Kelly Poe Wilson

I have always believed in the concept of gender neutrality. I never bought into any of the “baby dolls for girls and monster truck toys for boys,” let alone the whole pink vs. blue debate. That part especially has always seemed rather silly to me, since up until about the 1930s it was blue for girls and pink for boys (because red and all of its derivatives were considered to be too “manly” for girls and women).

Of course, even if I had had these notions, they would have been dashed soon after my first child, Clementine, was born. From an early age she loathed pink (and all of the girly-girl dresses that came with it), and as for the baby dolls—well, remember the mutilated baby doll from Toy Story? That one looked downright cuddly when compared to what Clementine did to her baby doll. Around the neighborhood it was known as “Frankenbaby,” and it probably did more to destroy Clementine’s future career in baby-sitting than a Marilyn Manson tattoo and needle marks would have.

When my son Clyde was born I thought it was going to be the same deal, and for a while it seemed like I was right. After all, he didn’t have a problem with wearing pink, or dressing like Dora the Explorer for Halloween. And as for dolls—well, since everything he touched seemed to take on a little personality of its own, it was kind of like everything was a doll to him. What I failed to take into account, though, was that all of his “dolls” were little psychopaths.

While you may have always suspected that a “behind the scenes” look into the world of My Little Pony would be more America’s Next Top Model than Brady Bunch, it was confirmed the moment Clyde first got his hands on a set of them. “No, no, don’t hurt me!” screamed Sparkleface Moonbeam, as Gingerpants Lollipop pummelled her over and over again with her overnight bag. “Hurt you? I’m going to kill you!” replied G.L., as Clyde had the one tackle the other in a move more suited to a cage match than the soft fluffy place the ponies normally inhabit.

Of course, at first glance, it just seems as if his play is rather exuberant. Which is what, I am sure, the student teacher thought the other day when she handed out a basket full of scarves to a roomful of children that contained not only Clyde, but several other boys remarkably like Clyde. True, most of the kids—the girls—were fine with the scarves: when the teacher told them to pretend that they were autumn leaves drifting down from the trees, fully 90% of the kids in the room did just that. The other 10%, however, didn’t.

“Help me! Help me! I’m going down!” Clyde’s leaf/scarf cried (which, for all we know, could be the genuine attitude of an autumn leaf), before it abruptly transformed into a fighter leaf, and strafed the other leaves all around it. “Tak-a-tak-a-tak-a!” it shot out, before it collided cataclysmically with the nearest leaf, which, showing a surprising amount of spunk for a piece of decaying plant matter, turned around and fought back. And then it was on. What had started as a gentle exercise to the soothing strains of “Fűr Elise” was now an episode of When Scarves Attack.

“Oh, no, not like that,” the teacher cooed softly as she gently tried to dissuade Clyde and another boy from knotting their scarves into ropes and strangling each other with them.

It was almost enough to make me question my belief in gender neutrality—or, at least it would have been, except for the child whose ninja warrior scarf was finally able to put Clyde’s Shaolin death scarf out of commission.

Her name was Maggie.

When I was in college I loved Halloween. There was drinking, revealing costumes, a chance to be someone else for the night—and did I mention the drinking? In fact, a friend of mine still throws an “adults-only” pre-Halloween party every year that is so true to the hallowed traditions of holiday debauchery that she has a DJ and a bartender. However, as I’ve gotten older, and as the thrill of staggering home at five am in full face paint has lost its thrill, I’ve started to wax nostalgic for the Halloweens of my youth, where the only adults you ever saw in costumes were the mothers who dressed as witches to hand out candy, and any drunkenness was confined to that one house on the corner where the dad was always drunk by six pm regardless.

Nowadays, however, Halloween drunkenness is common, especially downtown where I live. Who knows, maybe it’s because the town’s collective liver is still “in the spirit” after Homecoming’s Sunrise Services, but for some reason Halloween in Flagstaff seems to be especially beloved by the inebriants. In fact, a few years ago my family came up with a game to play the morning after both Homecoming and Halloween: it’s called “Puke Bingo,” and instead of using squares on a piece of paper, you use sections of downtown sidewalk and . . . well, you get the point.

Sometimes I feel a little guilty about raising my children in a place that is so young adult-centric. I mean it—if you’re twenty-one and up, Flagstaff is the bomb. But for those under twenty-one . . . well, not so much. Don’t get me wrong—I think Flagstaff does a great job in trying to provide opportunities for children and families, whether it’s the new Aquaplex or the Wednesday Night Concerts in Wheeler Park. But the sad fact is that, thanks to Flagstaff’s “poverty with a view” economy there’s only a limited audience for these things, and it’s getting smaller all of the time.

When I was growing up they couldn’t build elementary schools fast enough—my own had to switch to double schedules for a year just to find enough room for all the kids. And yet, here in Flagstaff, we’re talking about closing down elementary schools—even high schools, for that matter. And I can understand why. Again, when I was growing up my neighborhood bus stop was the pick up point for over two dozen kids—every morning before the bus came it was like a miniature version of Lord of the Flies. These days there are so few kids in my neighborhood that they could probably all be picked up by a Prius.

The lack of children becomes even more painfully obvious every year at Halloween: last year less than ten kids showed up to trick-or-treat at our house, even though we kept the light on until nine. And the number of houses on our block that were handing out candy was in the single digits as well.

Maybe it’s just evolution. Maybe trick-or-treating is just going the way of Hopscotch and Red Rover, and when my kids look back and reminiscence it will be about all the great Halloween carnivals of their youth, the ones put on by churches, and youth centers, and the city Parks and Recreation department. In fact, I was even thinking myself that the one Parks and Rec is putting on this year down at Heritage Square looked like a pretty good deal.

And who knows, maybe they’ve got the right idea. After all, if we get enough kids downtown, we can be the ones making all the drunks uncomfortable, and not the other way around. It’s definitely worth a try.

Despite my very best efforts to hide my face from the cameras of Flag Live, (I once managed to go two years with just a picture of my bike—without me—at the top of my column), every now and then an intrepid Flag Live editor will manage to capture me on film. (Sort of like Bigfoot, except that it’s usually not one of those blurry long distance shots, but a real, live, close-up. Which, actually, is kind of a drag: I’ve always thought those grainy Bigfoot shots were rather flattering, or at least slimming. If I were Bigfoot, I’d definitely post one of those on my Facebook page.)

Anyway, what this photojournalistic documentation means for me (I won’t presume to speak for Bigfoot), is that every now and then people will recognize me. Usually, this is no problem—I actually enjoy having people come up and talk to me about my columns. I especially like it when they try to tell me a competing story about how their children are even more dreadful than mine. (It’s not a competition, folks, but if it were, believe me: this is one you don’t want to win.)

Being recognizable, however, does come with some definite disadvantages. (Just ask Bigfoot). For one thing, it makes it twice as embarrassing when you get caught (and recognized) doing something wrong. In Bigfoot’s case, it was that oh-so-embarrassing unintentional cameo he did in Girls Gone Wild XXIV. In my case, it was trying to sneak beer into a venue where they were already selling it.

Now, I don’t know about you, but in my world sneaking in your own beer is a time-honored tradition. Even if you don’t ultimately end up drinking it (and really, who wants to drink a Bud Light that has been nestled up in some guys BVD’s?), it’s the principle of the thing. I mean, isn’t that what this country’s forefathers fought and died for? Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness (in the form of cheap, watery, warm beer?)

So anyway, yeah—I did it. I tried to sneak in a couple of Tecates—and I got busted. No big deal—it’s all part of the game, right?

Until.

Until being busted meant that everything I was carrying got a thorough searching, and that meant that everything got discovered. Which meant that there was a mortifying moment in line when a certain item was pulled out of my bag and held up for all the world to see. The gate girl must have raised her eyebrows about a foot as she held the incriminating object between thumb and forefinger, looked at me, and in clear and ringing tones said, “Don’t you write for Flag Live?”

“That’s not mine,” I stuttered. “I’m just holding it for a friend.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, staring at the offending object disdainfully.

Without another word I snatched Clementine’s copy of Ok! Magazine out of her hands and shoved it back into the bag. This meant that Rob Pattinson (AKA “Edward”)’s sultry stare was now directed at the blue cheese, hummus and crackers, and not at all the curious people in line behind me. (His new placement was actually kind of oddly appropriate, since according to rumors, blue cheese and hummus is exactly what he smells like.)

Or at least that’s what I’ve heard. From Clementine. Who, as I’ve mentioned before, was the true owner of the magazine in question. But not, alas, the Tecates. Although I suppose that, as her mother, I could have blamed those on her, too. Or at least on Bigfoot. But then again, that probably wouldn’t have worked very well either. I mean, just look at him. Anyone with a mullet like that obviously drinks only PBR.

In some cultures, when a child reaches a certain age he or she is sent out on a vision quest. This is usually the time for the child to face all of their deepest childhood fears (both real and imaginary), so that—hopefully—upon successfully completing their quest they will return back to their community a better person. Or, at the very least, they can return home better able to handle the world in which they live.

Sometimes, of course, these quests turned out to be so dangerous that the participants don’t return at all, again either because of the real or imaginary dangers encountered in the wild. This is because while different cultures all have different versions of their vision quest, they all seem to have two things in common: one, that at least some of the danger faced must be real, and two, that the participant must face the danger alone. Think of Spartan boys (at least the ones who inhabit the Frank Miller universe) being sent out to face a deadly wolf and you begin to get the idea.

Bearing all of this in mind, I recently decided that, even though he is only eight, the time had come to send my son, Clyde, on a vision quest of his own. There were two factors that played heavily in my making this decision. One was that I really think that the extra challenge and responsibility of having his own vision quest will help him deal with all of the trials and tribulations of the world he currently inhabits. And two: the particular quest I’ve given him is one that I’m afraid to do on my own.

Yeah, that’s right: I made it his job to wake up his sister, Clementine, in time for her to get to school in the morning.

Poor Clyde. Each and every school day, armed only with his wits and his trusty PS3 remote, Clyde must venture into the very bowels of the Twilight shrine and wake up his sister. Not just once, but every day. And while you might think that repeated trips back into the lion’s den would at least teach you how to handle lions, the truth of the matter is that Clementine is more like a Hydra than a lion: every time you think you’ve come up with a way to deal with her she simply grows a new (and completely different) head.

Think you’re going to try the “gently patting her arm while whispering her name” approach, because that worked yesterday? Think again, because this morning she has been lying in bed for the past hour and a half, eagerly awaiting her opportunity to jump up like a vampire who has just seen the stake and send any would-be Van Helsings scurrying back to the sanctuary of the living room.

Okay, I know what you’re saying: why send anyone in to wake her up at all? Why not just get her an alarm clock, and let it suffer the abuse? Well, for one thing, in the same way that scientists believe that Black Holes swallow electrical pulses, Clementine’s room eats electric devices. And also: it really is a good vision quest. After all, if the purpose of the vision quest is to better prepare a child for the world in which they will eventually live as an adult, then what better way to prepare Clyde for the world of surly DMV clerks and unhelpful help-line operators than by having him face his irritable sister each and every morning?

Sure, he might have a few more scars than the average 8-year-old to show for it, but think of the payoff: he’ll be like a Spartan, but with surly girls. Which, in this universe, is a way better skill than the ability to fight off a wolf.

“As far as I am concerned, (President Obama’s speech to students) is not civics education—it gives the appearance of creating a cult of personality. This is something you’d expect to see in North Korea or in Saddam Hussein’s Iraq.”
—Steve Russell, Republican state senator from Oklahoma

Okay. It’s been a month now since Obama (that unrepentant socialist and, apparently, heir to both Kim Jong Il and Saddam Hussein) gave his speech to the school children of America. And what, in the end, did we learn from it? Well I for one learned that it’s harder to make a tinfoil hat than I thought. Who knew? I mean, sure, just squishing tinfoil down on your head, that’s easy enough, but to make a really stylish hat, one that, say, a teenager will wear—well, that requires more skill than I possess. Obviously, given the disdain with which Clementine examined the hat I made her for the big Obama speech.

“What’s that supposed to be?” she asked me. “A swan?”

“No,” I replied. “It’s not for saving leftovers; it’s for saving your soul. It’s to stop you from being indoctrinated by Obama’s evil socialist plot during his school speech.”

“I’m not wearing that,” she said. “It’s stupid.” And then she left, leaving the usual trail of darkness in her wake.

I bet she’d wear it if it was black, I thought to myself, but then let the matter drop. After all—what was I worried about? There was no way Clementine would ever get involved with anything with the word “social” in it.

But what about all of those other children out there? Who was going to protect them from Obama’s evil socialist plot? And why socialism, anyway? I mean, you’re telling me that Obama has perfected a brainwashing method that will work on the youth of America, and the best he can come up with is socialism? What about clean-up-your-roomism, don’t-hit-your-little-brotherism, put-the-milk-awayism, and about a dozen other isms I can think of, just off the top of my head?

Supposedly, of course, there was no socialism involved at all: his speech just consisted of things like “stay in school,” and “study hard.” Really? Talk about a wasted opportunity. “Stay in school?” What about “stay out of Mom’s purse?”

Actually though, the real wasted opportunity lay in the fact that, after all of the Conservative parents pulled their kids out of the classroom, Obama didn’t take the time to check behind his back, look straight into the camera, and then whisper, “Okay, so now that they’re gone, here’s the deal: while I’m busy keeping all of these people distracted with my ‘socialist agendas,’ you kids do an end run around them. Stay in school. Get an education. Vote. Before they know it, you’ll be in charge—of everything. Now remember, when those other kids come back to class, don’t say anything about our little talk. Mum’s the word. Okay, here they come—look bored.”

Actually, I guess that’s kind of what he did. Hopefully, even if only ten percent of the kids who stayed and listened to his speech took it to heart, that will mean that ten percent more of them will stay in school, work hard, and become educated. And to become educated is to become a voter—it just goes without saying. Think about all of the people you’ve ever heard saying “What’s the point of voting, anyway?” Didn’t it also seem likely that the next thing you heard out of their mouths was “Would you like fries with that?”

Hmm. Maybe those disposable folded paper hats work even better than the tinfoil ones do.

I once had an argument with a friend of mine about government inspectors, of whom he felt there were entirely too many. His argument, basically, was this: when left to their own devices, people tend to do things correctly. They wash their hands before making your sausage, use the proper ratio of sand and gravel when mixing the cement for your bridges, and check the oil level in your airliner before it takes off for a flight across the Atlantic. People will do these things, he said, not because they are basically good, but because they are basically lazy: it’s just easier to do something right the first time than to have to go back and fix it later.

At the time I didn’t really have a good argument for this (besides, of course, “Haven’t you ever read The Jungle?”), although I believed then (and still do now) that he was wrong. Now however, if I were to have that same discussion again, my response would be simple. “You don’t have any kids, do you?”

That’s because nobody can half-ass things like a child can. Whether it’s dropping their dirty clothes next to the clothes hamper, or pushing their bike to within six inches of the bike rack before letting it drop to the ground, a child can make you wonder how our ancestors ever managed to make it down out of the trees in the first place. (If the decision to evolve had been left to a child we would probably all still be living in bushes, because that’s about as far down as they would have made it before calling it a day.)

Yes, it is easier to do things right the first time. That makes no difference whatsoever, though, to a child. Take my daughter, Clementine: the other night it took her six attempts to pick up some dried spaghetti from off the floor where she had spilled it. Six. That meant six journeys from her bedroom to the kitchen, six trips to get the dust pan and broom, six trips to the garbage can. Six. And, if all the stomping and muttering were any indication, it wasn’t as if she was particularly enjoying these trips. Stomp stomp stomp she would come out of her room, called back once again to finish picking up the spaghetti.

“But I already finished!”

“Then why can I still see it on the floor?”

“There’s only a little left on the floor.”

“But I want none left on the floor—the same way the floor was before you spilled it.”

Sigh. A few more pieces would make it into the trash, and then she’d be gone again, leaving about forty pieces behind.

“Clementine!”

And back she would come, only to pick up about half and then disappear once more.

The scary thing is that in ten years she might be the person making the sausage (“What? I washed one of my hands.”). Or the person mixing the cement (“One bag of sand, ten—what difference does it make?”). Or even the person checking the oil in the airliner (“I’m sure it’s fine—I checked it last month.”).

My only hope for the future is that one day there will be people in her life who are even better at nagging than I am. The neat freak roommate who wakes her up at 3 AM demanding to know if she was the one who used his bath towel. The college professor who only accepts papers if they are formatted just so. Even the boss who stands next to the time clock glaring at her as she clocks in late. In other words, the inspectors.

If not, then in twenty years I am faced with an even scarier future—one in which she ends up being the inspector herself.

The other day, during my daily quality time with Dear Abby, I came across a piece of advice concerning how to keep our children safer. The essence of it was this: every day, before leaving the house, parents should whip out their cell phones and take a picture of their children. Not so we can have a visual record of the last time that day our children were clean. And not so we can alibi them later for the cops. (“You see, Jr. was at home like a good boy when those mail boxes were knocked down. Yes, I know that the time stamp says eight am, and that the boxes were knocked down around midnight, but this is a Nokia—it tells you what time it is in Finland.”)

No, according to experts, the reason parents should take a picture of their children every day is so that the police will have a current photo (including the correct clothes) to work from when you file the missing person’s report. (And make sure you don’t forget to get the latest iPhone app—the iDentist. Now you can have up-to-date dental records to go along with that daily mug shot.)

Welcome to the 21st century—the era of fear-based parenting. Remember how it was when we were growing up? Remember how our parents didn’t tell us to “be home by dark,” but rather, “and don’t come back home until it’s dark”? Or maybe that was just my neighborhood, where all the moms drank their coffee black, could hook up a horse trailer on the first try and chopped up rattlesnakes with hoes without once dropping their cigarettes. When one of those moms turned to you and said, “If you’re that bored I can find you something to do,” you took off running. In fact, it’s hard to imagine one of those moms ever taking your picture with their cell phone; it’s much easier to imagine them using that same phone Russell Crowe/Naomi Campbell-style to chase you out the door.

And yes, I know what you’re going to say. “But things are different now. Sure, when we were kids we ran all over the place. We played unsupervised in the woods (desert, fields, vacant lots) all the time, and nothing ever happened to us—but it was a different world back then.” And the funny part is: you’re right. It was a different world back then.

It was more dangerous.

Here’s the thing. Violent crime in this country peaked in the 1970s and ’80s. By the time 1990 rolled around it was starting on a downturn that has continued to this day. Who knows exactly why this happened—everybody likes to take credit for it—but the fact is, a child growing up today is statistically safer than a child of the ’70s. That means that our kids are safer playing outside then we ever were.

Or, at least that means they’re safer from violence. At the same time that the average American child’s environment has been getting safer and safer, the average American child themselves has been getting fatter and fatter—probably from sitting on nice “safe” couches and being driven to nice “safe” play dates. (And don’t forget “snack time.”) Sure, we sucked down plenty of “suicide slurpees” back in our day—but we had to ride our bikes to the 7-11to get them. In twenty years we have gone from “stranger danger” to “manger danger.”

I even read somewhere that laundry detergent manufacturers have had to change their formulas to keep pace with their changing customer base: where they used to formulate their products to remove grass and blood stains, they now formulate them to remove ketchup and grease.

I sure hope they make those cell phone cameras with wide angle lenses.

Sometimes, when I feel an excess of self-confidence coming on, I go stand in the self-help section of the local bookstore and read parenting books. Lately, one of the trends I’ve been noticing in a lot of the books is the suggestion that mothers run their families like businesses, with mothers in the position of CEO. The idea is that, if run properly, instead of producing widgets (or some other kind of manufactured good), your family will produce happy, well-adjusted children.

It is an interesting idea. Unfortunately, I know even less about widgets than I do about
happy families. In fact, the only business model I am even remotely familiar with is that of a restaurant—or maybe a bar.

So what would it look like if I ran my family like a bar? Well, obviously, the first thing I would need to do is hire a bouncer. That would be great: with a bouncer, not only could I stop unwelcome people from getting into my house (that would be pretty much everyone), but I would also finally have some control over what people carry in and out. You know how a bouncer will stop you from carrying your open beer outside by saying, “Hey pal—this ain’t Vegas”? That’s what I need at my house, only instead of Vegas, and beer, they would stop my daughter Clementine from leaving the house with a mug of tea in her hand by saying, “Hey kid, this ain’t”—hmm, come to think of it, where do people treat ceramic mugs as disposable? Oh yeah: nowhere. Except, of course, at my house.

Let me just put it this way: it’s a good thing there are a lot of evictions in my neighborhood,
because otherwise, I don’t know what we would do for dishes. For me, curbside pickup is better than Target. Okay, so some people (alright, most people) are appalled when they find out that I get the majority of my dishes this way. “You mean you got this plate out of the garbage?” they’ll say, looking up from their lasagna is horror. To which I’ll reply: “Don’t be ridiculous; the garbage
can was way full—I got this plate out of the gutter.”

What other choice do I have? As I mentioned before, my kids seem to think that any dish
small enough to be carried (which means every dish) qualifies as a “To Go” option. That’s why all of my silverware ends up in the garbage can in the school cafeteria, all of my bowls end up as “bug habitats” in the yard, and all of my mugs end up somewhere between my house and school. (Wherever
Clementine happens to be when she finishes her morning tea.)

Of course, keeping things in the house is not the only reason for having a bouncer—there’s
also the little matter of keeping things out. Things like fundraising flyers for school. A good bouncer
would go through my kids’ backpacks as soon as they walked in the house and not only pull out things
that I needed to see (and sign), but also get rid of the things I really don’t need to see. Things like the
biweekly fundraisers for cookie dough by the bucketful (“Is it good?” “I don’t know, but look
how much of it there is.”), and $13 tubes of wrapping paper that come with just enough paper to wrap a
deck of cards.

And then, finally, a bouncer would come in very handy for the usual reason—muscle. With a bouncer on hand, hopefully I will no longer have to deal with issues like one customer casually spitting on another on their way to the bathroom. In fact, with an bouncer around, I could probably even post (and enforce) my favorite sign from Joe’s Place (Flagstaff’s best bar ever—RIP): Be Good, or Be Gone.

Recently, while studying Roman mythology, my daughter Clementine came across the story of Saturn–you know, the guy who eats his own children.

“Gross,” she said.

“What?” I replied. “The poor guy was probably just trying to clean up some leftovers and the kids got in the way.”

I can picture the whole thing–in fact, I can probably tell you exactly where they were when it happened: a restaurant. An expensive one.

For some reason, as the price for a meal increases a child’s appetite will decrease (of course, this is only true after they have ordered, and you are obligated to pay for it all). And no, it’s not because the more expensive the food is the more exotic (and therefore less child-friendly) it becomes. I mean, I could understand them turning their noses up at Black Squid Ink Pasta in a Chanterelle Cream Sauce, but that’s not the case: they turn their noses up at plain old spaghetti with butter (but served at Squid Ink and Chanterelle prices).

It’s even worse at a buffet. There the same kid that can eat their own weight in chicken nuggets back home suddenly becomes “full” after two of them at the $16.95 all-you-can-eat buffet. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not trying to encourage gluttony. In fact, I think the ability to stop eating when you are full (even if the food tastes delicious) is a wonderful skill, one that I wish I had myself. No, my problem is that, invariably, after having picked their way through an expensive meal like an anorexic on a first date, the first thing they say after we’ve gotten back into the car and buckled up is, “I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?”

“That was dinner,” I’ll reply through clenched teeth. “Didn’t you see me handing that man an enormous stack of money?”

“No.” (Looks out the window in boredom.) “So—can we stop and get something to eat?”

Meanwhile, I’m completely stuffed, probably because I just ate both of our dinners. (This because I don’t want to “waste money”–although how it saves me money to have to buy a larger wardrobe every year, I’m not quite sure.)

Which brings us back to Saturn. Although in all of the pictures I’ve seen of him he looks pretty fit (especially for an old guy), I can’t help but believe that eating his own children was just a mistake he made while over-enthusiastically cleaning up after them at a really expensive Roman buffet. It was no big deal.

And besides, it wasn’t like the kids didn’t get their revenge—gruesomely. (In the PG version the kids just cut their way out of Saturn’s stomach. In the Quentin Tarantino edition, after they cut their way out they turn around and cut off Saturn’s—well, let’s just put it this way: getting smacked below the belt with an errant T-ball is not the worst thing that can happen to a dad. Not by a long shot.)

I explained this theory to Clementine, but instead of being awed by my new interpretation of a classic myth, she just rolled her eyes and said, “Whatevs. I guess it’s never the parent’s fault, is it?”

Okay, so she may have a point. After all, the whole “Saturn eating his kids thing” probably was about a bit more than making sure he got his money’s worth at the $24.95 seafood brunch. After all, he was known for having a few issues with parenting.

Although, when you think about it, doesn’t all of mythology (Roman and otherwise), come down to (mostly bad) parenting? I’m not sure if that’s comforting or disturbing, but either way, one thing is sure: it’s nice to know that five thousand years ago people were still saying, “I am so going to kill that kid!”

There is a reason that I have never had a girlfriend: it’s because they’re crazy. Yes, boyfriends can be crazy, too, but when it comes to pure unadulterated wack-jobiness, nothing beats a girlfriend. Add in the fact that if girlfriends are crazy, then ex-girlfriends are even more so, and you can see that having a girlfriend is just a recipe for disaster. Still don’t believe me? Okay, how’s this: I just googled “psycho ex-girlfriend” and got 481,000 hits. “Psycho ex-boyfriend,” on the other hand, only generated 275,000. That’s nearly two to one. You can doubt me, but you can’t doubt Google.

So anyway, yeah, girlfriends=crazy. Which is why I’ve never had one. Except that now, I kind of do.

Here’s the thing: living with a teenage girl is like having a psycho ex-girlfriend you can never break up with. Think of the worst girlfriend you (or one of your friends) ever had. The one who slashed your tires. . .or your mother’s tires. . .or your boss’s tires. The one who one minute weepily declared her never-ending love for you, and the next calmly described how she would soon be rejoicing upon hearing the news that you were dead. The one who was needy and distant and clingy and wild and timid and desperate and powerful and controlling and the best and the worst—all in the space of five minutes.

Now imagine what it would be like to have to live with that person for years.

You can’t put this girlfriend’s clothes in a Hefty and leave them on the front porch. You can’t hide out at your buddy’s house while one of your friends goes over and explains to her that, since her name is not on the lease, she has to leave. You can’t even call up her mom and tell her that it’s time she had a talk with her daughter who—by the way—is totally out of control. Because, guess what: you are her mom.

Sometimes I have trouble understanding why I, of all people, am in this situation. After all, haven’t I always done my best to lead a drama-free existence?. True, this has been a matter of self-preservation as much as anything else (having two actors in my immediate family has always meant that there’s been plenty of drama to go around), but still. I have always been the one who tried for the sanguine as opposed to the hot-blooded, the phlegmatic as opposed to the bilious. Unfortunately, once I had a daughter (and allowed her to become a teenager), I went just about as far away from a drama-free life as it’s possible to go and not be featured on reality TV.

Although sometimes I suspect that I actually am being featured on reality TV. How else would you explain the fact that certain innocuous statements on my part (such as “please put your cereal bowl in the–”) are met with such explosive, drama-filled retorts as: “Get off my case! Why do you have to make such a big deal out of everything?” “Why are you freaking out about a bowl? Just chillax,” and, “Why are you so uptight?” (all before I can get out the word “sink”). And then there’s the fact that these explosions are usually followed two seconds later by, “Ugh. Why do we have to live in such a dump?” I mean, there must be hidden cameras, right? And I must have inadvertently said the secret word.

Which, by the way, is apparently “crazy.” I learned this the hard way when I suggested to the teenage girl that she might not be operating at her optimal sanity level, and she, um, went nuts.

Something that, I’m sure, is no surprise to those of you with psycho ex-girlfriend experience—but was definitely news to me.