Edgy Mama

Hunter S. Thompson is dead. Unbelievable.

I lived in the Aspen area for almost three years. For most of that time I worked at a small school in Woody Creek, located directly next to Hunter’s home (or fortified compound, as he liked to call it). The man I worked most closely with, George, was a close friend and long-time supporter of Hunter’s. There are lots of people in Woody Creek and elsewhere who are reliving their memories of Hunter today. Mine are minimal in comparison, but precious nonetheless.

I was lucky enough to meet Hunter on several occasions. Once I even sat next to him on a barstool at the Woody Creek Tavern and let him blow cigarette smoke at me (before the restaurant smoking ban). Mostly, when I saw Hunter, he just growled in my direction or muttered under his breath. Not that I cared. Just being in proximity to the great man was enough.

Once, I was house-sitting for George, which really was less about caring for his home and more about having an incredible place to throw parties. George’s home has an indoor pool and hot tub situated behind the living area (in addition to an ever-present tapped keg of Flying Dog Ale—see Hunter’s comments on the brew labels). After one such party, I had fallen asleep on the sofa, but was awoken by strange sounds coming from the pool area. I wandered to the edge of the dark pool, only to be met by a stream of garbled invective. I retreated to one of the bedrooms where another teacher was asleep (or passed out).

“Philip, Hunter Thompson is in the pool. He just yelled at me.” Philip rolled his eyes (you woke me up for this?). “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go swim with Hunter.” Philip looked at me. “He just yelled at you? Does he have a woman with him?” “Oh,” I replied. “I did hear another voice.” “Go back to sleep,” commanded Philip. So I did—listening to Hunter’s voice echoing from the enclosed pool–and dreamt that he rode into the living room on a huge black Harley, revving the engine and roaring, outfitted in a Hell’s Angels jacket.

I hope that’s what he’s doing now.

We have invited a dog to become a member of our family. His name is Scout. He is an adult Australian Blue Heeler.

I have not had a dog since college, although I have wanted one, at times desperately. Until recently, I have not been in a situation that would have been fair to put a dog into. From the ages of 22 to 33, I moved approximately every two years—Athens (GA), Atlanta, Athens, London (UK), Aspen, Boston, Asheville—16, yes 16, moves between apartments, houses, and friends’ and relatives’ spare rooms. I prided myself on being able to fit my entire life into my four-door Honda Accord (in London, I fit my entire life into two large suitcases). I loved this lifestyle–and it was no place for a dog. I did have a cat, who had to bunk with my Mom while I lived abroad and in Boston—which I felt incredibly guilty about–although as one of my friends said, “Don’t worry about it. Gatsby gets to live in cat Taj Mahal.” So moving back in with me was probably a bit of a letdown for the poor beastie (particularly since I immediately put him on a diet—feasting and sloth were hallmarks of the cat Taj Mahal lifestyle).

So, now that I have lived in the same town for almost eight years (and only moved three times during that period). Now that I have a fenced-in yard and two kids. Now that I am a compulsive walker in need of a faithful walking companion. Now I can have a dog.

My daughter’s elementary school held a talent show last week. She attends a wonderful experiential public (thank you, thank you, City of Asheville) school that de-emphasizes competition–so there were 76 acts! Although auditions were required to check for family content and time (three minutes max), any child with the gumption to get up there was allowed her moment in the spotlight. And each and every child was incredible. No stage fright as far as I could tell, just boldness, courage, and the conviction that the 300ish audience members would send the love (which we did). As far as Drew and I were concerned, the highlight of the show was an adorable Kindergartener who sang and shook her tush to “Buttercup, baby.” You know–”Why do you build me up, build me up, buttercup, baby, just to let me down, let me down, mess me around.” We were laughing and crying at the same time. Until I had my own kids, I was fairly disinterested in children. Now all it takes is an off-key rendition of “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” sung by two fourth graders to reduce me to mush.

So, what happens in adolescence to rob us of the uninhibited boldness that each and every kid in the talent show shared in spades? Where do we learn to be scared, self-conscious, unsure of ourselves? Is it the natural result of maturity and hormones or a cultural spiritual crushing? And, most importantly, how are Drew and I going to navigate our way through the mire of supporting two people as they grow up? Hmmmm, now I’m scared–time to escape into my fantasy life for a few hours.

When I was helping my three-year-old son get dressed this morning, he picked up his underwear and said, “Look, Mommy, Spongebob Squarepants.” Long pause. “Spongebob is a big cheese.” Long pause. “I don’t know what his friend is.”

“Me either,” I replied, looking at the pink blob who is Spongebob’s friend. “But you’re right, Spongebob does look like a big cheese.”

Of course, certain persons out there have decided that Spongebob is a decadent influence, because he’s (gasp) gay. I think people who feel the need to assign a sexual preference to children’s cartoon characters are the real sickos. Although I must admit being a bit irritated by how difficult it is to find children’s underwear that doesn’t feature cartoon characters (what happened to plain, old tighty whiteys?).

Waiting in the carpool line today, I noticed that the SUV in front of me had a plastic frame around its license plate that read, “Mothering…a proud profession.” I applaud this sentiment. I really do. Yet, I wondered what my reaction would be if the frame read, “Accounting…a proud profession” or “Waste Disposal…a proud profession”? As it was, the license plate frame made me rather sad. I’m a stay-at-home mom and I understand wanting to be taken seriously. But…is this a profession? God, I hope not. And am I proud of what I’m doing? Some days, yes. Other days—days when I’m tired, short-tempered or impatient? No. Yes, raising my kids to the best of my ability is extremely important to me…and I look forward to the day when I am able to juggle both a profession and mothering.