Bald Faced Liar

The following story falls under the category of why does this crap always happen to me?

My friend B and I took our combined four daughters to the movies on Saturday.  After enjoying Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa,  my youngest daughter, S, decided that her two cups of lemonade warranted a stop at the restroom.  (No, this post does not involve poo.) Before we walked in, a bald pre-teen girl entered the bathroom in front of us.  We had just returned from Disney World the day before, where there are more children with rare genetic disorders  and bizarre physical anomalies having their final wishes come true than anywhere else on earth.  So S was very in tune with this bald girl, asking me under her breath what was wrong with her.  I answered that she probably had cancer, which satisfied her curiosity.  S went into a stall and I stood outside of it, waiting for her to finish.

While S was still occupied, the bald girl came out of her stall and looked at me. "I hate to bother you," she said politely to me, "but do you have three quarters I could have?" She looked over her shoulder at the vending machine near the sinks. "Oh, did you start your period?" I asked her. "Do you mind if I have three quarters?" she asked me again, not answering my question. She looked very earnest, so I dug around in my wallet and produced three coins. She thanked me and walked across the restroom to where the machine hung on the wall.

I continued to wait for S to finish, and glanced over at the girl, who was now standing by the machine and looking back at me.  She appeared confused, so I walked up to her and asked if she needed help. "Well, the thing is, I haven't started my period yet, and I don't know how to use tampons," she said shyly.  I looked at the machine.  Lip balm.  Breath freshening drops.  And OB tampons, which require a different level of user participation, but no pads or pantie liners. She looked at me, her face devoid of any eyebrow or lash, her cheeks flushed either from embarrassment or the extraordinary heat in the bathroom.  I couldn't tell if she meant she had not yet gotten her period this month , or periods in general, but I knew there was no way in hell I was teaching some strange kid how to insert a tampon, cancer or no cancer. 

"Have you not started it yet this month?" I asked for clarification.  "Cause if you think you're going to, you can just stuff some wadded up toilet paper in your panties until you get home. If you aren't comfortable with tampons, I mean."  "Oh, I know that," she said. "I just wanted to be prepared in case it happened. But maybe I could get one of those lip balms?" She pointed at the slot for the lip balm, available in a variety of nauseating fruit flavors, an eager smile on her face. My own smile faded. "No.  You should not ask strangers for money to buy lip balm." Really, you don't.  If you don't have money for lip balm, you shop lift it from the CVS.  She silently dropped the quarters back in my open palm and skulked out of the bathroom. 

I turned around to find S washing her hands behind me at the sink.  She had heard the whole thing. "What was that about, Mommy?"  "I have no idea," I answered her, and truthfully,  I didn't. We walked out and found B and the other girls waiting on a bench. "What's up?" B asked me.  "I think I just got scammed by the bald girl," I told her, and related what happened in the bathroom.  Neither of us could tell if she was truly menstrual, too shy to ask her own family for help, or suffering from severely chapped lips due to the chemotherapy.  But I had this feeling that she was using that bald head of hers for sympathy loose change, and I wasn't falling for it.  

I Hate Control Top Panty Hose

In theory, I wanted to go to the Kristallnacht commemoration ceremony tonight. But why schedule it on a Sunday night? It wasn't the actual seventieth anniversary of the Night of Broken Glass tonight, and who wants to leave the comfort of home on the coattails of the weekend? My friend MJ asked me weeks ago to go with her, and I planned to, looking forward to sharing this experience with her. But I was in one those moods this afternoon when you know you should do something but you really don't feel like it. I wanted to see it, but I didn't want to get off the couch. I tried to think of a good excuse to bow out when MJ called to bail on me for reasons beyond her control. Baby sitter failure. She was truly remorseful, and I made the decision to go by myself, way out of my comfort zone, whatever that is.

I dressed in a somber yet tasteful black sweater and black lace skirt. I put on control top panty hose. I flat ironed my curly hair, and I don't even iron my clothes. I kissed my girls and husband good bye and drove to the technical college where the event was held. I don't get out much at night, I don't go to that part of town ever, and I got lost. Which is exactly why I don't leave my comfort zone. Despite my detour, I still made it there twenty minutes early. And even more surprisingly, I found convenient parking, walking toward the auditorium while a stream of people walked past me back to the parking lot.

I called MJ. "Okay, I am here. I got lost but I figured it out." "How did you get lost?" Don't ask me that, I felt stupid enough at it was. "I don't drive anywhere at night! But I made it, and it looks like I missed it, because everyone is leaving." "What do you mean everyone is leaving? Maybe it's more of a drop in and walk through than a sit down." She read me the email again, and it didn't sound like a drop in to me. I hung up and continued walking. A heavy-set woman stopped me before I reached the door and told me it was overcrowded, that they weren't letting anyone else in. She waved a paper at me, and I decided, like the rest of the lambs heading inside, to have someone more official tell me the same thing. An usher stationed at the entrance was happy to do it, intercepting me right at the glass door to let me know that no seats or standing room was left, and the fire marshal said no more people could be admitted. He handed me a paper, a cursory apology from the event committee about rescheduling, overwhelming response, alerting the media, blah blah blah.

I got dressed. I left my house. I drove at night alone, got lost, reoriented myself, and drove to the right place. I found parking. I walked, in heels, from bumfuck lot W to the auditorium. Did I mention I was wearing control top panty hose?? And I couldn't attend the ceremony for the Night of Broken Glass?!? I'll show you a night of broken glass, mother fuckers!

Okay, I didn't. I walked back to my car. I called MJ again to tell her the evening was a bust. She put her usual positive spin on it, commenting about how impressive the turnout was and what a show of community support. I answered, "Jesus Christ, couldn't they even have special seating for the Chosen People? I think the least they could have done is let the Jews in." Seriously, it's not like we have that many in town.

So I didn't commemorate the seventieth anniversary of Kristallnacht tonight. Instead, I went grocery shopping. I got dressed up, with flat ironed hair and motherfucking control top panty hose and drove over 40 minutes round trip go the grocery store that is a mile away from my house. But I guess in a small way I did recognize the Night of Broken Glass. While I walked the aisles pushing my cart, I saw a little girl accidentally knock over two bottles of wine, and they smashed all over the floor. Her mother gave her a very stern look that didn't bode well for when she got home. Does that count?

Is It a Good Thing?

What's up with reality shows these days? Okay, I guess that is a silly question. It's not like most reality shows were ever that great, what with their lack of creativity, story, and intellectual stimulation. Instead, they satisfy America's voyeuristic tendencies while allowing us to feel superior. We no longer have to peep in our neighbor's windows. We can now do it from the comfort of our own reclining couches. The variety of reality shows is endless, meaning there is something for everyone, from kiddies to grandparents to twisted sick fucks. My own tastes fall somewhere in that range, but I have recently discovered a show that blew my mind.


Most of you are familiar with Martha Stewart Living, unless you are busy eating your own toenail clippings and writing your manifesto. Love her or hate her, she is here to stay, and she seems stronger than ever now that she has street cred after her stint in the Big House. But you might not be aware that she has an adult daughter, Alexis, who as far as I can tell makes a living off of being Martha Stewart's daughter. Alexis has taken her career to a new level, from merely being Martha's offspring to public critic.

The other night I was flipping channels when I stumbled across a show called Whatever, Martha on the Fine Living Network, where old how-to shows go to die. The show features Martha's daughter, Alexis, and her friend, Jennifer, making fun of vintage clips of her mother's show. And they aren't nice; they say all the kinds of things you would say too, especially since Martha isn't your mother. They start by making fun of segments, like the guy with his fascinating antique twine collection or Martha's impossible guide to making s'mores, which is more about the quality of the sticks and bundling them with a winsome ribbon than actual marshmallow roasting. When they get around to it, Alexis and Jennifer insult her directly, her clothes and hair and bizarre homemaking fetishes. And if time permits, they go off on topics unrelated to the show entirely, such as nudity in gym locker rooms.

The show appeals to my inner bitch. And really, who doesn't like to make fun of one's mother? But insulting your mother with your friends is one thing, doing it so publicly, even if it is a lesser cable channel, is another. Furthermore, it is more acceptable to insult your mother than to have your friend do it. Isn't there a whole "yo mama" culture that speaks to this very issue? The bizarre part is Martha approves. She is the executive producer, so I suppose as long as Alexis and Jennifer don't compare her to a serial killer or discuss her aging vulva on the air, pretty much anything goes. An interesting mother-daughter dynamic, wouldn't you say?

Hard Working Dog

At my gym, I frequently see an older woman with an assistive device, a dog.  She is not blind, so I assume she has multiple sclerosis or a neurological disorder that causes her to require help.  That help is a butter yellow lab, thick in the middle and solid as an end table. He wears a vest-like harness with a stiff handle on his back, and on both his harness and collar are many warnings to not pet him or distract him since he is a dog at work.

He sits patiently next to the treadmill while the woman walks, exercising the body that is failing her in a way that I can't perceive. When she is through, she stands near a low wall, chatting with a friend.  The dog sits patiently next to her like a husband at the mall, quietly waiting for her to need some assistance.

I pass them while I walk the track, and even though I know I shouldn't, I look him straight in the eye.  He moves his dog eyebrows in greeting, but does not smile because he is working. I want to touch his black nose, plastic and shiny against his thick pale yellow fur. It looks wet, but I bet it is dry and rough. 

I wonder what life is like for him when he is back at her house.  Does he get to take his harness off and unwind, or is his job around the clock for all of his dog years? Does he ever get a chance to be off duty, to happily chew a dried pig's ear or snap at butterflies hovering over a field? Does he sleep on a plaid cushion in front of the fireplace?

And what about his owner? Can she feed him or does he feed himself? Is she able to pour fresh water in his bowl to lap up with his floppy tongue?  Does she scoop up his waste and tie it in a little blue baggy? What happens if he has to go while sitting by her at the bank, the grocery store, or at the gym?

I don't think it would be a bad life for a dog, as some dogs like to feel needed and useful. But this dog looks like he needs the space behind his ears scratched. And knowing that I am not allowed to do it makes me sad for both of us.