I’m an Idiot

I’m becoming an idiot. I’m not sure when the transformation started. I remember graduating from college and having some sort of job that required wearing panty hose, uncomfortable shoes and a long commute, so I must have shown some potential back in the day. Lately, however, I’m noticing more and more going on around me that I don’t understand, and what’s worse is my lack of desire to figure it out.

Miles emailed me a copy of his college term paper the other night. Thanks a bunch, kiddo. If you were trying to illustrate the many ways you’re getting my money’s worth out of the tuition payments that have kept me from updating my wardrobe these last three years, message received loud and clear. Now please cease and desist, you are making me feel like a complete stupid head because I don’t understand any of it and what’s more, I don’t want you to explain it to me. I thought about how everyone in your class probably understood the paper, and that of course so did your professor, and probably all of the professors in that department and the grad students…and then all the other people in other colleges taking that class, and then all the people in the country that already graduated with computer science degrees, and then all the people working at Google and that’s when I realized I’m an idiot.

I know what you’re thinking: “D.Parker, not everyone understands computer science!” and that’s so true! But how many of you know what a “hashtag” is? or how to use Twitter? or what the point of Twitter is?? Is there a point? Do you know what “Pumped Up Kicks” are? I didn’t, even though I was driving around town screaming that song along with the radio on the one station I can listen to because I don’t know how to set the channels. I thought it was a really fancy dance move…a break-dancing, high kick. I would demonstrate it if you could see me. Not that it would be pretty. Well, I was wrong, and had to be corrected by my 13-year-old (a trend that has become all too frequent) who practically wet himself while trying to explain that “pumped up kicks” are merely super cool sneakers. Oh. I guess it makes sense, now, that the guy in the song is trying to shoot somebody over them. Well, I’m lying I don’t see how that makes sense. But please don’t try to explain it to me.

Getting back to music, I have none programmed in my phone, but don’t worry I’ve put that on my Christmas list. And while Santa is at it maybe he will refill the wiper fluid in my car which I used to know how to do, and I’m pretty sure I still could if I could just figure out how to open the hood. I can’t blame the nicest, cutest, sales guy who gave me a tutorial when I bought it, any more than I could blame him for my lack of understanding on using the rear wipers. I’m doing fine without them, thank you very much. I used to have good map skills and was pretty good at navigating my way around, but then GPS ruined it for me. Now my car doesn’t have a GPS and I can barely find my way out of the garage.

When my kids were little I used to help them with their homework, but that was before that “new” math and before they got into serious science with things like “colloids,” and $200 calculators and if I’m spending that much on a calculator, it should be able to answer every question you have about everything, in addition to emptying the dishwasher and taking out the trash. Speaking of calculators, I rarely shop a sale anymore because without one the only discounts I can figure out is 10% off and half price.

I can’t remember anyone’s name, unless it’s something easy like “Mom” or “Dad” so don’t be insulted if I refer to you as “friend,” as I’ve resorted to occasionally calling my kids “son” or “daughter” or “hey you with the penis.” Which has led me to a deeper understanding for Dr. Seuss and his “Thing One” and “Thing Two.” People have told me there are tricks you can play on yourself to help remember people’s names but I can’t remember what that was and please don’t tell me again, I obviously need to save the space in my brain for things like “pouring milk into coffee” which I completely f-ed up this morning when I poured in orange juice instead, and “fabric softener is not the same as detergent” after I “washed” a whole load of laundry yesterday with Downy.

I’d love to continue this rant, as I’m assuming that the writing is good for my brain, but I need to go and do that thing you do with food and a pot and a pan…I think it starts with a “c.” Don’t tell me what it is, I really don’t care.