Stay Sexy & Don't Get Murdered

by Karen Kilgariff

  * It’s goddamn hilarious that geese were presented as a symbol of bucolic farm life. Anyone who’s spent time with actual geese knows what I mean. They are fucking demons. They look sweet and pretty, and it’s easy to mistake them for swans from a distance, but when you approach them, they run at you and hiss and try to bite you with their weird, tiny human teeth. It’s like something out of Pan’s Labyrinth. Stay away.

  * * *

  In this gif, it’s Thanksgiving, so our kitchen is filled with Kilgariff aunts and our old next-door neighbors, the Hospodars. (Their farm had the geese that terrorized my sister and me.) My mom is bustling around the kitchen in her maroon linen separates, her silk neck scarf pushed aside by a dirty dish towel thrown over her shoulder. She’s eavesdropping on the nearest conversation as she’s pulling an appetizer out of the oven, and as she slams the oven door, she yells, “Oh, bullshit, Bob!”

  It brings a tear to my eye when I think of it now, how my mom never gave a single shit about what other people thought. She was a real warrior: sharp and engaging and a natural contrarian. She thought for herself and spoke her mind. She loved to debate, defend underdogs, and lecture everyone on how Ronald Reagan’s policies were gutting the mental health system she’d worked so hard to maintain. As a psychiatric nurse, she understood how complex and difficult some people’s lives could be. She was sensitive and helpful but lived by an overall rule of tough love and uncomfortable honesty. She was truly the queen of fuck politeness.

  My older sister, Laura, is a single mom, and her eyes go wide when she talks about what our mom managed to get done in a day. Putting in twelve to fourteen hours as the head nurse of a psychiatric hospital and then coming home to all of our problems, including what we were having for dinner. Although, to give proper credit, my dad usually cooked. He was a fireman in San Francisco, so he had some serious skills in the kitchen. But when he was on duty, it was up to Pat. To this day, I blame her terrible cooking for my love of dry chicken, Minute Rice, as well as giving up and ordering Chinese food. On the days when my dad was at work, my sister and I could go next door to the Hospodars’ after school. We’d do chores on the farm, then run around in the creek or the back fields until it got dark. We’d watch TV until my mom came to pick us up.

  She’d come in and Aunt Jean and Uncle Steve would pour her a glass of wine, and they’d all sit down and chat. This was what she called Adult Time, which meant we weren’t allowed to bother them. For example, if I came out of the TV room crying because my sister just hit me in the head with a large green ashtray, all the adults would say, “It’s Adult Time!” and I’d have to wait to be comforted until Adult Time was over. It was almost like a civic ordinance they weren’t allowed to break. We always ended up staying for dinner, and afterward, my mom and Aunt Jean would linger for hours around the empty dinner table, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes and cackling together. I think having Aunt Jean next door was the thing that kept my mom sane, and their evening ritual was a very ’70s rudimentary form of self-care.

  Like a lot of kids back then, we were as spoiled as we were ignored. For years, I had a real resentment about having a working mom. Moms with jobs weren’t all that common in our town, and most of our friends’ moms were homemakers. It may have even been frowned upon by some of them that she worked full-time. Luckily, my mom wasn’t concerned with what the frowners thought. Once, when I told her I wanted her to be friends with my best friend’s mom, she replied without looking up from the newspaper, “I already have plenty of friends, honey.” I then started crying, saying that it was unfair to me that she wasn’t like normal moms and that I never had milk and cookies waiting for me after school. She folded a corner of the paper down, looked at me sympathetically, and said, “Karen, you’re being hysterical. You can make cookies anytime you want. You just have to remember to turn the oven off.”

  My mom was tough, and she knew how to take care of business. She’d been an only child with two alcoholic parents, so she learned very early on how to make her own way in the world. She had these highly refined survival skills paired with beauty and a natural charm. Once, she got stopped by a policeman in my hometown while she was on her way to work. She pulled the car over and immediately got out and walked back to the police car in her white nursing uniform. The cop rolled down his window, and she leaned down and said, “Thank you for pulling me over. I understand I was going over the speed limit, but I’m late for work so I really have to go. Keep up the good work.” Then she got back into her car and drove away. Now, I realize this sounds like a family tall tale, but if anyone could do this, it was my mom. She had a couple of things going for her in this situation—first and foremost, she was white. Second of all, the nurse’s uniform gave her a kind of authoritarian angel look that you can see in her picture and it was hard to argue with. (Although I did every chance I got.) Plus, my mom had this lilt in her voice that made you feel like she was sharing an inside joke with only you. That’s the thing about fuck politeness—it’s not about being rude.

  One night when my dad was at work, she took my sister and me to a diner called Lyon’s. It was kinda like a Denny’s but with better chicken strips. On the car ride there, I started to get a headache. By the time we sat down in our booth, my head hurt so bad I had to keep my eyes closed. Like a typical nurse, my mom didn’t carry aspirin or any kind of medicine with her, except a soft pack of Benson & Hedges Lights 100s and some loose Velamints. Normally, when I complained about feeling sick, she’d tell me to drink water and stop pouting, and when I did, I’d feel better because I didn’t have a choice. But this time, she could tell I was hurting. I winced anytime someone dropped their fork, and the idea of a grilled cheese made me gag.

  So when the waitress came, my mom said, “Excuse me, do you have any aspirin or Tylenol that I could buy? My daughter’s head is really hurting her.”

  The waitress made a sympathetic clucking noise and said, “Hold on, let me go check.”

  When she came back, she spoke in a different, sort of formal voice. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re legally not allowed to dispense medicine to our customers.”

  In the same weird formal tone, my mom said, “I understand. Thanks, anyway.”

  I wanted to cry. Now I was going to have to sit through dinner with my head splitting and my mom didn’t even care. I opened my eyes and turned toward her to complain, but as I did, I saw the waitress fold her arms and put her fist out ever so slightly. “Would you like to hear the soups for today?”

  Without breaking eye contact, my mom brushed her hand under the waitress’s fist as she replied, “Absolutely.” The waitress rattled off three soups and then walked away.

  My mom pushed my water glass over to me, placed two aspirin in my hand, and whispered, “Here, honey, take these.”

  Somehow, my mom had scored me Anacin like a British spy! How did she do that? She sensed that the waitress was lying and then caught on to the aspirin handoff like she did it every day? My sister was sitting a foot away, and she missed the entire exchange. They were speaking in code, both knowing what the other one was truly saying. That night, as my headache lifted, I slowly realized that my mom was a fucking badass.

  I’d spent so much time being mad that my mom wasn’t like Marion Cunningham. Or any mom on TV for that matter. She wasn’t sweet. She didn’t make cookies. She was rarely there to ask me how my day was, champ. I thought that meant I was unimportant to her.

  That night, I saw that my mom was of the world and in the world, working to make it a better place. And she was doing it for me. My mom knew stuff, like how to pass drugs in a family diner and not blow it. She knew how to get us what we needed without demanding to see the manager. She spoke a subtle human language that connected her to other people in a real way.

  My mom talked to people everywhere she went, and she laughed a lot. I always thought my mom knew the cashiers at Clothestime because she’d have these sweet, personal conversations with them while they rang up our outfits. She’d be exhausted f
rom work and irritated that I was spending two hours trying to find a dress exactly like Pat Benatar’s in the “Love Is a Battlefield” video. But when I finally gave up and we’d get to the register, my mom always chatted with the cashier. She’d ask how their day had been and really listen to their answer. Usually, the whole encounter would end with both of them laughing and my mom giving the girl a wink. On the way to the car, I’d ask, “Who was that lady?” thinking my mom must’ve known her from town. But she’d always say, “What do you mean, honey? She works there.”

  I have another gif memory of my mom in my head, but it’s a sad one. And it’s not even one of my memories. It’s from a story my sister told me. But I can see it so clearly.

  When the Alzheimer’s had really begun to take hold, my mom spent her days submerged in confusion, constantly anxious and defiant and sometimes embarrassingly childish. She’d pretend to follow along when the rest of us were talking, but when she tried to add something, it’d be disconnected and unnerving. This was the hardest time, when she was not totally gone and yet not there at all. Sometimes she’d say something really mean, and before I could stop myself, I’d respond with an equally shitty remark. Then she’d look surprised and sad and ask me why I was mad at her. It was like she was gaslighting us backward, and it was pure hell. My sister and I finally came up with a code. When one of us was reacting to the crazy things she’d say, the other one would yell, “Swiss cheese!” as a reminder that we were mad at a person whose brain was filled with holes, like Swiss cheese. It helped a little. Like on that one Easter, when she told everyone in a loud voice that she’d never wanted kids. All three of my aunts sitting closest to her began talking at the same time, as if they could somehow cover up my mom’s big reveal with noise and words. I was heartbroken. My sister looked over at me and shrugged. “Hey, Swiss cheese, right?”

  That Christmas, I came home to visit and stayed with my mom while my dad went to play golf. It was maybe five hours total, and it felt like a year. She was crabby and nervous and constantly asking where my father was. The moments dragged on. I told myself to be strong and make the most of the very little time I had left with my very sick mother, but every moment I spent with her proved that she was just an impostor.

  At one point, she told me she needed to take a nap, so I brought her upstairs and helped her get under the covers. Suddenly, she forgot what we were doing and started fighting me. In a weird whiny voice, she said she didn’t want to go to bed. She told me to get away from her and tried to slap me. I couldn’t handle it anymore. I screamed that I was just trying to help her, why did she have to be so awful. She looked confused for a second, then her entire face dropped and she began to stutter an apology, begging me not to be mad at her. It was horrifying.

  By the time my dad got home, I was a total mess. My sister came to get me, and I cried all the way back to her house. When I finally calmed down, I admitted that I’d yelled at Mom and scared her. And then I started crying so hard I thought I was going to throw up. My sister rubbed my back for a bit, and then she told me the story that planted the sad gif memory in my brain. She said, “That same thing happened to me once. Just like that. I was trying to get her into bed and she was being really mean, so I was being mean back, but then I just started crying. It felt so crazy and awful and I was so tired. And then, right in the middle of all of it, Mom grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward her, and I swear to god, she came back. It was normal Mom. She was there. I could see it was her in her eyes. She just looked at me and said in her regular voice, ‘You do know how much I loved both of you, don’t you?’ She came back so she could tell me that. That’s how great our mom was.”

  My mom’s life was a victory. She didn’t suffer fools, even when they were her own children, and she always questioned authority. She wasn’t aggressive or self-righteous; she was just a no-shit gal. She did what she thought was best. She was grateful every day for the life she built, and she tried to share that gratitude with others, in case they weren’t as lucky as she was. She knew how hard life could be, so she celebrated every good moment. And she always had a sparkle in her eye.

  I think part of that was because she knew she could get Alzheimer’s. She was a nurse, she knew it was a hereditary disease, and she was aware that she was on a clock. And that’s true for all of us. We barely get any time on this planet. Do not spend it pleasing other people. Fuck politeness. Live life exactly how you want to live it so you can love the life you make for yourself. Make Pat proud.

  Fuck Politeness: Final Thoughts

  GEORGIA: Why do you think this idea resonated with so many Murderinos?

  KAREN: I think our listeners like the phrase Fuck Politeness because (a) there’s swearing and (b) it’s what everyone wants to do but has been led to believe they’re not allowed to do. We’re giving you the permission to act in your own best interests before considering anyone else’s.

  GEORGIA: What’s the difference between politeness and kindness?

  KAREN: Basically, as long as you weren’t raised by wolves, anyone can be polite. You can hate someone’s guts and still say all the things you’re supposed to say in a civil exchange. Politeness doesn’t require actual humanity. It’s just cultural ritual. Kindness means you actually care and have good intentions toward a person. It means you think about them as much as you think about yourself.

  Politeness is fancy curtains in your front window. Kindness is the home-cooked meal on your dinner table.

  GEORGIA: Fucking politeness can be super awkward and uncomfortable or make you feel like a dick. How do you get over this and do what’s right for you despite that?

  KAREN: Let’s be clear: the idea of fucking politeness isn’t about standing on a corner shouting, “Fuck you!” to anyone passing by. It’s a strategy for when someone tries to invade your space somehow. They started it. They’re the dick here. You’re just fighting fire with fire. You can’t care what a dick thinks about you. They rely on that fear of judgment to keep you in their control. I always think it’s good just to say what you’re thinking aloud. Some guy comes up to you on the street and starts asking you a bunch of personal questions, you can say to him, “Whoa, this is weird behavior. I don’t know you at all. You seem like a predator. Goodbye.” If he gets mad and yells, “Bitch!” at you, that doesn’t mean you’re a bitch. It means you were right.

  art by Haley D. Fischer of Elle.Dot Studio

  2

  SWEET BABY ANGEL

  GEORGIA: We’re all born sweet baby angels. Darling little cooing, farting babies that haven’t got an evil bone or bad intention present. And then life happens to us, and some of us lose that sweet-baby-angel sheen and become harder, badder, and our halos crack or rust.

  A sweet baby angel can be many things:

  •    A person who doesn’t expect bad things to happen to them. They aren’t on the lookout for red flags, and they never think they might get murdered. They don’t read or watch true crime. They aren’t preoccupied with morbid things. They are probably young, innocent, and happy to help strangers with groceries. They act in a way that people should act in an ideal world. Then when a sweet baby angel starts to learn things about violence and cruelty, they become a Murderino.

  •    People who are good at the core. They may know about the worst parts in life, they might even be obsessed with true crime, but they still think the world is worth saving and they want to use their powers of anxiety for good.

  •    An innocent who doesn’t deserve the bad thing that happened to them.

  Karen’s Lecture on Self-Care

  As we begin, picture me dragging a chair across the floor of the imaginary classroom we’re now in together, slamming it down, and sitting in it backward. That’s right, I’m about to relate to you on a deep, mid-’90s, Dangerous Minds level. You might not be ready. I see you crossing your arms and squinching up your face, knowing there’s nothing I can teach you that you haven’t already learned in this accredited junior college w
e call real life. Maybe that’s true. But I’ve already turned my Kangol hat logo-forward so I have no choice but to school you.

  Now I’m writing on the chalkboard. SELF … (it always takes forever when a teacher writes anything on a chalkboard in a movie) … CARE. Hard dot at the end even though a period doesn’t belong there. Then an underline. SELF-CARE. What is it? I believe self-care is a concept Oprah invented after her thyroid exploded and she was forced to take two weeks off. But it’s really taken off as a concept in recent years. How do we treat ourselves in the day to day, and how does that treatment impact our lives? These questions essentially disqualify me from speaking on the subject. Unlike the authors of all the self-care articles I’ve read over the years, I am not a petite young vegan with radiant skin who swears by meditation and ghee. I’ve only driven through Sedona, and I’m literally scared to take a hot yoga class. It just seems too hot. So what could I possibly teach you about self-care?

  This is where I whip the piece of chalk at you and it hits you in the forehead, making you sit up and take notice. I’m going to explain to you how self-care isn’t about you. Long pause. I scan the room with so much self-satisfied staring. That’s right. It ISN’T about you. Cue “Gangsta’s Paradise” as I kick my chair over.

  Now before I explain what I mean, if you’re the rare bird who’s chill and lets things go and is a basically happy person most of the time, you can fuck right on outta this chapter. There’s nothing for you here. Oh, wait! If you put lemon juice on your face, it fades your freckles. Then again, I bet your freckles look really good on you and you know it, and that’s part of why you’re so chill. Again, my words cannot help you. Kindly see your way to the exit of the book.