Fake Advice Column #2

Dear Fake Advice Column,

Are you for real?

Signed,

No fool

Dear Fool,

No. Can you read?

Love,

Fake Advice Column

-----------------

Dear Fake Advice Column,

I am sick of all the things I have to do. How do I make life less work and more play?

Signed, 

Dull

Dear Dull,

How should I know?

Love,

Fake Advice Column

-----------------

Dear Fake Advice Column,

I am a Zen student, and I like sex. I like drugs. I like rock and roll. I have many attachments to and desires for these and other things. Do I have to give it all up to be enlightened? That seems like a lot of work! And, why would I want to? Honestly, it reminds me of Catholicism and Lent. Why, why? What was I thinking when I did this Zen thing anyway?

Signed,

Zen wannabe

Dear Zen wannabe,

This conflict of which you speak is a big pet peeve of mine, since this particular misunderstanding of Zen is
A) kind of dumb and
B) perpetuated by white male hetero American Buddhists and
C) demonizes pleasure and natural emotions (especially sexual and intimate ones) in a very Judeo-Christian way that is NOT related to Buddhist belief and is NOT cute and is, furthermore, supremely unoriginal. The actual Zen idea of non-attachment, in my opinion, is much like its concept of being free from desire. As in: to be free, we surrender to attachment completely. We let ourselves attach to everyone and everything. We attach so hard that we become the attachment, until there is only the attachment, and we disappear within it, and that is real connection, and it is beautiful. When we lose ourselves in the intimacy, and what/whomever we're with does the same. We don't run around trying not to desire anything. We give in to it so wholly that we become desire. We don't experience these things. We become them. That is the essence of Buddhist belief and what I find helpful in it as a spirituality. Our ego and self disappear in our experience. And we strive for this because it feels good.

In one Zen koan I love, a Zen student says to the Zen master upon seeing him weeping over a starved fawn, "Master, why do you cry for the fawn? You shouldn't be attached to it." 

Zen master says, "no, you don't understand. The fawn was hungry because it lost its mother. So I went to many nearby villages asking for milk to give to the fawn. But no one would give me any. I went to so many homes, asking for milk. When I came back with nothing, the fawn had starved. But I don't cry for the fawn. I cry for myself. I am hungry. I want my mother. I need milk."

Because, like, he became the fawn.
Cool, no?

I think so. Trying to know the nature of attachments and desire by getting rid of them is wrong. Freedom doesn't mean absence, knowing doesn't mean being--those are very different things.

Love,

Fake Advice Column

-----------------

Dear Fake Advice Column,

I am distraught and in a misery of despair. My brother has stolen my true love away! Do I slash his tires? Drink all of his beer? Make an oragami voodoo doll and set it on fire with all the hatred of my black, black heart? Eat some junk food?

Signed,

Sad, not angry 

Dear Sad,

I must admit I don't understand your question. Furthermore, monogamy--blargh! Please do not offend my ears (eyes? Since I am reading?) with such drivel. Why can't you share? Did you not learn to do so as young siblings? 

No matter. Here is what you must do:

1) Find a device that plays music and has a dial for the volume control, instead of buttons. (In a Subaru, perhaps?)

2) Play "Rewind" by Rascal Flatts, at volume of 20 or so.

3) Put your fingers on that volume dial.

4) When it gets to 35 seconds, crank it up to 40, hard and fast.

There, now. Doesn't that feel better?

Love,

Fake Advice Column

----------------

Dear Fake Advice Column,

We know who you are!

Signed,

Know it alls

Dear Know it alls,

No. I am not the mommy whose blog this is. I just rent the space, but I am not she! We have similar ideas, as it happens, on Buddhism and monogamy and Subarus and Rascal Flatts, but that is just because those are the only sensible opinions to have. She's a teacher who drinks wine (yawn), whereas I am a mythical old queen who loves a gimlet and blanches in the sun. She will spend all day at the beach and cannot handle her liquor. My beauty shan't ever wither with age nor storm nor sun, nor the world's great savagery. Hers is fading, and fast. She eats things I would not even deign to touch. We are as different as we are similar. The same, not the same. And this advice column is not here. It is the place within a place where we can say whatever we want because we are hidden inside one another. Don't you wish you had a place like that?

So, no, bitches, you do not know who I am.

Love,

Fake Advice Column

School

The school where I work is a little bit unusual. We have a zero tolerance policy for like, everything. If a student does not complete number 21 of her algebra homework, we freak out. We hold a tribal council. We put her picture up on the Promethean board and black out all the windows of our meeting room so we can talk about her with impunity.

"What is wrong?" someone will say. 

"Perhaps she was bored," says someone else. "Is your lesson engaging?"

We all stare at the algebra teacher. Not accusingly, mind you. We want to help him. 

"Have you tried fruit manipulatives?" asks the science teacher. "They're good for asexual reproduction. We could share!"

"Maybe Lisa (not her real name) was unhappy that day," someone suggests. 

"That cannot be! How can that be?" we all simultaneously shriek.

"Let's find out," says someone else. "Pull her in."

Someone goes to get poor Lisa, who's excited to be getting out of class, when really, she should be afraid. We don't humiliate her, of course. We are teachers. We care. But, still, Lisa has to sit and have 15 pairs of eyes on her, and hear one of us (never me, never ever me) ask, "Lisa, is everything ok?"

Then we go on to ask her why she didn't do -- "did not even attempt to do" -- number 21. Lisa, by this point, is fucking terrified, even though we're all oozing sympathy. She is thinking to herself, "OMG, why did I watch that idiotic kitten/Justin Bieber/One Direction/Hunger Games/lacrosse video? Why, oh, why didn't I do number 21? Get me out of here!!"

But all she says is, "well, maybe I was distracted that night."

Soon we're all (not me, never ever me) psychoanalyzing her "choice" to not do number 21, and she is offering to do calculus derivatives (whatever that is) all night to make it up. Eventually, we let her go back to class and then discuss every single member of her extended family for the past six generations, about whom we all know everything. 

Lisa lets it be known that "all the teachers at this school are fucking nuts!" So, basically our students do everything we ask them to do for homework, very well, and usually twice.

I don't love this practice. But, I have my own torture methods. I make them talk! To each other! About shit I made them read! Sometimes, I make them do activities. And then they have to pretend to be into it. Seriously, if they don't, I get mad. I'm all like, "fake it til you make it, people. I wanna see you fascinated. Pretend all you have ever wanted is to act like a sled dog from Call of the Wild."

I have this whacked-out theory that if they act into it, they'll get into it. They get pretty silly. They laugh a lot, but while they're giggling, they claim to be miserable. They say that they hate talking to their peers; they hate activities of all sorts and would rather write a paper. They hate, more than anything, telling the rest of the class what they discovered/wondered in this cruelly enforced conversation/activity. Speaking to the class makes them want to punch themselves in the head repeatedly. I know this because I used to be one of them. And I abhorred teachers like me. I just wanted to be left alone.

So, why do I do it? I'm not a masochist. I dunno. Instinct? Because it feels like it works? Those things.

They all hate me. But they pretend to like me, most of the time. Fake it til you make it, people, or endure teacher tribal council.

Meds

Ari has recently been diagnosed with ADHD, and started taking a generic version of Ritalin. He is highly drug tolerant, our child, so the first, cheapest one worked fine with minimal side effects. The pediatrician explained to B at Ari's med check that these meds are hot commodities.

Who knew? Only in The County Where I Live Which Is Full Of Alpha Yuppies (not its real name).

"Do you keep it somewhere safe?" the doctor asked B.

One might think it was dangerous, or recreational. Nope. Just improves academic performance. Seriously.

I mean--the doctor said she has one patient who had a family-only birthday party, and his parents left his meds in an unlocked medicine cabinet. Some family member at the birthday party 

stole! 

them!

                 I made this myself.

The parents had to come back for a new prescription, which the doctor could only give them after all involved (except the thief, of course, since nobody knew who that was) had taken a polygraph and had an NSA background check and been sniffed by fire-proof dogs. Ok, I made that last part up. I think. I don't actually know what happened, or if they were able to get more meds for their son, and if so, how many hoops they had to jump through to get them. I worry for them. I cannot fathom how I would go about even the most basic of hoop-jumping while parenting my unmedicated son.

Recently, our state loosened the restrictions so that doctors are allowed to write more than one month of prescriptions at a time, but only if they are post dated, and each on a separate piece of paper, and not photocopied. I do not know how they tell. We cannot give them all to the pharmacy at once, or they'll throw the post-dated ones away. We cannot have it called or faxed in. We must hand the paper to a human being who works at the pharmacy.

I chafe at these intolerable restrictions. 

Mail order? 90 days? Forget it. And of course, we have to keep the post-dated prescriptions out of sight or Aunt Sally (not her real name) will make off with the pill bottle and the Rx. Or the dudes who fixed our home from the burst pipe will. Or Ari's play date, who is, by the way, six. However, our doctor told us we cannot discount anyone. Every human is a generic Ritalin thief.

Oh, I forgot to mention! It's also an appetite suppressant. Hear that, kids? Straight As and skinny! But don't look here because in this family, we don't play. You take our shit, and we will fuck you up. 

Pig

Today when I picked Ari up, he told me a fascinating story.

Ari: Mommy! I can't even suck my sum because when we had outside time we were playin' with poison! Orange poison. I had to wash my hands, but now the orange is back. And only pigs can drink orange poison. Ziv said. He said pigs can drink poison, orange blood and not die. But if I drink it, I will have a very bad sore sroat, and I will die. 

Self: Oh?

Ari: But if God is weal, he'll come and sing to me while I'm lying, dead, and I'll come back alive again. I hope he does because then I'll get to live extra because I'll go back to being a baby!

Self: Bunny, you're too young to mourn your lost youth.

Ari: But, I wanna live forever! I wish I was a pig!

Self: Wait, why? What is the advantage of piggery?

Ari: Pigs can eat poison, orange blood and not die!

Self: Oh, what fun!

Ari: (wistfully) Yeah.

Self: But, do you really want to be a pig? Because pigs can't play iPad. Or watch tv.

Ari: (laughs uproariously) No, I was just joking. If I was a pig, I'd be stuck in a cave all my life.

Self: Do pigs live in caves?

Ari: Plus, pigs have dirty baffs. Their baffs are full of dirty. Yuck! I want to take a normal baff, wiff shampoo.

Self: Good boy. (Pause) Do pigs live in caves? 

Ari: (sighs, rolls eyes) No, Mommy, of course not. Pigs live in cages on a farm. Don't you know?

Self: Oh, right. I thought you said caves. 

Ari: I did not say caves. For goodness' sake.

Self: Ok, ok. But I think Ziv was teasing you. Pigs can't drink poison, orange blood and live.

Ari: (refrains from sounding exasperated, somehow) I know, Mommy. But, thanks.

Anytime, Bunny. Anytime.

Anne McCaffrey Poser

I am up at 4:00 am, because I fell asleep at 8:00 last night. I know--behold! The glamour!

So, of course at this hour, when insomniacing, the only thing to do is pretend to be Anne McCaffrey. I mean: it just wouldn't make sense to do anything else. Certainly not start texting some ex-House Guest and tell her I miss her. Because I have no desire to do that. Just so we're clear.

Anne McCaffrey was a fantasy writer, and I'm reading her trilogy The Dragonriders of Pern because all my kids are reading Eragon, which is supposed to be derivative of McCaffrey. Only I don't think the dude who wrote Eragon did a very good job of imitating her. This is where I come in, providing a more acceptable (if brief) imitation. At 4:00 am, no less! Am I a hero, or what? I don't know what you people were using for Anne McCaffrey poser scenes before, but I know you're sure glad I showed up to fix it.

McCaffrey did this neat future/past thing, in which humanity on Earth is hundreds of years in the future and has launched a colony in a different galaxy. The genius part is that the people who are in the colony slowly lose touch and lose their technology and, over the course of many generations, forget they came from Earth, forget how they got there, forget all sorts of shit, until they are running around with swords instead of lasers, and mythologizing all the science. I don't know what happens to their space ship. Erosion, perhaps? Or maybe they just think it's some weird kind of rock.

The people on Pern also keep forgetting this thing that happens every 200-400 years and almost destroys all life on the planet (because that's not important to remember). They write ballads and stories and shit to try to remember it and how to protect themselves, but as more time passes, they begin to think their crazy grandmas made the whole thing up. This happens again and again. 

Anne McCaffrey evidently thought we are a forgetful race, would lose our heads if not attached to bodies, etc. Also, she used IKEA names, and there is lots of political intrigue that makes no sense, and the whole thing reads like a Harlequin romance. Here is my version:

Bronsk evaluated T'haan's hold, deciding quickly that its defenses were significant. No matter. It would all be solved with a bit of dragon fire. The time was not right for such obvious conflict, though. T'haan had not yet insulted Bronsk outright.

"Your east-facing gardens are a violation of the traditions," Bronsk said.

His eyes flashed dangerously.

"I see," T'haan's expression was unreadable. He turned his face to the sky. 

Bronsk chaffed at the scandalous insult, his hand floating towards his scabbard. There was a hush between the men, for a moment.

"Your women are quite beautiful," Bronsk continued. "But they speak as if they have been made meek."

T'haan bristled at this assessment. "I am sorry they are not to your liking," he countered. "Please, stay until the next moon phase, and we will make ourselves more hospitable to you."

"Thank you," replied Bronsk, impulsively deciding to call T'haan's bluff, "I will." He smiled amiably. 

T'haan colored. He led Bronsk back into the hold, his steps pounding out his rage.

When they arrived at the chambers where Bronsk would stay, C'fir arrived, whispering something to T'haan.

"Please excuse us," said T'haan. "We hope you enjoy the sunset." He turned to go.

Bronsk was appalled at this egregious insult. Enjoy the sunset, indeed! His temper surged. He knew, in that instant, that waiting longer would be foolish. He drew his sword. C'fir leapt back, and the other two began to circle each other. T'haan was larger than Bronsk, and struck first. But Bronsk had been more thoroughly insulted, and his fury leant him strength.

-------------

And so on. . .

Fake Advice Column

Dear Fake Advice Column,

Recently, I ran into my old college roommate at the park. She had two babies! But, only one of them was cute. We chatted for a bit, and as we were saying goodbye, I said, "your baby is adorable, by the way." I kinda tried to slur a little, so she'd think I said "babies" and not be upset, but she just seemed to think I was drunk. What would you have done?

Signed,

Two Babies, One Cute

Dear Two,

Lie.

Love,

Fake Advice Colomn

Dear Fake Advice Column,

Really? Even if one was incredibly homely, and there was no way she could ever believe anyone who called him cute?

Signed,

Two Babies, One Cute

Dear Two,

Yes, really, you dumbass.

Love,

Fake Advice Column

--------------------------

Dear Fake Advice Column,

I have been using an online dating service. I notice that everyone seems to believe they are good in bed. How can that be? How is there good with no bad? Don't these opposites define one another? If everyone is good in bed, how can anyone be good in bed? Wouldn't we all just be the same, then?

Signed,

Good in Bed

Dear Good in Bed,

People suck. There are a zillion who are crappy in bed, but they don't know it. They all think they're good, and they're all running around humble bragging about it -- "I've never had any complaints" and that kind of thing. 

To which Fake Advice Column says, "never seems rather unlikely, if you're actually having sex. So, perhaps you weren't listening because you're a self-absorbed wanker."

I, personally, will not go out with anyone who claims to be good in bed because if they think that, they probably won't listen to suggestions. Plus, being indiscreet about how good you are in bed is just cheesy.

Love,

Fake Advice Column

--------------------------

Dear Fake Advice Column,

I go to the deli every day and order a sandwich for lunch. Every day, the people who make the sandwich put cheese on it, even though I tell them please, no. The people in this country seem incapable of understanding that a person might dislike cheese. Wtf? I feel completely marginalized! Is too much to ask that they not put cheese on my sandwich? And if it is, why don't they just say, "look, it's too hard," so that I don't have my hopes dashed every single day?

Signed,

No Cheese

Dear No Cheese,

You've got to be kidding.

Love,

Fake Advice Column

Pot Rack!, Video Games, Big

I have this former House Guest, which is, of course, someone who used to visit my house, and nothing more or less. I would certainly never use a euphemism. Heaven forfend!

So, my ex-House Guest and I aren't really speaking because I still want her to be my House Guest, and she can't or doesn't want to or something. There was lots of misery and drama, so we don't talk.

Last night I was watching "The Good Wife" with B. I dunno if you people saw it. It was pretty heartbreaking, the way Will seemed so bitter and vicious and wanted to destroy Peter to get back at Alicia after they'd had such a grand love. If you don't watch the show, I can't help you. Try to keep up. Anyway, I was upset.

"Oh, boo-hoo-hoo!" I said to B. (I did not actually cry.) "I don't want Big (not her real name, but we'll stick with the Chris Noth connection) and I to be like that. We're not like that, are we?"

"No," B said, reassuringly. "Big isn't like that."

She's very good at House Guest support.

"I know we're a hot mess," I sniffled. Okay, maybe I did cry a little, but to be fair, I'd wept for half an hour over "Flowers in the Attic" (on Lifetime) the night before.

"Couldn't we be Cary and Kalinda -- just sort of hostile, but not necessarily On The Path To Destruction?" I wailed. "I don't want to be vicious enemies for all of our remaining days!"

Plus, Cary and Kalinda are hotter, and at the end of the episode, they have a drink. I want to have a drink, one day, with Big! I would be Cary, btw, or Will, if we have to be those two. Big is Kalinda/Alicia. I know you must be wondering who is who. But Cary is all hot and stoic, and Will is all sexy and surly. I am not stoic or surly at all. Sigh. Also, I'm not a super-hot, famous actor. I don't look like Cary or Kalinda, or Will or Alicia, or even Sarah Jessica Parker or Chris Noth. I am a regular person, and I spill on my shirt almost every day! I've never seen any of those people spill anything on their person, either in real or pretend. TV realism? Bullshit.

The point is, maybe Big doesn't even want me as her ex-House Guest-she-no-longer-speaks-to. Maybe she wants someone hotter, or more stoic or surly, or someone who is busy scheming, like Cary or Will, instead of someone who is busy crying over dumb tv and playing video games, like me. I can't even act right as an angry ex-House Guest!

Speaking of video games, I have this new one, and it was free. So, of course it advertises to me. I don't think it understands me, though. It thinks I want to watch Hulu (I'm a Netflix/Prime grrl),

visit a spa in Tuscany (ok, who doesn't?),

and recover from my oxycodone addiction, which I developed due to my repeated video game failures. 

Also, it thinks I want to play slot machine games, which are so unrelated to the games I play that I do not know what to do. Whatever, ad people. Misunderstood, as always, am I.

Before you get the wrong idea, I should tell you that the vast majority of my House Guests, former House Guests, sometimes House Guests, and almost House Guests and I are quite friendly. JJ was an almost House Guest and comes over every Friday for ping pong and sleeps in the guest room because it is always too late, and we are always too tipsy. Mara and I have never exchanged a harsh word. And Casey, who is no longer my House Guest, still comes over sometimes and is perfectly lovely.

I'm not one of those people who just can't get along. But I am stuck when it comes to Big. Sort of like when I was stuck with this pot rack I ordered from Amazon years ago. I wanted it up, but the place I wanted it had an a/c shaft, and I couldn't drill into it. My stud finder kept thinking the a/c shaft was a ceiling joist, and I kept believing it, and no amount of beer or country music could get that pot rack up. Then, on Saturday, post ping pong, I said to JJ, "Dude, get up. Help me with my pot rack."

JJ was game, and we went to Homo Depot. I gave up on the ceiling joists and bought some anchors. I tried to avoid the places my stud finder wanted me to drill into, thus dodging the a/c vent, and voila:

I just looked up my Amazon order history, and I've been trying to hang that pot rack since June 3, 2011. Maybe in a few years, I will get unstuck with Big, too.

Until then, we're Cary and Kalinda. Nobody is on a Path Of Destruction. We're misaligned, not vicious. Why, just yesterday, she liked a picture of me on Facebook: clearly, our loyalty is deep and true.