Author: Sheila Quirke

Posted on

I Blame Andy Cohen for the Downfall of Humanity

This is Andy Cohen.  I am certain you know him, even if you don’t recognize him.

You so wacky, Andy! But why, oh why, do you hate humanity so much?
You so wacky, Andy! But why, oh why, do you hate humanity so much?

A nice Midwestern boy who made it big in the Big Apple, he’s adorable, really.  And I’m certain he would make an excellent brunch date.  The thing is, Andy here is shaping America’s pop culture and pandering to the lowest base of our collective junior high unconscious where the girls are mean and calculating and the boys are stupid lunkheads.

As the Executive Vice President of Development and “Talent” at the Bravo cable network, Andy is who we have to thank for the Real Housewives juggernaut.  And here is where I out myself as an avid watcher of the Real Housewives.  I can’t go so far as to call myself a fan, cause that just ain’t true, but, yes, an avid watcher is an accurate description.

I can’t quite pinpoint when my fascination started, but it’s been a few years. I’ve seen the OC, the NJ, the ATL, the NYC, and the BH.  Miami and DC? Snooze.  My favorite joke is that Real Housewives of Schaumburg is just moments away from pre-production.  That is how ubiquitious this franchise is.

And it doesn’t stop with the Real Housewives.  Oh no, it goes on and on.  We can thank Mr. Cohen for these gems, too:

  • Shahs of Sunset – follows the liquor fueled exploits of privileged and entitled Iranians/Persians living in LA.  Oh, yeah, and most of them have anger management issues.
  • Married to Medicine – follows the lives of two Atlanta doctors and four ‘doctors wives’ and uses that term with no irony whatsoever.  Oh, yeah, and most of them have anger management issues.
  • The Millionaire Matchmaker – follows Patti’s Stangers’ dating service exclusive to millionaires and assholes, many with anger management issues.
  • The Rachel Zoe Project – follows the life of an angry celebrity stylist turned fashion designer — it’s bananas!
  • LA Shrinks – follows therapy of the rich and vapid, some with, yes, you guessed it, anger management issues.

Oy.  I lost brain cells just compiling that list.  And, yes, these shows really exist.

Why, Andy?  Why?  You’re smart, personable, charming, have a solid background in news production and crafting some of the most entertaining NPR commentaries on pop culture I can remember.  Why you do us like this?  Your programming is now just leaving a bad taste in my mouth.  I worry you hate women.  I worry you hate middle and working-class folks.  What is with your sick obsession with wealthy people who behave worse that the barbarians on Game of Thrones?

These are honest questions that would make for a fascinating dissertation.

If television, even the “docusoap” format that most of the Bravo shows follow, is meant to be reflective of our larger culture, then, I am sorry, my friends, but we are fucked.  Royally and in loudly colored clothing, often with a peplum and a heaping dose of silicone.

Bravo’s cameras cast a bright light on dysfunction.  The shows feature drugs and alcohol, violence, adultery, divorce, abuse, neglect, deadbeat parents, family drama, bankruptcy, suicide, lawsuits and a laundry list of more sins of the week.  Lots of you might be saying right about now, lighten up, Mary Tyler Mom, it’s entertainment!  All in good fun, you know?  Sheesh, get a life.

When I first got hooked, my daughter was going through cancer treatment and I saw these shows as escape.  Reading took too much effort in the state I was in, so Bravo offered what books could not — mindless, easy, escape. Sigh.  And let me be the first to admit that part of the attraction, I think, was the fact that watching these shows made me feel superior in some way.  I always had the moral high ground, you know?  If news was rough and our daughter was relapsing, I could turn on Bravo and 43 minutes later feel that at least someone had it worse than me.  Even if that someone was wealthy and lived in southern California.  My daughter might be dying of cancer, but at least I wasn’t full of silicone and botox and ignoring my kids while wondering if my husband was having an affair with the bitch who lived in the next sub-division, all while wearing Lululemon in my spinning class, my weave unmoving and strangely perfect.

Yeah, I’m not proud of that.

I still feel the call of Bravo on a sad day.  The programs numb me, which is oddly comforting.  And alarming.  How and why do I find grown women cat fighting and dishing about each other’s philandering husbands or fake breasts or tanking businesses or failing children or foreclosed upon homes comforting?  How?  Why?

And this is where it’s easy to blame Andy Cohen.  He bets on viewers like me.  He caters to our sadness and sense of feeling overwhelmed in the day-to-day.  “You having a bad day, Sweetie?  Sit down, Mama, ” he purrs, “Put your feet up.  Here’s the remote and I’m gonna go get you a Coke and peanut butter egg.”

Oh, Mr. Cohen, you know me too well.  Damn you.  Now where is that Coke?

If you like this and want some more of it, subscribe to get all my email posts.  Here’s how . . .

Type your email address in the box and click the “create subscription” button. My list is completely spam free, and you can opt out at any time.

Posted on

Musings of a New Soccer Mom

My boy has been going through a rough patch as of late.  He is the type of kid that when I tell folks that his behavior has been kind of, sort of challenging in the past few months they look at me like I have two heads. “Not Mary Tyler Son!  It’s not possible!”  Thing is, it is possible, and it is hard as hell, and it hurts, and makes me feel like I am being a bad parent.

NOTE:  For the record, these two reactions to what I am about to write are not welcome here.  If you find yourself having one or both of said reactions, do me a solid and STOP reading.  Reactions that will not be tolerated are:  a) “What a brat!  You need to give that kid some physical discipline!  If you don’t you’re as good as raising a serial killer.  Just sayin’,” and b) “You have no right to discuss your kid’s behavior in such a public forum.  That is cruel and unusual punishment and you are a bad parent.  Just sayin’.”

Whew.  Glad that’s done.

There have been some changes in our boy the past few months.  He is more aggressive, less willing to do as told when told, demanding, etc.  From what I hear, this is typical four year old behavior.  His teacher educated us about the hormonal surges that occur in boys at this age, effectively doubling his testosterone level in a matter of months.  Google confirms.  So, yeah, the kid’s behavior has been challenging and I seem to be getting the brunt of it.

Yesterday was no exception.  It was a beautiful, warm, early Spring day in Chicago.  I was a wee bit excited for Mary Tyler Son to take his very first soccer class.  Yes, yesterday I officially became a Soccer Mom (cue the marketers).  This felt really significant to me as this week marks the week that my boy has outlived his sister.  As of Tuesday, our boy is older than Donna ever got to be.  I feel in my bones that somewhere, this is making Donna really, really happy.  For me, it’s complicated.  While I rejoice in our boy’s health and development — he is reading!  he is writing!  — these are all milestones that Donna never got to and it reminds me in a very concrete way of her loss.

You get where I am going with this?  My sadness over Donna’s death and absence in our lives coupled with the oppression of our boy’s testosterone fueled tantrums makes me a wee bit overwhelmed these days.

Cut to yesterday.  We were driving to the first soccer class of the season.  A momentous occasion, at least in my head.  I can’t burden the boy with the significance of his first soccer class, what it means to his mama, but there we were.  He conked out about ten minutes away from the class.  Snooze City.  I knew that didn’t bode well.  He had expressed some ambivalence about going as he has recently discovered that while he might be the brightest kid he knows, he is not the fastest or most physically nimble.  That is getting him down and he has shed a few tears about it.

When we got there, I woke the boy as gently as possible.  Sure enough, there were tears and protestations and demands to be carried.  I don’t know much, but I know that you don’t want to be carrying your four year old kid, clinging to you for dear life, into his very first soccer class.

We had the coming to Jesus talk — he needed to get it together and quick.  It was time for class, class was starting, we were going to class.  “NOOOOOOOOO!  I am NOT going to class and you can’t make me!”  Well, actually, son, I can.  I kept my calm, told him how this was gonna happen, and started walking.  He followed, but continued to protest, “I WILL NOT PLAY SOCCER!  I WILL SIT THERE AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME PLAY!”  True and hard to argue with that.  I could make him go, but I couldn’t make him play.

When we found the gym, Coach Mike was just starting.  About ten little ones were standing in a circle, ready to rumble.  I did a quick assessment, being our first class and all.  No parents allowed in the gym.  Dammit.  I told my boy I would go in with him and sit at the sidelines.  He refused to go in.  Loudly.  Not wanting to disrupt the class that was just getting ready to start, I pulled the boy aside for another chat.  This was something the boy would have to do on his own.  End of story.  I would be right there, at the door, waiting for him, but I could not go in.  The tears started, he lost his words — this most verbal of boys was reduced to whimpers and sad sounds that a puppy being hit makes.  As stated, he was NOT going to play.

I sat down by the door myself, informing Mary Tyler Son that we would not be leaving.  It was time for soccer and that is where we would be.  It is difficult to set limits with a young child, but setting those limits in the presence of ten other parents that you don’t know whose kids are all cooperating in a way yours is not is harder.  Sigh.  Mary Tyler Son dug his heels in.  He would NOT PLAY.  He upped the ante by starting to play slap me — slapping me, but with no force, just to make a point, it seemed, that he was “hitting” me.  Hitting is a no-no in our home and calls for immediate time outs.

The boy was testing me.

I sat there and took it.  I blocked every slap and returned his slaps with a firm “NO.”  I also quietly, but assertively informed the boy that we would be coming to soccer every Wednesday for the next eight weeks.  Yes, we would.  More cries, more protests, more slaps, more evidence that the boy was hurting about something, but completely overwhelmed and unable to express exactly what.

About twenty minutes into class, Mary Tyler Son told me he would go into class when the soccer balls came out.  The first bit was just spent warming up an running around.  I told him it didn’t work that way.  You can’t choose when you will go in and what you would do — being part of a class means doing as the class does.  He frowned and whimpered again, but inched closer to the door.  He was curious.  This was good.

More inching followed by a swift retreat back to the comfort of my lap followed by head up and more curiosity about what the kids were doing now.

Suddenly, all the kids ran out into the hallway for a drink of water.  Mary Tyler Son turned to me with a bright smile and said, “This is a great time to enter the class!”  YES, I told him, it was.  Coach Mike was welcoming.  The boy ran into class and did his thing.  Wow.  What had just happened?  What changed?

Mary Tyler Son enjoyed the hell out of the rest of the class.  He ran and kicked and smiled and waved.  He was having fun.  Capital ‘F’ Fun.  I was so, so proud of him.  Truth be told, I was proud of me, too.  We had gotten through a really difficult moment together.  I wanted to cut and run, I did.  I wanted to leave that gym and escape the judgmental stares of ten parents whose kids were not struggling.  I wanted to banish screen time for a month because of the humiliation my boy caused me.  But I didn’t.  I sat.  I, too, dug in my heels.

After class, he came running out, “Did you see me?  Did you see me?  I LOVE SOCCER!”  I saw you, honey.  You were magnificent.  About 90% of the cells in my body were distracted by my lost phone, but my boy didn’t care about my lost phone.  And it wasn’t his problem.  We needed to celebrate and be together and enjoy his victory.  Despite me wanting to run to the car to check on a phone that may or may not be there, we went to the park instead.  And we played.  And I forgot about the phone.  I didn’t forget, actually, I just said, “Pffffft.  What can be done?  If it’s gone, it’s gone.”

My phone had been lost and found, and apparently, so had my parenting fortitude.  I am proud of both my boy and I.  It was a tough situation, but ended well.  Sometimes, our kids need to tow the line, but we need to be willing to hold the line.  And neither of those things are easy.

Posted on

Lost and Found: Read This Post If You Need Your Faith Restored in Humanity

I lost my phone yesterday.  I sure did.  In the midst of an epic-ly bad afternoon (more on that tomorrow), I lost my phone.  Had it in my lap in the car and when I got out, that sucker just tumbled onto Lincoln Avenue.  I didn’t realize it at the time, of course.  I worried about it an hour or so later, but was in no position to go looking for a phone that may or may not already be gone.

My phone is like a lifeline to me.  It helps me connect to the things I need to do while I am busy mothering.  I have conducted radio interviews while driving to an aunt’s funeral in Michigan.  I have finalized really important charity decisions while hoping that folks on the other end of my emails, texts, and calls have no idea that I am sitting in a diner eating pancakes with my kid. I document my family life, my mothering life, my Pinterest fails with the camera.  Instagram provides me with photography skills I never thought possible.  I heart my phone.  Too often, I think, certainly Mary Tyler Dad would agree, the phone looks like an extension of my hand.

You get the point.

And yesterday it was gone, lost.  And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.  I was with my boy at his very first soccer class.  Important stuff, yo. He didn’t care about my lost phone.  My panic was not shared and I opted for his joy over my anxiety.  It felt very Zen, actually, the choice to go to the park after soccer class rather than run to the car where the phone might be. And it was a choice.  Because I had backed up my latest photos, I thought everything else could be replaced.  There was an undercurrent of worry at the park, but it was bright and sunny and we were happy outside.

When we got home, though, I made a beeline for our land line.  And yes, we still have a land line.  Cord and everything.

If my corded land line din't tip you off that I am getting older, maybe the bread box or fish oil might convince you.
If my corded land line din’t tip you off that I am getting older, maybe the bread box or fish oil might convince you.

I called my number, one of a very few cell phone numbers I actually remember, and waited.  RING, RING, RING.  A man’s voice picked up on the fourth ring.  “Um, I think you have my phone,” I said breathlessly.  I was expecting to be taunted, or blackmailed, or hung up on.  “I do,” the voice said.  He had found it on Lincoln Avenue, just where I had dropped it while so distracted by my kids and worries.  He had my phone.  Better yet, somehow, I don’t even know how, he had already made arrangements with my husband to pick it up in ten minutes.

WOW.  WOWWWWW, WOWWW, WOW!  WOWZY WOW WOW!

My phone was lost and now it was found.  There were a few moments of nervous jokes about hoping my husband wasn’t walking into an ambush, but they were just jokes.  I was breathing easier.  Life was better.  My phone was found.

I quickly called my husband and asked him to snap a photo of the finder, Brian, his name was.  Please!  I wanted to see the face of the voice and the kind person who had found the phone and taken the time to retrieve it and get it back to me.  And I encouraged Mary Tyler Dad to offer some $ as a thank you.

With phone found and plans made for its return, I got the boy settled and opened up the old lap top.  Clicking on Facebook, I saw that Brian, the phone finder, had left a status as me, “”I found your phone Sheila. Call me or text me at XXX-XXX-XXXX or call your phone if you would like it back.”  Simple as that.  You GOTS to love Facebook!  My friends started texting Brian thank yous and better yet, he returned the texts.  This is a fine, upstanding young man we have here.

Besides having a land line, I also think about kids in their 20s as “kids” and using the phrase “fine, upstanding youngsters” definitely says something about me.  Whatever.  My phone is back and I have this young man to thank.  He didn’t have to stop what he was doing to pick up my phone.  He didn’t have to leave his cell phone number on Facebook to get word out that he had it.  He didn’t have to make it so easy to retrieve.  But he did.  And I am grateful.  And I hope his parents know what a fine job they did.

Brian -- phone finder and as my Dad would say, "A gentleman and a scholar."
Brian — phone finder and as my Dad would say, “A gentleman and a scholar.”

Thank you, Brian!  Honest to goodness, your kind gesture helps me feel better about the world at large.  To be on the receiving end of someone else’s Good Thing, just feels GOOD.

Has something happened to you that restored your faith in humanity?  Tell me about it in the comments.  We could all use a lift every now and then.  

If you like this and want some more of it, subscribe to get all my email posts.  Here’s how . . .

Type your email address in the box and click the “create subscription” button. My list is completely spam free, and you can opt out at any time.