by Susan Juby
I completely agree, but I worry about my own taste sometimes. I’ll hear a song and think it’s really great, but then find out it’s number one on the charts and have to change my mind. I should probably be able to tell mindless Top 40 from good music if I am going to be a critic.
I had a fairly demoralizing experience a while ago when I was babysitting for this yuppie couple. They were serious chart victims, and after putting their kid to bed, I started checking out their music collection and feeling pretty superior. I knew all the bands!
They even had a Britney Spears CD. I can’t stand her music. I read that she is just a creation that some producer is foisting off on unsuspecting little kids who don’t know any better than to be suspicious of someone who is such a good dancer. I mean, how likely is it that a person with her flexibility and abdomen would also be a good songwriter? She does not appeal to those who, like me, prefer more sophisticated, independent artists, like the Ass Ponys.
Somehow I convinced myself that if I was going to become a music critic, I should probably listen to her album. The kid was asleep, so he wasn’t going to tell anyone that I had been listening to schlock. I now know it was a mistake. A real music critic wouldn’t have done it. I guess I hoped that the record would be so sickeningly manufactured, so blatantly fake, that I would be unable to listen to the whole thing and then I would know that my taste wasn’t as bad as most people’s.
So I put it on. And damned if there weren’t some catchy songs on there. I immediately got that I-feel-moved-I-think-I-want-to-dance feeling. I turned the stereo up and was sort of singing along and everything. I really got into Britney, but in a furtive, porno-reading kind of way. I even taped the whole album so I could listen to it on my headphones so no one could tell what I was listening to.
And it got worse. I put on an album by one of those boy bands. It was filled with stick-in-your-head type songs and really sort of romantic songs. I got all sing-alongy and was even doing a bit of dancing with a pillow.
I really hate myself sometimes.
Anyway, in the end I was sitting on the floor in the middle of a pile of all these mediocre CDs by popular bands. I was having a Top 40 orgy. And worst of all, I was trying to get them all taped so I could keep listening. It was sick, I admit. When Mr. and Mrs. Crappy Music Taste came home and found me like that, I felt pretty embarrassed, like I had been in their liquor cabinet. I guess for them it was mostly an issue of me stealing their blank tapes—which I can understand. They couldn’t really be expected to know that their taste in music was the shameful thing. It didn’t seem like the time to tell them.
It ended with them refusing to pay me and making me give back all their tapes. They didn’t ask me to babysit again. Actually, no one has ever asked me to babysit again. I guess word has gotten around about my music problem.
THE PROBLEM WITH AUBREY
August 20
Aubrey is coming to visit in two days. That means I have to tell my parents. If I was honest, which I am clearly not, I would admit that it’s not just the telling-my-parents thing that has me stressed; it’s the whole boy-I-don’t-even-know-visiting-me-and-staying-the-night thing.
I am not a people person. I could barely cope with coffee. Well, at least Aubrey isn’t used to all kinds of witty conversation out of me.
Does he think we’re going to act like young marrieds or something? Another five-minute session of hand-holding will do me in. And the thought of my family watching all our awkward how-do-you-do’s is just too painful to consider.
I guess I’ll tell my parents tonight. Maybe Linda will catch me on my way home from work and put me out of my misery. I can only pray.
Later
Work wasn’t bad today, I guess. Both Margaret and my mom are always sending me to the back every time there is some little customer complaint. That’s okay, since I find it tiring to monitor all the thieves.
Today I was crouching near the abuse/recovery section trying to see through the shelves to the criminal-looking longhair on the other side who was spending way too much time with Women Who Run with the Wolves. For some reason Mountain Lighthouse Brambleberry has an unusual number of thieves. You can tell them because they behave very strangely, carry giant shoulder bags, and smell like patchouli. My dad suggested that the way the customers look and act “might be a function of being the kinds of people who shop at New Age/secondhand bookstores.” Ha! It’s a function of being up to no good. I read that shrinkage, which is a fancy name for stealing, costs small businesses millions. Not on my turf!
Take my suspect today, for instance. You have to wonder, when the men’s movement section was completely on the other side of the store, what this guy was doing in the women’s psychological archetypes section. He was probably a pervert of some kind. Kneeling, watching him through the bookshelf, I was so focused that I didn’t hear the customer coming up behind me. She didn’t see me, either, because she fell over me, letting out a terrified howl as she went down, and my suspect fled, and all in all it was a bit of a scene. I bet the guy stole the book. I wouldn’t be surprised at all. We should charge the woman who fell over me for it. My mom asked me (quietly) what the hell I was doing, and Margaret laughed and said there was some sorting left to be done in the back. I was just sorry the thief had escaped, and so nervous due to life circumstances that I could hardly keep the Dick Francis pile clear of the Sidney Sheldons after that.
Later
I finally told my parents about Aubrey’s visit, and just as I expected, they were ridiculous. My mother tried to be loving and supportive, but her innately suspicious nature kept creeping in. It was like watching Sybil change personalities. “Oh honey, of course we’d love to have Aubrey stay.” Then, “And where exactly will he stay? Hmmm?” Then, “Oh, I just think it’s wonderful that you’re meeting new friends.” Then, “And his parents don’t mind him staying here? I mean, they don’t know us and he is very young.” And on and on and on.
Dad was all raised eyebrows but didn’t really say anything. So I guess that’s it. Now he’s going to come for sure.
People who date regularly must die young. This kind of stress can’t be good for you. Plus this is going to slow down my Life Goals progress. Unless I add wife and mother to the list. Oh, never mind. I’m too torn up to even worry about going back to school. The stress is unreal. I’m practically bedridden. This visit feels like some kind of arranged marriage. We are like a couple of tribal youngsters sent out to the tent while the photographers from National Geographic watch.
Well, actually, judging by the height of Dad’s eyebrows, we won’t be spending any time in the tent or anywhere else alone, which is just fine with me. I am not a woman! I am not ready for any of the rites of womanhood! I can’t afford to get involved!
August 22
Dad came upstairs this morning with a full itinerary for Aubrey’s visit. He has every single minute of the weekend planned and typed up into a folded and stapled schedule. There is a booklet for each of us and one for Aubrey when he gets here. Dad asked me if I thought he should mail one to Aubrey’s parents. I said I didn’t think it would get there in time. I would be really annoyed at him if I wasn’t so relieved. Not being a big one for having friends, I had no idea what I was going to do with Aubrey, you know, to entertain him.
Mom told Dad that the itinerary was a “masterpiece of compulsiveness.” He said she was just too afraid to face that part of herself that wanted to do the same thing. I once heard Uncle Laird describe my dad’s life as being “a remarkable combination of obsessive busywork and near-catatonic sloth.” At the time my mom asked Uncle Laird where he got his medical degree, but today she seems to be agreeing with the diagnosis. MacGregor reviewed the schedule and said he didn’t think fifteen minutes would be quite enough time for Item 2.3 (Option 1), Hike up to the Twin Falls, but that Item 2.3 (Option 2), Go See Gherkin’s Pottery Studio, might be possible in that time frame, as long as we didn’t get into any conversations with Mrs. Gherkin, who does like to talk.
I don’t care really. I just don’t want to be sent to the womanhood tent.
My stress level is affecting my judgment. Today, for no good reason, I felt annoyed at Corinne and so right before she was due to come in, I hot-boxed the storage room. I lit three sticks of Buddhist Temple Blend incense and closed all the doors and windows. I knew that she had to go back there to get the deposit book. Mom had gone home early and Margaret was busy with customers. No doubt about it, as far as career advancement goes, it was a bad move.
When Corinne went into the back room, she walked into a white cloud of Buddhist Temple Blend smoke. She staggered out, gasping and wheezing, with her huge white plastic-rimmed sunglasses all fogged up. She flung open the front door and ran out onto Main Street coughing and flailing her arms around. Margaret sniffed the incense and told me that I should probably call it a day. So I left out the back door while Margaret hooked up the Envirofan and pointed it at the storage room.
Probably wasn’t the best idea. I have a lot on my mind.
Later
Aubrey is coming any time now. I am just sick.
Earlier today Bob said he was picking up some real feelings of anxiety from me. I guess his first clue was the fact that I was swilling from an economy-size bottle of Pepto-Bismol. He got all therapist on me and wanted to know if I was worried about returning to school. He reassured me again that we’d get through it together. So I told him that made me feel better. Of course it was a total lie, but at least one of us felt more confident.
I wouldn’t want Bob to feel like he wasn’t “having an impact.” He’ll probably never wear anything other than all-black undertaker clothing if he doesn’t have some success in his life. And since I’m going back to school as a favor to him, pretty much, you can’t accuse me of not doing my part.
Later
Well, Aubrey’s here. He’s actually here. He got in at about seven o’clock, and my mother went into this terrible groovy sixties mama meets June Cleaver act. My dad smiled grimly and grabbed Aubrey’s bags and took him down into the basement, where he would be staying.
Everyone was trying to pretend like I have friends—or boyfriends, I guess—come to stay with us all the time. They didn’t know what to do with themselves. I admit I wasn’t clear on how to handle the situation either.
Before my dad had a chance to implement the first item on his itinerary, which wasn’t actually scheduled to begin officially until nine p.m., Aubrey asked me if I wanted to go for a walk.
The second we hit the driveway, Aubrey started to talk. And talk and talk. The drive was okay. It was really great to see me. His parents suck. His favorite Pavement album is Slanted and Enchanted. The other guy in his band won’t rehearse. Is sex something that interests me at all? And on and on.
It wasn’t so bad. I didn’t have to say much because Aubrey wasn’t looking for answers. I almost told him about going back to school after being taught at home for ten years, but I didn’t get an opening. We walked down past the high school and around the civic center, then along the trail by the river. Then we walked home. We held hands.
I think Aubrey might have some kind of mental illness. I mean, he just says and does anything he wants. Whatever happened to being a paralyzed-by-fear teenager? And the weird thing is that Aubrey never really talks about the thing that he is supposedly talking about. Even when he’s talking about something else, it’s really always about him. It’s not that attractive a personality trait. But still, it was nice to hold hands with a boy, guy, whatever, who wears fifties-looking checked shirts and drives a Pacer. It made me feel—oh, never mind. It was just kind of nice.
I realized partway through our walk that Aubrey probably wasn’t going to try to take me to the womanhood tent. He could never stop talking long enough to do anything that physical. I guess that’s a relief. Sort of. And I’ve basically accomplished Life Goal No. 4, the boy-girl-interaction goal. Consider that crossed off. This thing with Aubrey is more than enough boy-girl interaction for me at this stage.
My dad has him down in the basement again. I think they’re discussing music or something. I have this feeling that Aubrey isn’t going to notice when Dad goes into his Mr. Ironic mode. He should count himself lucky.
Later
Thank God that evening is over. It was actually one of the more unpleasant social occasions I have endured, which is really saying something considering some of the Bulkley Valley Lakes District Home School Collective events I’ve attended. We were supposed to have a Family Plus Guest card game, Item 1.2, but all we did was provide a captive audience for Aubrey. Me, my mom and dad, and MacGregor got all of Aubrey’s thoughts on gambling, drugs, prostitution, and other vice squad–type offenses. I have to admit it was pretty boring, even though we’re a new couple and I’m in the he-can-do-no-wrong, rose-colored-glasses stage of our relationship (at least I should be, according to the Cosmo article I read about how to tell if you are dating a psychopath or a stalker). Apparently this beginning part of our relationship is very dangerous and everything because I am so smitten that I am likely to overlook warning signs. Not likely. Unfortunately, I already have a good idea of just what is wrong with Aubrey.
Dad was getting quite nasty by about twelve thirty. He was saying things like “Yes, by all means share with us your thoughts on red-light districts, Aubrey. I’m sure they’ll be as illuminating as your thoughts on corruption on the New Orleans police force from that piece you heard about but didn’t get to see on Sixty Minutes. Please do go ahead.”
Aubrey didn’t notice and I felt embarrassed. I guess that’s what they mean by codependence—when someone else’s behavior makes you feel like an idiot, just because you know him. Leave it to me to go straight to the neurotic part of having a relationship. Judging from the descriptions of codependence I found in the book about detaching from the toxic person in your life that my mom keeps on her bedside table, pretty much everyone is codependent. If you are alive and conscious, you are probably codependent.
The cure, as far as I can tell, is to get “clear boundaries”—you know, the whole “that’s your stuff, not my stuff” approach. If Aubrey’s stupidity is making my skin crawl, I don’t have to take it as some kind of reflection on my taste. I can just practice detachment. It seems to me that being non-codependent could allow a person to hang out with some real idiots and still feel good about herself. In the future if my mother tries to shame me with her disapproval, I will let her know in no uncertain terms that I reject her and all of her codependent baggage. I am Codependent No More.
Even though I’m in a place of healthy detachment and strong boundaries (or is it borders?), I’m still dreading tomorrow. Aubrey’s almost enough to make me miss all those boys who don’t know I’m alive.
August 23
This morning Dad implemented Saturday’s schedule. He personally lasted only half a day before he went home to be in the basement. I guess he finally figured out that Aubrey will never be quiet long enough to get into any kind of teen sex situation. By midafternoon Mom had dropped her Hippie June Cleaver routine and was getting really foul-tempered. I got lots of practice in non-codependence.
After breakfast we went to the taxidermist on the Lake Road to look at the stuffed black bear and other works in progress. Mr. Crenshaw, the taxidermist, was in the middle of stuffing old Mrs. Kribenski’s late chihuahua, Squeak. I find that domestic pets look even more fierce stuffed than wild animals. Old Squeak, with his little overbite and bug eyes, looked especially demonic. I guess the German shepherd from across the street must have got him, because Squeak was bald and cut up. Mrs. Kribenski obviously tried to have the vet save him—you could see the stitches and shave job looked professional. The plastic collar thing they put on dogs so they can’t take out their stitches, that thing that makes dogs look like low-budget Martians, was still sitting beside Squeak on the taxidermy counter. Not much need for a hood now. He can probably be trusted not to hurt himself. I wonder if Mr. Crenshaw is going to take the gritty re
ality approach and have Squeak wear his hood while moldering into eternity. That would really help make him a conversation piece.
Anyway, Aubrey gave us all, even Mr. Crenshaw, a lecture on how taxidermy is bad because when animals are stuffed they lose their dignity or something. Apparently Aubrey read an article about Native spirituality and animal spirits and that kind of thing, and now he thinks he’s one of the world’s foremost experts on animal afterlife. About halfway through Aubrey’s talk, Mr. Crenshaw gave a snort and said he didn’t have “time for this shit.” He stalked away muttering “the goddamn things are dead already, for Christ’s sake.”
Aubrey wasn’t discouraged and after his lecture went and stared into the slightly crossed marble eyes of the moldy old black bear in the front hallway. I think I heard him whisper, “Courage, Brother Bruin,” but I hope not.
Next on the agenda was a trip to the Igloo, Smithers’ dome-shaped natural history museum. Unfortunately, the Igloo is one of the taxidermist’s best customers and is full of stuffed animals. One display had a weasel poised to attack a beaver while an eagle, wings outstretched, looked on. Deep in Native spirituality mode, Aubrey gave the beaver a little scratch under the chin. He asked in a really loud voice, “How would we human vermin feel about the indignity of being stuffed and having our souls trapped on earth?” Dad pointed out that Egyptians used to pay top dollar for just that, then grumbled something about not being able to “take it anymore” and went out to sit in the car.
After we dropped Dad off at home, we went to the fossil beds. As we got out of the car, Aubrey went off on another tirade about honoring the spirits of the fossilized squished bugs and leaves.