It's Daisy Duke's Fault

When my ex and I first separated, I made several poor financial decisions. Within two weeks of his asking for the divorce, I was in the process of buying a house. At the time this seemed empowering. He earned almost three times as much as I did, so to demonstrate that my income and credit rating qualified for a mortgage felt like a necessity. By the first of October (we had the conversation Labor Day weekend), I was signing papers and packing boxes. 

Looking back, I wish someone had told me to take some time and rent for a while. I bought the house in 2005. Less than a year later I was moving out of town. Remember the housing market in 2006? Yeah, I didn’t sell the house for almost two years and eventually had to settle for a short sale, which ravished my credit rating.

As much as I regret the decision to buy a house, I don’t regret my other incredibly bad financial decision: I traded in a one-year-old, paid-for car on a new Jeep Wrangler. I took on a car loan and really poor fuel mileage, but also fulfilled a life-long dream.

Remember The Dukes of Hazard? I am convinced my obsession with Jeeps is Daisy Duke’s fault. One of the few female characters I remember from childhood, Daisy embodied sex appeal and sass. She could keep up with the boys, charm the bad guys, rock the short-shorts, and drive a manual transmission. I begged my dad all through high school to buy me a jeep. Not happening.

During the early stages of our dating, Hubs and I went looking for a new truck for him. He was set on buying a Dodge Ram, and Dodge dealers are typically Jeep dealers also. After I mentioned my thwarted dream, Hubs said he thought owning a Jeep would be fun. Finally, someone who didn’t think I was out of my mind. That little bit of encouragement was all I needed; a month or so later I was in a 2006, school-bus-yellow, extended length Jeep Wrangler.

My boys, two and five at the time, called the Jeep my “super hero” car. In this bad-ass contraption I felt as sexy and powerful as Daisy Duke, and it must have shown. While I was cleaning the Jeep at a car wash, a biker-type older man began flirting with me. This was not a normal experience for me. At all.

Another unexpected benefit of owning the Jeep was the “cred” it gave me when I began teaching in a rural school. Just as my tattoos had impressed my urban students, my Jeep with 30-inch off-road tires wowed the truck-driving country boys.

Unfortunately, the equation of 15 miles-per-gallon times $4 a gallon times 1,500 miles a month equaled more than I could afford. My gas expense was as great as most people’s car payments. Hard as it was, I realized I had to “cut my losses” and make a more practical purchase.

That was almost five years ago. My heart breaks a little every time I see a Jeep, especially a yellow one. While Hubs plots for the day he will be able to invest in a classic muscle car, like a GTO, I have no such desire. Nope, no sports cars—old or new—for me. When my children are grown and I have discretionary income again (yeah, right), I’ll be looking for Jeep and heading out mudding. 

Fourteen Again

I have a list of topics more directly related to parenting (being a step-mom, Sunday junior football, etc), and this post will eventually get to parenting (I promise), but first it is going to meander through my “perpetual adolescence.”

**wow, I absolutely would not let a student begin an essay like that**

Over the years I have learned that I have a tendency toward obsessive behavior. When my VCR (remember those?) died during a weekend marathon of Babylon 5, I had to run out to buy a new one. During the fourth season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I developed a fan-crush on Marc Blucas and spent the infamous Y2K watching anything he had acted in (Buffy, Eddie, Pleasantville). That was 10 years ago, and since then I’ve been fairly ambivalent about T.V. and the idea of celebrity in general. Too many reality T.V. “celebrities” becoming famous for absolutely nothing has disillusioned me. (One more topic to add to my list.)

Then, Darren Criss appeared on my screen. Those of you who already know of my Glee love might not realize it didn’t start until a second season episode called “Never Been Kissed.” Criss’s charisma mesmerized me, and I’ve been fourteen again ever since.

I’ve joined on-line forums, I’ve spent hours watching youtube videos of a Harry Potter parody and Darren Criss concert footage, I have my sons singing his song “Status Quo,” and I have now planned my first trip to New York to see him perform in a Broadway musical (112 days and counting as I write this).

Now, I would be lying if I said this fascination was only due to his immense talent—the young man is easy on the eyes, but I was 16 when he was born (the year of first boyfriend, first breakup, first battle with cancer) and have no desire to be a cougar. Truthfully, though, I am elated to see someone achieving the status of “celebrity” and actually deserving it. He plays several instruments well--including the violin which, yeah, I’m impressed—writes songs that stick in my head, sings and performs with amazing energy, and by all accounts is still humble about it. Just trying to write about him has me running out of adjectives.

So, I wonder—and this is where we get back to parenting—how does one raise a child like this? I want to sit down with his mom and dad and take copious notes. Some of it must be nature; no amount of vocal training could make me a singer, not in my genetics. Fan accounts describe him as an Energizer Bunny. That can’t be taught either.

But, how did his parents cultivate this genius? Does this mean I have to re-think my laid-back parenting approach? And how do I do this over every-other weekend and seven weeks in the summer? I’ve had one small success: After all my not-so-subtle suggestions this summer, B. has joined band. The boy (mine, not Darren, although he has great moves too) can dance like crazy and both my boys sing pretty well, so I keep showing them selected parts of Glee and planting the idea of joining show choir in high school (football in the fall, track in the spring, and show choir in-between). Unlike the world of Glee, show choir is a big deal in the Midwestern town where they live with dad.

This post has gotten long, so thank you if you’re still reading. I’m at a loss as to how to close because this topic isn’t finished. I’ve got to keep working on all my kids and instilling this philosophy (courtesy of Darren Criss): “There is nothing more badass than being yourself.”

(Actually, my favorite Criss quote came from an interview where he was asked what he looked for in a woman and he responded: “Vocabulary. You want to wake up next to smart.” Where was he when I was in college? Oh, yeah, pre-school. Damn.)

Changing Course

I have decided that I may need to change my original intent for this blog, as many of the thoughts and feelings I've felt tempted to share are not the sort of things I want my sons to read someday. Perhaps I'll need to create a separate "kid-friendly" version for them.

While taking a walk a few weeks ago (a glorious, guilt-free, hour-long walk with no concerns about what was happening at home because summer was over and my boys were back with their dad), I had an uncomfortable epiphany: I am one of those people who doesn't want to grow up. Now, I don't mean I want to be a teen again--although having my 20s back knowing what I know now about my own talents and sexuality would be nice, but that's another post. No, I realized that I don't like being responsible for anyone else.

I should have known this about myself. I've always been a bit of an introvert, and I never was a joiner. Being part of a club or committee means having to follow someone else's schedule and possibly having others depend on me.  How could I not have realized being a parent would be a million times worse? In the words of my step-daughters, I am an epic fail at establishing and keeping to any routine. In the summer, if the kids don't remind me, I will forget to make lunch. My oldest suffers from chronic constipation and needs to consume 16 grams of fiber every day. This is important, and he is just now reaching an age where he can take more responsibility for his diet, but we'll still get to the end of a day and I'll realize I haven't kept track of his intake or made enough dishes to meet his needs.

As much as I love my boys--I love hearing the silly jokes they make up, playing catch in the park, watching them dance, beating B. at cards--I also love the fact that I am not a full-time parent, at least not the kind of hyper-involved parent that seems to be in vogue today. Their step-mom is much better at this. She stays at home, meets them at the bus after school (a whole 1/2 block away and visible from the front window of the house) and has dinner on the table at 5:30 every night (I know this because she commented that the boys know it is their job to set the table and shouldn't have to be reminded since dinner is always at the same time).

When the kids are here in the summer, I feel like I have to be that kind of mom, which just leaves me incredibly stressed and anxiously awaiting the fall. Although, as I think about it, their step-mom stresses them out too. I'm sure it is tough for them to go from one extreme of parenting to the other, but when they are parents themselves, I hope they will realize that one does not have to live for one's children. My parents didn't, some of the parents I respect the most don't, and I'm starting to forgive myself for living my life for me.