Everything it's crocked up to be

I never thought I'd be a crockpot parent, standing around a semi-circular reef of slow cookers dishing our molten meals to hungry athletes during a weekend wrestling tournament. 

But I have matured into a more versatile human being, able to dish out hot meatball sandwiches in a single glop; dig out the last can of Coke from where it hides in the bottom of the ice chest, and unapologetically make change for fifty-dollar-bills using singles and fives. 

No filthy sink trap is beneath my abilities or my dignity to unclog.

Each break, measured in minutes as I made a mad dash from the cafeteria to the gymnasium -- hoping to catch a glimpse of my kid moping the floor as either the custodian ... or the mop -- alters my job description upon my return.

I'm positively gleeful at the prospect of scrubbing pans.

Today is a good day. Maybe even the best day. A day I wouldn't trade for a deep tissue massage or a nap. 

A day spent watching kids -- win or lose -- shake hands before and after they go to their respective corners. Celebrating a win isn't something that's allowed on the mat, even a surreptitious arm pump will get a player sanctioned. 

So as we sit in the stands, our son is on the mat, tying his home team color around his ankle, bowing his head as the ref gives instructions. His opponent lowers his stance and extends a hand. My son's meets his at the same level. 

The whistle blows and they grasp each other around the head, dancing around for a moment until one breaks free of the other. 

They go again, circling, getting each other around the head, shoulders, waist, and knees. A tangle of bodies slaps down on the mat. The ref's hand raises a hand signaling which player gets how many points. Squirming from under another arm takes points away. This dance continues until shoulders stayed pressed for three seconds, or one has enough points when time runs out. 

We have been used to our son lasting only seconds in the rings until he is pinned by a matched opponent who is stronger and more aggressive. Lately, he's managed to crawl his way out of cradles or push himself pins. 

Lately, he's been able to come up for air the moment a boy from the sidelines taps the ref on the back with a pool noodle, and the buzzer sounds. His dad and I collectively inhale, too. 

We are on the edge of our seats as we watch our boy make progress. The whistle blows again, and again he gains the advantage, proving to himself his worth as an opponent. A hail Mary move, and with seconds to spare, a pin. 

He contained his excitement as required as the referee raised his arm. We did not. Nor did the parents of his teammates. It seemed like the whole crowd went wild. 

This single win weighed heavily. 

It's amazing how much I loved that moment and all the ones that came before it, including tripping up and down the bleachers, awkwardly hawking 50-50 raffle tickets and leftover puffed rice marshmallow squares.

Of course, the boy's smile as his team engulfed him in bear hugs is something every parent needs, too.

Karen is Over-Sharon

“All of our associates are helping other customers. Your call is important to us. Please remain on the line and an agent will be with you as soon as one becomes available. …”

Minutes tick by as music plays on a loop.

My heartbeat spikes when the tune is suddenly interrupted … Finally … 

“All of our associates are helping other customers. Your call is important to us. Please remain on the line and an agent will be with you when one becomes available. If you would like a call-back, press 1 to leave your phone number. You will not lose your place in line.”

I won't take the offer. I don't believe they will ever call me back.

Why should they? I am not calling to wish them good fortune. I am calling to try and fix a problem … or cancel a subscription … or figure out whether this official-looking letter seeking payment is a scam … or worse … a scam that is imperfectly legit, just deceptive.

This never feels good. 

I hate myself a little more as I hang on the line.

No matter what I do, I am THAT WOMAN. 

The one who is not satisfied. The one who may never be satisfied with the answer you give her.

The woman who makes them mute the phone while they get the attention of the person in the next cubicle for a laugh while they exchange rude gestures.

The one who has become a meme:

“Karen wants to speak to the manager.” 

I try to keep the irritation from my voice.

I know their job is thankless.

I know they don't make the rules.

But I just wanted to cancel my membership. 

“I know your script says that you can't CANCEL my account because it has become INACTIVE. But why must I provide a VALID CREDIT CARD NUMBER to reactivate the account so that you can CANCEL it? Why can't you cancel inactive accounts?”

“But it is unnecessary. It won't charge your card.” 

It IS necessary, because it keeps prompting me to provide a new card, so you are telling me to have it stop prompting me to provide a new card on the first of every month, I have to provide a new card and then cancel the account. Does that make sense to you? 

“I'm sorry ...

“It's been a long day of misunderstandings …

“Someone keeps screwing up their user name and locking me out of my bank account … 

“I have already waded through eight spammy phone calls and sussed out four legitimate scams, and it isn't even noon.

“Tomorrow I'll have to go to the gym, the owners of which are demanding in-person appearances despite the two-year-old law requiring they offer online cancellation.

“But now, I just want this one thing to end. I don't understand why it has to be this difficult?”

There was silence on the line.

“I'm sorry. I know I'm the one making it hard.”

I hung up the phone. Not with a slam or an expletive, just with the uncomfortable knowledge that I have no idea how things work.

Then, like an answered prayer, an email arrived:

“We are sorry to see you go … ”

Long-term storage

 In the corner of my home office, a tower of wicker boxes containing most but not all of our important papers is on the verge of collapse. The cat has made it her scratching post and has shredded them. 

It is not ideal. 

I have made it my mission this midwinter moment to move them and wrangle some of the other records that require added attention. 

For all that the computer age promised, it certainly did not eliminate clutter. 

Conventional wisdom now tells us that clutter, or the overabundance of possessions that created chaotic living spaces as they accumulate in our lives, lives in a kind of lockstep with depression. 

Many of those studying the impact clutter has on our mental well-being will tell you how it might affect men and women differently. 

It maybe won't surprise you, if you harken back to the 1950s ideal of a single-family dwelling in a well-manicured subdivision, when a man came home, kicked off his shoes, accepted a drink from his dutiful wife, and retired to his recliner with this evening paper, his home was a kingdom ... a place for him to unwind. 

His wife - having already worked all day and who had disappeared to rearrange his shoes - was not merely a caretaker in this domain, but probably felt as such as she began the opening salvo in the evening shift of menial drudgery. 

Everything has its place.

Honestly, I don't know anyone in the living world - past or present - who resembles these descriptions. Certainly not my parents who struggled with bouts of seasonal depression amid a lifetime of scattered preparedness.

And as we move along in the thing called life, our proud moments and our due diligence seem to haunt us as much as our mistakes. 

It's something I've been thinking about since my father died and bequeathed to his children all of his earthly treasures, which, it turns out, contain far more letter-sized printouts than one might imagine that live in unmarked shoeboxes growing like stalagmites all over the house.

Is it any wonder we are still drowning in paper? Documents we must shred to the consistency of fine-grain sand to keep thieves and scoundrels from reconstituting their remains into an identity one could readily steal. 

These record tombs span decades and cover all manner of subjects from midcentury pay stubs to millennial medical payments, some of which mix topics and years within the same compostable file. 

Conventional wisdom tells us to keep our financial records for seven years to ten thousand years ... or perhaps longer, lest the mystical rubric of unforeseen possibilities haunts our descendants. 

Which, undoubtedly, it had as I sifted through envelopes to find the Deeds of this father as well as a few of the old light bills, too. 

I tuck them back into the file and stow the file into a box I label descendants. 

I've done enough decluttering for this winter, and maybe enough for two (or maybe even nine) lifetimes. 

Grecian formula

 "You have arrived," announced the mechanical voice of the GPS as my husband pulled to the curb at Logan. He popped the trunk and we hopped out to extract the luggage. 

"Hopefully, it won't take long," he called through a half-open window. "I may have to park at her old dorm and Uber back!"

Her eyes narrowed to stabby points for a moment. It was too soon to be making jokes. Especially since the whole car ride there, we'd been offering the sage advice of Gus Portokalos from My Big Fat Greek Wedding, by riffing on the various miracle uses of Windex, including, to my husband's disbelief, the removal of wedding bands that have become too tight.

She rolled her eyes, but questioned her own judgment having just settled into this college city she was now flying away from, not to mention bringing us for the sendoff.

 We each dragged a suitcase into the terminal. She lugged the heaviest, the one that would have to fly in the belly of the plane. I steered the stylish carry-on, an indescribable color of pale blue. We came to a stop just before the tape maze where would-be passengers know instinctively how to coil their way around, single file, on the first leg of this journey .... to greet an agent at the check-in point. 

"I have to pee."

We had set our clocks to "Egregiously Early" and it only added to the anxiety.

"I'll go with, and stand with the bags."

The bathroom was mostly unremarkable. It was clean and well-lit. Its surfaces are modestly tiled in ceramic and steel. The only surprise was planted in a basket to the left of the sink: a live orchid, festooned with white flowers reaching out like a hug. 

This must be a good sign, I think as I wash my hands. 

"I'm glad you stayed," my daughter says as I roll the suitcase her way. "I think I'd be fur-reaking out if I had to wait here by myself."

I want to say something encouraging, something to put her at ease, but I know it's not my forte. 

"We have nothing to fear except fear itself. ... Especially since WE are not traveling Southwest."

"Of course by 'WE,' she means it in the Royal sense," says her dad, who has returned from the hinterlands and has found a place in line. 

We certainly look the part of a family getting ready to take off. 

I am still pushing around a suitcase, and he is serenading her with fatherly advice, bad jokes, and travel tips that must be decades old by now. 

She reminds him of all the leg work she's done to get here: Not only the scheduling of her studies abroad but also the logistical details like applying for VISAs and booking travel. 

She smiles to tamp down the shards of annoyance that have fractured her voice, reminding us that we are not in this together. Once the airline exchanges a ticket for her luggage at the counter, she will fly away. 

I change the subject to the orchid. Telling my husband of the wonderment of finding such a showy plant in the restroom, wondering who cares for it, and trying to guess what it means.

 "Did you know? The word 'orchid' comes from the Greek, 'orkhis,' which means testicle! So why isn't there one in the men's room?"

And on the heels of the comedy stylings of her parents, our firstborn child opens her arms for a final hug before heading to her gate.

"Not gonna lie, I'm a little glad that I can't take you anywhere."

Secret sauce

 My husband and I don't generally enjoy the same movies. 

He gravitates toward action adventure, primarily where CIA agents do super-secret spy stuff, trying to keep the names of other agents from getting out in the open. 

While I try to pick movies in which women talk to each other like normal human beings. Movies that make him fall asleep.

Not that he complains. 

We each know the criteria the other uses in the decision-making: He looks for heavy artillery and guesstimates explosions per minute ratios as he scrolls the listings. 

I have a different measure.

"I know ... it's called the Béchamel test and it's quite complicated. Women should have a certain percentage of all lines of dialog in keeping with the suggested demographic. And they should not be heroines, not villains. 

"Close, dear. Béchamel is a sauce made with flour, butter, and cream. Bechdel is the test named after a cartoonist, Alison Bechdel, who, inspired by Virginia Wolfe, joked in her comic strip about how women are so flatly portrayed in literature and film that they don't even address each other. And it is a pretty simple formula: All a movie or book has to do to pass is have at least two women interact with each other about something other than a man."

Of course, there might be bonus points if the women are named characters, and the conversation the two have were about something other than children or family, but it isn't a deal breaker.

The Bechdel test is an extremely low bar. One can only go up from acknowledging the presence of another person possessing XX chromosomes on the set.

It's such a low bar that movies still get made whether they pass or fail. Shocking, I know. 

We didn’t fare much better with our childhood heroes, either. Harry Potter's Goblet of Fire doesn’t pass muster, nor do any of the Lord of The Rings movies. Even my beloved Toy Story series leaves feminist icons like Bo Peep and Jessie the cowgirl following the boys but not interacting with each other in any scenes.

And, I suppose, the most shocking part is how easily we have accepted these cardboard-cutout cookie-cut shapes as our literary and cultural heroines. 

They are so expendable, their stories so mundane, they don't even acknowledge each other. 

Of course, the worst part is that even discussing this simple test can start a defensive war. 

The mere criticism of the shoot-em-up genre he takes in stride, but pointing out the misogyny feels like a personal assault on his scruples. Somehow, his ability to soak in the entertainment value of the harmless sex and violence brought to you through the Magic of Hollywood wasn’t a vice until I pointed out the women who amount to pretty veneers. 

“But you laughed at Ocean’s 11. You think those guys are funny!”

“Of course, I laughed. But to pass the Bechdel test, they had to create Ocean’s 8 and kill off Danny so he didn’t just waltz in and steal the show as well as the gems.