P.S. ...

By Mahlia Lindquist

Readers who have been following the Rocky Mountain Miamian (RMM) from the beginning, this post is for you -- a quick  postscript to some of the 2014 RMM stories. 

The RMM blog started as a creative exercise to get my creative juices flowing for a simmering book idea (see Hardness, Testosterone and Bookcovers,) and my first post was  I’m Not Unemployed, I’m a Writer. Unfortunately, I have so much fun writing for the RMM blog that it has been more of a distraction than inspiration for the book.  Consequently, six months later all I can say is "I'm not unemployed, I'm a blogger, which doesn't have the same ring to it as "I'm a writer."  

With regard to the Pleasure and Perils of a Pink Pet,  Zoe decided that if a pink Willow was a good idea, a red, white and blue one with with a mohawk would be even better. Willow was not amused. 

The real pity was that between the freakish hairdo and Willow's now sullen demeanor, pedestrians no longer stopped to chat and admire him on our walks.  Our family new year's resolution is to resist any impulses to decorate our dog. He is adorable all on his own.

This is a photograph of me with a quasi-celebrity. It was published in Ocean Drive magazine and taken during the 100k charity ride, for which I was training when I wrote about Biking In Miami. The photo suggests I am happy, healthy, and perhaps even socialize with the rich and famous.

Nope. The photo actually demonstrates that the adage of a picture being worth 1000 words is complete hogwash.

At the moment of the photo, I was hating life and praying for the ride to end which, for me, it did in short order. Moments later I crashed and broke my collar bone in a spectacularly painful and humiliating fashion.

As for the quasi-celebrity, I am certain he would be unable to pick me out of a line up if asked to identify the person who almost died shortly after being photographed with him.

By the looks of news that came out after my Open Letter to A-Rod, he has not changed his ways, nor has he made amends to my niece. The A-Rod letter is by far the most read of all of my posts, which I initially attributed the celebrity name in the title. So, to attract more readers, I put Oprah's name in the title of a later post. However, it was not nearly as popular as the A-Rod letter. It seems that most  people prefer to read about a rich baseball player who one commentator said has "been shamed into silence, relegated to cowering behind lawyers and liars"  over a rich superhero of a woman committed to making the planet a better place.

The creator of the famous Hot Crazy Matrix A Man's Guide to Women wrote to say that he is glad I enjoyed his YouTube presentation. He did not mention my describing him as a troll who has to pay for sex, so I assume there were no hard feelings and he appreciated my Hot and Crazy, It's in Our DNA essay. At least, I hope so.

The My Backpack is Butch post is officially obsolete. Zoe has deigned to use the Patagonia backpack for school, so I guess it's no longer butch. Or maybe the backpack is butch, and butch is cool. Or, maybe she's using it because her old one is ripped and I refuse to buy another one. Or, maybe she is exercising the prerogative of all 17 year olds to be utterly irrational.

I would like to acknowledge Zoe for being an awesome sport.  She previews my posts that poke fun at her and has given each one the okay. She even posed for this photo with the now acceptable backpack.  Her sense of humor and self-deprecating nature are two of the zillions of qualities that make her an exceptional person.

Exhibit A

In response to Miami, My Crazy B*tch, a few Boulder friends were skeptical that some women actually want bigger butts. Accordingly, I offer  Exhibit "A," a "butt plumping system," for sale in Miami retail establishments.  I really don't make this stuff up.





This blog has had the unfortunate effect of highlighting that I don’t have an actual job. Two of my more practical and highest earning friends asked what, if I make no money from blogging, is the point? To that, I say, in the 6 months since I started the RMM blog, it has had a total of around 5000 page views.  It takes 100,000 views per day to earn $100,000 per year blogging. I've had 26 so far today, so with just 99, 974 more views, I will be in the money.

Thank-you to everyone who has provided positive comments, “likes,” and shares for my 2014 Rocky Mountain Miamian (RMM) efforts. With your continuing support I will reach the goal of 100,000 views before my 80th birthday, which would be a great way to say  Happy Birthday To Me.

A super special thanks to readers who haven't had anything nice to say but heeded their mother's advice and chose not to say anything at all. 

"Douche Bag," A Necessary Evil

By Mahlia Lindquist

Scarcely any words are taboo these days. With "WTF" being as common as "have a nice day," few are scandalized by phrases society used to consider obscene. As individuals, however, we each have particular expressions that make us squirm. 

My daughter's friend, Maya,  for example, cannot abide the word “moist.” Just the mention of a delicious moist brownie makes her gag. 

For me, it's “fiancé.”  For reasons  I cannot fathom, but which probably relate to an as of yet undiagnosed personality disorder, fiancé sounds pretentious, contrived and ridiculous all at the same time. Even when I had one, I could not bring myself to say, “I am going to dinner with my fiancé. ” 

Another problem word is “like.” It should only be used as a simile or to express affinity for a person, place or thing. Every utterance of, like, something, like this is, like, akin to nails on a chalkboard. 

I also cannot stand “wiener.” My aversion to “wiener”  is so extreme that when I was in 7th grade, I went steady with a boy at camp named Mark and broke up with him a week later upon learning that  his last name was Weiner. This, despite the fact that Mark was the cutest, sweetest boy with the bluest eyes who ever lived. To this day, I recoil when someone refers to a dachshund as a wiener dog. 

When it comes to profanity and words for intercourse, my reactions are just as irrational.  “Shit” is okay, but “poop,” “crap” and “piss” seem vulgar. “Sex” is permissible and  “fuck,” has a positively satisfying ring to it, but I blush at “making love." “Bitch” and "asshole" are practically terms of endearment, compared to the “C” word, which I can't even type without wincing. 

Douche bag used to be right up there with “C” at the top of  my list of cringe worthy words, so I was devastated when it became a part of Dylan and Zoe's everyday lexicon. My cynical teenagers, formerly known as sweet, adorable, innocent little girls, started saying things such as, “there’s this kid in my class and he is, like, a total douche bag.” 

Every time I heard "douche bag" and "like" from my offspring in the same sentence, I died a little inside and questioned where I went wrong as a parent. 

After much pleading and haranguing on my part, they agreed to stop using “like.” To my dismay, the girls dug in their heals with douche bag (or douche for short.) When I suggested alternatives, they claimed that jerk and asshole simply do not do justice to a certain type of contemptible and obnoxious male.  They needed to use douche bag in order to effectively communicate with their peers. 

In the spirit of picking my battles, I acquiesced. However, no matter how Dylan and Zoe explained it, I didn't get why douche bag was so necessary.

But then I met Frank.

It was at a party that perfectly encapsulated all that I adore about Miami. I was there with my friend Jackie. It was at a luxurious penthouse on the 32nd floor, and the guests included beautiful women in  tight dresses and handsome FBI agents in tight t-shirts. In addition to being attractive, everyone was friendly, interesting and charming.

Everyone, that is, except Frank. 

Frank and I crossed paths as I stood on the balcony admiring the glorious view. Frank was a bald, paunched, not particularly well-preserved middle-aged man. After introducing ourselves, the conversation consisted of Frank talking at me. He informed me that he is an attorney and works in finance. He also sought to enlighten me as to the depth and breadth of his knowledge and wisdom on a wide array of topics. 

Then the conversation took a turn from tedious to offensive:

Meet Frank (left)

Frank: so honey, where do you live (brushing his hand against my hip) 

Me: Coconut Grove (flinching and stepping back) 

Frank: Coconut Grove?! There’s nothing there except a bunch of college kids throwing up. 

Me: Umm, well I kinda like living there, I’ve not noticed the college kids.  

Frank: Well, that’s what’s there, you must not get out much.

At this point, Frank’s friend joins the conversation:

Frank’s friend: Nothing wrong with college kids 

Frank: Oh yeah, true, especially college girls. 

Frank’s Friend: Not too young for you? 

Frank:  No way, 22 is just right. I do quite well with them. Can't stand women anywhere near 40. 

By this point, I was no longer in the conversation, just a stunned bystander. Although I later thought of  retorts that would be so clever, scathing, and yet compassionate that Frank would change his obnoxious ways forever, nothing came to mind at the time.

There was nothing to do but walk away.

When I rejoined Jackie inside, she asked who I had been talking to. I replied, "this guy, Frank, he's a real..."

Hesitating, several words went through my head ...  asshole? jerk? bastard? None seemed to capture the essence of Frank. But then, I remembered what my ever practical children had to say about a certain class of boorish males.

Without flinching, I continued, ... "he's a real douche bag."

Jackie nodded her head knowingly. She understood exactly what I meant.

My Backpack is Butch

By Mahlia Lindquist

Teeter-Totters

Lopsided relationships. One party gives time, energy, love and affection without expecting anything in return.  The best the other half can muster is to perhaps graciously receive that which is freely given.  

These types of relationships bring to mind a teeter-totter, with the large jowled class bully sitting on one end, huge rump firmly planted on the ground. His scrawny, oppressed counterpart hanging in the air at the bully's mercy. 

I was never interested in this type of unbalanced relationship. Both the giver and receiver strike me as pathetic in their own way. Yet, here I am, in a relationship where I adoringly look down the see-saw at someone who looks up at me with mild indifference. 

Answering calls or texts in the company of others is rude, and so I generally don’t do it. However, if my special person graces me with a call or message, my response in instantaneous.  I send texts, leave loving messages, and imagine all experiences would be enhanced if we were together. 

For every 10 thoughtful gestures I make, I receive one response.  Yet, even the most cursory acknowledgment arouses a warm, fuzzy feeling of delight.

At the same time, I am plagued with angst and desire for approval: 

Darling, what do you think of my new haircut?  I just read this book, I’d love your opinion. Did you get a chance to read the blog post I wrote last week? Of course, I understand that you are very busy, but if you get a chance...

I am talking here about my daughters, ages 20 and 17.  

My girls used to look to me for advice and approval. They painted pictures, wrote poetry, and blessed me with thousands of unsolicited hugs. I was the person they most loved, admired and wanted to be with on the planet. 

I don’t recall when things changed, but now the girls are each at the bottom of the teeter- totter, in control, while I dangle up above, an ever shrinking dot in their consciousness.

It’s the same for my friends with young adult children. The first thing we discuss over lunch is what the kids are up to, with other interests taking a distant second in terms of  favorite topics of conversation. My friend, Meesh, observed that while our children will forever be the center of our universe, the day comes for all parents when we are no long the sun around which our offspring orbit.

As it should be. 

But still, it’s hard. Especially for someone who finds it excruciating to be on the high end of the teeter-totter.

Backbacks

The role reversal between me and my daughters puts me on edge. It's gotten so bad that I even feel anxious about my taste in backpacks. 

My younger daughter, Zoe, needs one. The timing is perfect, as I bought a new pack on my summer trip to Boulder after having left my old one in Miami.  I didn’t mind buying an extra, because I figured Zoe would use one of them for school once we were back in Miami. 

As I went about choosing the new backpack, I looked for one I imagined would meet with my sweet girl's approval. I decided on a sleek basic black model at REI made by Patagonia.*  “Functional, yet hip,” I thought, and smiled with anticipation over my impending slam dunk. I mean, how could I get a backpack wrong?

Readers who have parented a teenager already know the ending to this story, and it's a sad one.

I was wrong about not being wrong. 

Because I am oblivious and because Zoe didn’t have the heart to say, “mom, the backpack sucks,” it took awhile to comprehend how pitiful my aspirations. I had to learn the hard way that I would never know the pleasure of seeing my beloved carry the sleek basic black Patagonia backpack. Something I chose for her with every ounce of love and devotion in my soul.

The truth revealed itself at the glitzy, cheesy and crass Fountainbleau Hotel, on Miami Beach. The guests there are a veritable zoo of humanity, including hookers, convention goers, tourists from Iowa, drug dealers and, as I have previously recounted, many women with Brazilian Butt Lifts. We walked in, me with a small black rolling suitcase and seemingly innocuous backpack, Zoe with her “my mom is so embarrassing” expression. 

Even after years of being the unwitting cause of my kids’ humiliation, it still pains me to be that parent. I have indulged in many delusions over the years, including one that I am so wise, fun and cool I would avoid the fate of legions of other parents. My girls would never roll their eyes after hearing one of my stories for the 100th time. They would never lock themselves in the bedroom, headphones in, to tune me out. They would never be embarrassed to be seen with me. Wrong, wrong, wrong and wrong.

But still, I try.

That's why, at the Founainbleau I did a quick scan to see if I had committed any of my usual cringe-worthy faux pas: nondescript attire; no ponytail; no loud talking; no dumb jokes or unnecessary conversation with hotel staff. No obvious violations. 

 Yet, I sensed something amiss.

As we walked across the enormous bling ladened lobby of the Fountainbleau, Zoe lagged behind. Even a person on the up end of the see-saw has her limits, so I lashed out, “what is your problem?” Zoe replied, “well, um, it’s the backpack, it’s sort of embarrassing.”  I nodded toward a guy with a backpack passing us that very moment, and suggested that a backpack is a common and convenient way to carry personal items for a weekend getaway. 

Although it clearly pained her, Zoe explained that the actual problem wasn’t backpacks in general, but mine in particular.  I resorted to teenage talk: “Wait, what? WTF?” She hesitated, but after having tactfully avoided the backpack issue for a couple of months, she could hold back no longer, “sorry mom, but your backpack is butch.”

Me: Butch? What does that even mean? Please say you aren't turning into a homophobe. Oh, woe is me, where did I go wrong? 

Her: Geez mom, please don't cry or call me a homophobe. I just don't want a freaking butch backpack.

Zoe's current backpack is a squat grey one purchased at Target. Despite the lunacy of her opinion, like a battered wife, I actually tried to figure out where I went wrong. What was it that made my backpack butch, and hers hetero?

I may as well have tried to understand the meaning of life, why reasonable people listen to Rush Limbaugh ... or why some of us willingly hang-out on the high end of the teeter-totter. 

Butch

Not Butch

*Astonishing fact for Boulderites: Miamians are unimpressed by a Patagonia label. Indeed, most people here have never heard of Patagonia or REI. I know, inconceivable.