A field guide to growing up without growing apart
Sometimes it really sucks to have been born female. Despite all the great things about being a girl and all the empowering strides that women have made in the last few decades, a glance through the day’s news is all it takes to convince me […]
So, money. Necessary for so many things in life, but almost always a source of stress and consternation, no matter how much you have. Managing your money or lack thereof is a central part of being in your twenties, so this month the Princesses weighed […]
A couple of weeks ago I posted about my frustrations with my youngest brother, Tweedle-Dum, who has dropped out of college and refuses to talk about anything real in his life. Now let’s return to Tweedle-Dee, the middle child. At least with him the picture is slightly rosier. He’s finishing his junior year, and although he’s had to abandon his high school dream of being an engineer after being slapped in the face with the workload, at least he’s passing his classes and having a good time. He even has a few friends, and a part-time job. Yet Tweedle-Dee is actually the one who has caused me the most sisterly angst over the years. Back in the day he was the one who was a constant disappointment when it came to school, mostly because of mediocre grades and the fact that he couldn’t stay out of trouble—usually caused by his big mouth. You see, Tweedle-Dee is smart; anyone who meets him will admit that much. But, like the title character of a Shakespearean play, he has a fatal flaw. Or two. Or five.
The biggest one is without a doubt his pride. This kid has been arrogant since day one—I’m pretty sure his first words were, “I’m running for President in 2028 because the Democrats will have screwed everything up by then!” He has something close to a photographic memory, which results in him being one of those people who are constantly quoting facts, stats, and words of wisdom at you, whether you like it or not. Care to know the batting averages of every player currently in the Seattle Mariners minor league system? Tweedle-Dee can tell you. Would you like to know the differences among numerous branches of Christian theological thought? Allow Tweedle-Dee to enlighten you. Want to hear someone recite the Presidents in order, analyze the music theory behind your favorite new song (it sucks by the way), or tell you how long the Titanic was in feet, meters, inches, or miles? Tweedle-Dee’s your man.
These skills might make him a good competitor on Jeopardy (which he would love—take that Ken Jennings!) but they don’t help him out any when it comes to making friends and influencing people. Don’t get me wrong, in some ways Tweedle-Dee is my best friend. When we do get to talk, we have a rapport that is like no other, and there are a lot of times I can appreciate my brother’s expertise in these areas. He’s not a bad guy, and he can be very fun to be around. But dare to mention one of those subjects I’ve listed, or any one of a number of others, and prepare for your conversation to die, because Tweedle-Dee is about to talk it to death, often in a very condescending way.
Still, in comparison to our youngest brother, Tweedle-Dee is doing well, and he knows it. So why does the thought of him still cause me angst? Because I know that he could overcome these social handicaps, moderate a few of his views, learn to win people over instead of pissing them off, and be AMAZING. Be the kind of guy who really could run for president in 2028 and actually earn my vote. Yet, he hasn’t, and doesn’t seem likely to anytime soon.
When I hear stories from our mutual friends about “another douch-ey thing Tweedle-Dee said,” it hurts, because I know he’s shooting himself in the foot. There were a lot of years when I viewed my brothers as competitors and was eager to see them self-destruct. I reveled in the fact that school came easily to me and that I always had a group of close friends around me. Yes, back in middle school I laughed when Tweedle-Dee or Tweedle-Dum came home with a C- or a referral to the principal’s office, because their shortcomings made me stand taller. Basically, I was a mean-spirited bully.
But now, all I want is for both of them to be the men I know they could be. I want their quirky personalities to shine, but in a way that people appreciate, not avoid. I desperately want the best for them, not because I don’t like admitting that they have flaws, but because I genuinely, deeply, love them and want them to be happy. I’m not sure when this change in my outlook took place, but I’m glad it did. I just find it ironic and painful that I spent so many years gloating over stuff that didn’t matter, and now when I wish I could help them, build them up, make them better, they’re out of reach. Who knows, maybe if I had been a better sister from the start things would have been very different.
Some of the life milestones in our twenties have to do with fashion, as we mature past the skankier and more foolish choices of our teen and college years. I remember a few years ago wondering when I would begin shopping exclusively in the Misses […]
If you’ve read my previous blogs, you know I moved to the Middle East last year with my husband, shortly after we got married. I’ve been somewhat vague about the exact country, but here’s a big hint: It rhymes with “Naughty Labia.” Anyway, after a […]
I am the older sister to two younger brothers. Let’s call them Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, and yes these are real nicknames my parents sometimes used for them when we were growing up. I haven’t mentioned them much on the blog, most likely because I live so far from them now that they’re not a part of my daily life like they used to be. But also because anytime I talk about them, or even think about them, it causes me a bit of angst.
Both my bros are in college. Well, that used to be true. But the latest development in Cinderslut’s family drama is that my youngest brother, Tweedle-Dum, is dropping out of university after just completing his freshman year. As someone who has always excelled in school, the idea of dropping out of college is anathema to me. I’ve always secretly looked down at the people from my high school who ended up bumming around our home town because they couldn’t cut it in college, but now I am related to one of those depressing townies!
I do realize that this judgmental attitude is wrong. People have strengths in different areas, and not everyone needs to pursue a 4 year degree in order to be successful. In fact, these days I’m less and less a believer in college, seeing as how many people come out with no job prospects and no more direction than they had when they went in. But still, deep inside, I always considered my family an educated family. And educated, to me, meant going to college and getting a degree, preferably with plenty of scholarships and honors tacked on along the way.
So should I cut Tweedle-Dum some slack? Well, you might think so until I tell you a few stories about just how royally this kid screwed himself over in his first and only year of college. First of all, he failed every single class he took the first semester. Every one! Not just Calculus. He failed English 101! As a former English major and current English teacher, even writing those words is painful. Because seriously, who fails English 101? My only hypothesis is that he simply stopped going to class somewhere around week 3, and stopped turning in assignments. And same with his other classes. I can respect someone who tries his best and fails, but I cannot respect someone who completely refuses to try.
Here’s another story: After returning to school after Christmas, he accidentally left all his socks at home, where he had been doing laundry (as all college students are wont to do over the holidays). This put Tweedle-Dum in a predicament. He was now stranded across the state from his clean socks. Solution…go to Wal-Mart and buy some more? Ask my parents to mail them? No. Instead he went sockless all winter, just wearing his slip-on moccasins every day, sans socks. In the snow. You are probably starting to get the picture that my brother is not just academically unmotivated—he’s socially awkward as well. The combination basically ruined what could have been a perfectly fun and successful freshman year.
So now he’s living at home, and though he’s applied for jobs, nothing has panned out yet, most likely because he has zero work experience, and a 0.0 GPA doesn’t exactly impress potential employers, even at McDonalds. What will he do with his life? He doesn’t know. I don’t know. And it’s killing me.
I actually do think this fresh start will be good for Tweedle-Dum, much better than having him continue to wallow in a place that was just not working for him. I’m working on my judgmental nature and my superiority complex, and I’m hopeful that my brother will find the direction he needs in his life, along with supportive friends like the kind I was so blessed to find in college. But the truth is, this development has rocked me, my brother, and my entire family. We’re not entirely sure how to handle it, how to support him best without allowing him to stay stagnant. The saddest part is that I know he feels bad about himself, but I don’t know how to help. I’ve always been close with and had a special place in my heart for Tweedle-Dum—the one who was young and adorable for so many years while Tweedle-Dee was filling the role of “the obnoxious one.” But telling him what I think only backfires now, because he gets defensive and likes to deal with his problems by denying that they exist (like with the socks, and the classes, and the homework). I feel like I’ve done nothing but worry these past few months, even to the point where I had to have the suicide talk with him, because I feared he might be giving up hope on life. Basically, I feel helpless. And I wish I could make it all better. See, angst! Tune in next time to hear my complaints about the middle child, Tweedle-Dee.
I’ve always wanted to be a teacher, and I knew from a young age that meant setting myself up for a lifetime of relatively low wages and under-appreciation. But you don’t go into teaching because you want to make money. Still, when I was offered […]
Fun fact guys, there’s a deadly virus on the loose in the Middle East. And yours truly, Cinderslut, is currently living mere miles from the epicenter of this epidemic. Ok, before you freak out, like my mom would if she knew, perhaps I am overstating […]
Summer is almost here, guys, and I for one am getting really excited. I’m a teacher, so summer means an extended vacation from work, and yes, I’ve been looking forward to those blissful days just as much as my students have for months now. This year I have big plans for my summer, and one item near the top of that list is reading.
Reading, you say? But don’t you get enough of that during the school year, being an English teacher and all? Well, to put it plainly, no.
It goes without saying that I love to read. I mean, why else would I have majored in English and become a high school English teacher? It’s true that I’ve always been a reader and love curling up with a good book, but the problem is—I can’t remember the last time that actually happened. At school this year my students and I only made it through two full-length books amid the hodge-podge of other curricular pursuits: The Crucible and The Things They Carried. And, while I loved reading and discussing those two great works, the sheer amount of work generated by my job left me entirely bereft of extra time to crack open other books.
This is not a new problem for me. In fact, I’d say it’s been about 10 years since I really regularly found the time to read for pleasure. In high school and college my schedule was jam-packed, and the mountains of required reading for school always seemed to get in the way of me working my way through the best-sellers and classics that called to me from bookstore and library shelves. In the year after college I did manage to read books 1-5 of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series, and I’m so glad I did. Shameless plug—they’re awesome, and Snow Whore SERIOUSLY needs to read them. But damn old George hasn’t finished the 6th and 7th books yet, so even that undertaking remains unconcluded. In the meantime I got married, started a Master’s degree, and got my first teaching job. And with that, my pleasure-reading time became as mythical as Westeros and as elusive as a good Martin character who doesn’t die tragically (don’t even get me started on the end of book 5!)
I know you’ve heard this before: teaching is a lot of work and we don’t appreciate our teachers enough and blah blah blah. Well, let me just reiterate it again, because nothing could be more true. I can’t imagine too many jobs that cut into your spare time more than teaching high school English, at least based on my experience this year. I know, I’ll assign them an essay, and how about a couple of worksheets on the side? Sounds like a reasonable week’s work. Flashforward to the end of the week: Mrs. Cinderslut has 100 essays and 200 worksheets to grade over the weekend! Hurrah! You want to know why your high school English teachers always assigned such depressing books? Because they were suicidal!
Ok, perhaps I’m being a tad overdramatic. I love my job, but add to that the fact that most weeks I also have to write an essay or two for my Master’s degree, and you can easily see why I no longer read for fun. There just aren’t enough hours in the day, the week, the month, or the school year. And frankly, that’s sad. Because as an English teacher I know better than anyone the positive effect reading can have on academic achievement and on a person themselves. I cajole, order, and even beg my students to read, but I’m not truly modeling it myself. There’s something wrong with this picture.
The one exception is my nightly tradition of reading out loud with my hubby. Although what that usually looks like is my hubby reading to me while I fall asleep on his chest. At 9 pm. While I love that intimate time together, and we have slowly made our way through some good books, it’s not the same thing as getting hooked on a book and devouring it in a day, or spending hours relaxing with one of your long-time favorites.
The thing that brought this dearth of literature lovin’ to my mind (aside from the summer countdown I’ve had on the board in my class for the last month) was a link I recently saw entitled “65 Books You Need to Read in Your 20s.” Of course, I clicked, only to realize that, to my horror, my twenties are nigh on halfway over, and I have only read ONE of the books on the list (and sadly, it’s not #33). And thus my summer quest to rediscover my inner reader. I’m ready to rack up quite a bill on my kindle and waste away sunny days on the balcony, breathing in the scent of jasmine and sipping coffee. Keep me accountable, fellow Princesses, because I’ve made resolutions like this before and failed to keep them. Hell, maybe I’ll even start with some good ol’ Shakespeare, because despite what The Little Merskank says, I do like him.
Have you ever heard of Manal al-Sharif? Perhaps not, but now you have, and you’ll be better for it. Manal is an example of a normal person who made a courageous choice to defy a social custom she thought was repressive and unjust. The Oslo […]
Travel. Adventure. Spontaneity. Independence. It seems like these are always the things twenty-something’s are yearning for, even if they’ve already settled themselves with a long-term relationship or cushy job. Everyone has that one facebook friend who has joined the Peace Corps or is backpacking through […]
So my parents came to visit. Normally this would not be a momentous occasion, but since I moved out of the country just after my wedding, I never had a chance to set up house somewhere and invite my parents over, until now.
Snow Whore has blogged before about what it’s like to suddenly be the host, catering to your parents’ every need and being exposed to their every opinion about how you do things. Snow Whore’s mom doesn’t like mismatched guest towels or a lack of washcloths. So I was curious to find out what my mother would find to criticize when she visited my house for the first time.
Luckily, if she had complaints (I didn’t provide washcloths either, oops!) she kept them to herself, and we had a great visit overall. But it was still weird. Weird to be the host and have my parents be the guests. Weird to be telling them to help themselves to my food and feel free to use my computer. A complete role reversal.
It has been a year since I moved away, so I’ve had time to establish my own ways of doing things. And I won’t lie, some of the habits I’ve tried hard to cultivate when it comes to housekeeping were inspired by the fact that my parents often failed in these areas. You see, while Snow Whore was raised by an ultra-organized clean freak, I was raised by, well, two people who are an awful lot like me, kind of lazy and laissez faire when it comes to keeping things neat. I will readily admit that my brothers and I did not make it easy for my mom to keep a clean house, but her own tendencies contributed too. She could never keep up with the laundry, and the kitchen never stayed clean for more than 12 hours at a time.
I’ve always been messy myself, so I can’t judge my parents too harshly. But still, there was a part of me that was eager for them to finally visit and see that yes, I was a full-fledged adult capable of running a house. It reminded me of the times when my angsty teenage self would complain about having to do the dishes, but swear up and down that when I was older and had my own house, I’d do them happily.
Well, I wouldn’t say I always do them happily, but I have become pretty consistent about keeping the clutter and chaos to a minimum. I guess having a husband who’s neat and clean by nature helps a lot, too. So they came, they saw, and if they had anything to judge me about, they kept quiet.
It’s kind of silly that I even cared so much about what they thought. After all, we’re family, and we all know each other’s weaknesses and strengths. In a few years when I have kids running around and messing up my house, I’m sure I’ll be happy to have my parents over even if I haven’t cleaned the kitchen in weeks—I’ll need all the help I can get. But now, in my 20’s, I still feel a tinge of that need to prove myself. I guess it’s part of making the transition from childhood to adulthood, and my parents and I are just figuring it all out as we go along.