Lesson 18. On Family, Moving Out, and Moving on.

I live with my parents.

What began as a small move, to enable Chris and I to go on our tour of Europe without paying exorbitant rent on top of exorbitant hotel bills, has turned into a lifestyle of sorts.

We actually find it suits us.

But we feel guilty about it, and I am not certain why.

I feel in so many ways like it has been only since I got a little older that I appreciate my parents. I understand how cheeky I was as a teenager and no longer want to fight about playing my music loudly at bedtime or cleaning up after myself. And since the near constant struggle to find myself has been replaced with an attempt to be myself (and maybe like myself) I think they find it easier to anticipate my reactions to normal queries. Which makes things easier.

But I know that I am not supposed to be here. And I am not supposed to be okay with this.

It's weird but it makes me think of Mrs. Bennett. Striving her whole life to get her daughters married and then crying when they leave her.

When I first told my parents I was getting married, my mom did not respond well. She was more or less concerned that just as we were starting to get along, I was going to leave her and never come back.

Now, instead, I think when the time finally comes, she will realize that we will survive the separation.

And for now, we will enjoy our movie nights and arguments over the menu.

And when people ask me why we live with them, I will continue to tell that that it's "to take care of them" while secretly knowing that there is something special to being as ancient as I am and still having people take care of me.

Lesson 17: Not with a bang, but with a whimper

Chris wanted me to try out this new type of presentation (called prezi).

Because of this, I spent a lot more time this week with TS Eliot than I ordinarily would have.

We bonded.

We argued.

An he got me to consider rereading Heart of Darkness. Because maybe, just maybe 17 year old me missed something.

But mostly, Eliot just made me sad.

I can deal with idiots full of sound and fury signifying nothing.

Idiots have bang.

What I can't deal with is the whimper.

I want Eliot to hang out with Thomas and his dying father. I am all about raging.

But whimpering?

Not for me.

So when only one of my students got mad at the poem, I got sad again.

The majority sat there saying - this is true. this is inevitable. we can't stop this.

But one student just said - this is stupid.

And it's weird, because I know that academia and the world of intellectualism scoffs at comments like that.

Especially comments like that about Eliot.

And they sneer and say things about opiates of the masses or the unbelievable naivete of youth.

But I thought he was BANG on.

I think I prefer Whitman.

All of his YAWPING and celebrating self, strutting his grey beard down Manhattan.

I prefer him.

Lesson 16: Soup's On!

Eventually, I suppose, it all comes down to soup.

Physically - I have always figured that soup is the stuff of leftovers. Last night I had to use some of the refrigerator overflow (the cabin had been shut down for the winter and we brought food home). Potatoes. Celery. Carrots.

AKA... soup.

In fiction - Alice's Adventure In Wonderland comes to mind. I always loved the mock turtle, but never more than when he was played by Gene Wilder. I loved how melancholy and absurd he is.

And I always loved the stories of Stone Soup. I like to think it's what my mom always meant when she said we were having boiled rocks for dinner. I like the idea of the rock "just needing a little..." to make it into soup. I loved liking the "bad guy" - the con man with only a rock and a story.

And the Dodge Poetry fest this year seemed to be all about soup - despite it's sunniness. Aimee Nezhukumatathil's "Fugu Soup" was a favorite. She was a general favorite.

And in the kitchen.

I think it's fairly widely established that I am no great cook. I can bake well, and I am terrific at breakfast, but "real food?"

No way.

I make reservations. I grab takeout.

As I am writing this, Chris is happily in the kitchen making quesadillas. They will come out wonderfully. I am certain that I would still be able to screw these up, easy as they are.

But I am good at soup. And I like to think that soup is important.

Soup makes your esophagus and belly warm.

You can't rush eating soup (at least, not my chunky soup).

Soup keeps the storm outside outside.

And it's hard to screw up soup. If it's too salty, I can add something. Too bland, I have a remedy.

And I beg you to look at people on the next cold and blustery day when they get soup. When their hands cradle the mug or bowl, there is a look of calm expectation.

Just because of soup.

Lesson 15. Aesop=liar

I have decided that - although I am mightily proud of myself for finishing my 10k - I think I have the need to address a whole bunch of dirty lies that have been spread by some typically trustworthy individuals.

Aesop - you and your stupid slow turtle can go to hell.

And you, the little I think I can Engine, you can join them.

In fact, let's wrap up all the rags to riches, sweepers to princesses, and especially nerds to super athlete stories and thrown them in the rubbish bin.

Slow and steady wins the race???

Are you for serious?

No. The truth of the matter is that the rabbit always wins.

I don't know if it is nature or nurture, but that darn rabbit is just going to win against the stupid turtle. Frankly, it's an unfair setup.

This does not mean that the turtle has not done a brilliant job.

But a turtle is a turtle.

Slow and steady will place the turtle at the finish line, perhaps before the snails, sloths and the molasses, but definitely behind the rabbits, gazelles, and other faster land creatures.

I am all for self-improvement and self-empowerment, but I think before my next race, I have to ignore Aesop and try the rabbit on for size.

Lesson 14. When people say, it's not you, it's me...

... it's really you.

We watched The Wolfman this weekend.

Anthony (sorry... Sir Anthony) Hopkins.
Emily Blunt.
Benecio del Toro (reason enough to watch).

Unsurprisingly, Hopkins turned out to be... wait for it ... an evil Wolfman.

And once people found out... how quick they were to backpedal out of there, assuring him that it was not him, it was them.

Nonsense.

They did not want to be eaten.

Plus he was a lousy housekeeper.

I mean, terrible. Dude should've dusted.

Some of my classes at school have become ... unpopular.
Basically kids are dropping like flies.

And while I am being told the beginner of all breakups (It's not you...) I can't help but think, is it me?

Be it my Freudian transference, my underdeveloped self conscious, my professional desire for likability, I wonder.

But... JayZ still being my monthly inspiration (and first song on my 10k running playlist), I'm gonna opt to dust that dirt off my shoulders.

Lesson 13. Kill 'em with kindness.

I'm starting to think that Hamlet could have been more successful if - instead of acting all cuckoo for cocoa puffs - he just acted really grateful and sweet.

It would've driven Claudius nuts.

I mean it. I am a woman with so much Catholic guilt it often eeks out my ears.

If I did something naughty like Claudius, Hamlet being kind to me would drive me bonkers. Likely to my own confession.

No bloodshed.
No pirates.
No sad Horatio at the end and Ophelia in the water.

Lately, my mother has had to deal with a woman who - for much of her adult life - has been nothing but a thorn in her side.

A twisty jabbing awful thorn in your side.

That oozes.

And pusses.

And somehow always opens up on what should be good times.

And my mother... she should be sainted.

She is the very definition of grace and sweetness.

And not only does she win in the end, because grace and sweetness leave only positive karma, but everyone else is left scratching their heads and wishing they could make the comments that they had saved for this very instance.

Lesson 12. Brush that dirt off your shoulder.

Tomorrow is (predominantly) old school rap day.

And if there is one thing that I have learned from Jay Z, Eminem, and countless others, it's optimism.

I think part of me may mean this.

My earliest encounters with rap were Will Smith and the Beastie Boys.
I learned that I could go from being in West Philly relaxin all cool to being living large in Bel Air.
I learned that even the biggest geek could rename himself, mix in some bravado, and become Ad-Rock.

It's like rags to riches and Polyanna all wrapped into an urban, sometimes violent, often misogynistic package.

Basically, I am thinking that my (secret) love of (some) rap allows me to ignore bad things, bop my head a little while running, and to fall for mesmerizing, tantalizing, captivating, and devastating lyrics.

I'm definitely not saying that this lady is a pimp too... but there is something nice about the idea of leaving the dust of the day behind and to pat oneself on the back for mad flow.