneer implied.

"Oh," I responded gravely. "Normal. I see."

My friend nodded with a frown, "I know. I know. It's bad."

See, the problem with normal is that there is only one possible way to be it. For the same reason, I don't like taking ballet classes. There is only one way to plie in ballet, and my bootie can't do it. Jazz dance, on the other hand, allows for variation in style. As does "not normal." There are so many splendid variation on not normal. And people in my general demographic (over 30, say) who are openly and proudly not normal tend to celebrate their weirdness.

So as we go into the weekend, let's make sure we hug a not-normal person at some point. Even if it means wrapping your arms around your own damn self.

Quickie: The Nobel Prize, Fruit, Hookers and Why Parenting Sucks

The dad from Sh*t My Dad Says and I must have been on the same page. One evening, his son claims he said, “A parent's only as good as their dumbest kid. If one wins a Nobel Prize but the other gets robbed by a hooker, you failed."

And before reading that the next morning, I wrote:

Parenting sucks because you never reach the end of the job and you never get to see any results you feel qualified to take credit for. Adversely, you feel qualified to take credit for every weakness your child exhibits. When you’re homeschooling, you double down on this special brand of suckitude.

Naturally, the sh*t-speaking dad said it better. He’s poetic that way. But the point is that every parent knows the fruitlessness of the job. Be fruitful and multiply? More like, be fruitful, multiply and then get your fiber some place else ‘cause there ain’t no more fruit in that bowl.  

Yeah, yeah, thanks for the flowers on Mother’s Day. And the banner in the hallway was adorable. But when will I ever know that all these years and years of 24/7 hard labor will ring up as three cherries on the slot machine? Scratch that. WILL I ever know that I did a good job parenting my kids? How? When?

It would be so nice/terrifying to get a report card in the mail one day.

            Keeping them alive: ____

            Patience under fire: ____

            Maintaining a sense of childhood without over-shielding them from reality: __

            Producing children who become adults who are:

-keepers of the Earth: ____

                   -people who hold open the door for the next person: ___

                   -not normal in all the best ways: ____

                   -appreciate the difference between Phillip Glass, Phil Lesh and Phil Collins and know which one to listen to: ____

                        neat without being all f-ed up and OCD about it: _____

                        just really nice people: _____

Surely, I’m getting too caught up in the lack of quantification in parenting. All I can do is suck it up, just keep swimming, and do the best I can. And I should listen to that foul-mouthed father: “Calm down. You don’t just grab a ruler and tell everyone to whip their dicks out. You stuff your crotch and keep your pants on.”

Got it. Suck it up, just keep swimming, keep my pants on. Good rule of thumb in any situation.

           

Quickie: Henny Penny is Such a Narc

Chickens can be such gossips. Every time I go into our chicken coop, the "girls" gather around me to be in the first in line to fill me in on the latest update in their poultry soap opera.

"Marge is at it again. Pick, pick, pick. She never stops. Can you talk to her?"

"I was on the perch first. But does she care? Nooooooo!"

"Princess never cleans up her feathers. Make her clean up her feathers please."

"And she constantly laying eggs any ol' place. Plop. Doesn't have the decency to-"

"...she's a bully, pure and simple..."

"...furthermore, I will not be laying any more unless you tell her to--"

"Look, Wormlady..."

Yes, I understand Chicken. (Don't you?)

Yes, they call me Wormlady. It's my curly hair. They are constantly eyeing it, daring themselves to hop up and take a peck at it. No hen ever has tasted it yet though. They're all too chicken.

That was my obligatory chicken chicken joke. Oh stop groaning, ya' big baby. It wasn't that bad.

I'm just saying, if you want an ear-full of chicken muckraking, visit a coop.

Quickie: Worse Than a Mass Murderer

"Here's Hitler," my friend Amy says holding her hand level about eye height before lower it a couple inches. "And here you are, right here."

"I'm below Hitler?" I say incredulously.

"Yes," she replies emphatically. "You are worse than Hitler."

I sigh. I want to insist on my overall kindheartedness, tell her about all the good I do in my world. How sometimes I feel like an overly eager flower girl, flinging rose petals of love and good will to all my friends with wild abandon. But I know in this case, with Amy still holder her "below Hitler" hand in the air, it's no use.

Because she's right, of course.

But then again, she hasn't been stalked nonstop by an OCD pug for the last eight years. She doesn't live every waking hour under the relentless claustrophobia of my dog's laser beam, bug-eyed gaze. Amy doesn't know what it's like to be watched, watched, WATCHED when she's getting dressed, eating lunch, answering the phone, checking her Facebook page, getting the mail, fixing a snack, paying the bills, planting some peas, feeding the chickens, tucking in the children, reading a book, listening to music, packing a lunch, putting on shoes, going to the bathroom, brushing her teeth. She has no idea what it feels like to be stalked by an obsessive, farting dog day in and day out without one friggin' minute of release from his disproportionately needy stranglehold.

She just thinks I'm a bad person because I look forward to his death. Ohmygod, you guys! I KNOW that's horrible! I feel terrible about it! Last month when I went out to town, my husband told me that the dog had a seizure (it happens sometimes,) and I couldn't help myself from saying with a tiny ray of hope, "But he's still alive?"

"Yeah," my husband said, and after a beat adds, "Sorry." He knows. He sees it day in and day out. He doesn't think I'm worse than Hitler.

I think.

(BTW, sorry for calling you a bastard in my blog yesterday, honey. Love you!!!)

Quickie: Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner

Should I divorce my husband because he doesn’t recognize a classic Dirty Dancing quote when he hears it?

We were discussing a business situation, and I said, “Yeah, Ted* is not a person to be ignored. When it comes to Ted, ‘Nobody puts Baby in the corner.’”

And my husband is all, “Huh?”

“You know, ‘Nobody puts Baby in the corner,’” I say truly perplexed at his lack of understanding. I’m folding laundry, and I don’t even look up. “I mean, Ted is not exactly a shrinking violet.”

I see a glimmer in his eye - Husband thinks he sees a green light to start making fun of me. That bastard is actually smirking at this point. “Yeah, but what are you talking about with all that throwing baby out with the bath water stuff?”

“No. It’s ‘Nobody puts Baby in the corner.’” (Bastard is still smirking!) “Uh, from Dirty Dancing? Classic quote?” I say as now I feel fully warranted to my own green light to mock his embarrassing lack of this vital piece of pop culture common knowledge. At the very least, I shut down his green light. Damn fast. I am fully confident the world - or at least the geeks who make up my world - will grant me immunity on this one.

So what do you think? Everyone should be able to recognize and appreciate a well-placed “Nobody puts Baby in the corner,” don’t you think? Husband’s ass is off the island, right?

---

*Fake name to protect the guy we were talking about, whose real name is Ralph.**

**Yeah, Ralph is also a fake name. His real name is Joachim.***

***I think you know what I’m going to say here.