Smartish

 The other night, after Thanksgiving dinner, my son suggested we all watch a movie.

"Great idea," I said. It's been wonderful having he and his wife here.

And now, so cozy, watching a movie together on a rainy night, full with pie, a roaring fire in the fireplace.

"It's called, 'The Death of Stalin' ", he said.

Wait, what?

"It's a really good movie," he said. 

God, it's exhausting having to pretend to be intellectually curious when my kids come to visit. I really want them to respect me. We read the political articles in The New Yorker, we discuss complicated and erudite issues, I pay attention to the entire Rachel Maddow show.

I have a lot of "Flipping Out" catching up to do when they leave.

"Sure!" I said brightly. "A movie about the death of Stalin? Sounds festive!" 

"It's actually a pretty funny movie," he said.

Okay. Sold. We went downstairs to watch it.

And I loved it. I really did.

But as it turns out, I am a tad under-informed when it comes to things like history. 

More than once, while watching the nefarious deeds of The Committee - particularly when Rykov and Malenkov and Krushchev calmly execute Beria -  I finally said, "Oh, come ON!  No one's gonna believe this crap!"

My son looked at me and sighed, the way one might look at an old tortoise who was stuck on its back. A tortoise you know that once you turn it right-side up, will just tumble over again.

 "This is actual history, Mom," he said gently. He really is kind to me. Remind me to slip him some cash before he leaves this afternoon.

I like to talk about the important things in the world. I like to post my political opinions. I am considered somewhat of an expert political pundit in certain circles. Small circles. Of Facebook friends. Whom I've never met. 

The actual facts of an issue are really more of a garnish, I say. The parsley around my opinion.

My passion for an issue and the dearth of facts I possess about it are probably, roughly, equal. Or quadrilateral. Or intersectional. Or biblioteca. I really have no idea how to graph it. 

My cousin Adam likes to say that our family suffers from Authoritative Voice Syndrome. AVS. We can pontificate about pretty much anything with certainty and conviction that we just pull out of our asses.
And I like to say that we don't suffer from it; we enjoy it.

Hahahah. Adam thinks that is hilarious. Trust me.

It was much easier to be a radical activist in the old days, before I had smart kids, before Google. I could just make up shit and no one corrected me. I was kickass on a soapbox, condemning the war in Vietnam. I was all moxie and Body Shop strawberry shampoo. Not so much with the facts.

Although, thanks to all the soapboxing, we did pull out of Vietnam. Just saying. And you're welcome.

(Note to self: Did we pull out of Vietnam? Are we still there? Ask the kids.)

My point is, I totally get why Trump lies all the time. It's very emboldening. You start to believe you are super smart.

If only Trump had smart and kind kids like I do, to keep him honest. 

You know, like if Vassily had been less like Joseph and a little more like Svetlana.

(Aaron and Zach, was Svetlana a good person? Please get back to me before I post this.)