I went to see David Sedaris the other night at the Peace Center with my husband and our friends. Some of my friends are very familiar with his work, while others just ask, “David Sedaris? He’s that gay writer?” as if being gay defined him or his genre. Last time I checked the Barnes and Noble bookshelves, his work was right out there alongside the heterosexual writers, instead of tucked away in some lurid corner with the books whose jacket photos resemble an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog. I don’t think people would feel as comfortable saying, “Nipsey Russell? He’s that black actor?” or “Jerry Seinfeld? He’s that Jewish comedian?” but they feel somehow that Sedaris being gay goes a long way in explaining his literary appeal.
I almost didn’t make it to the show because my daughter, S, was sick and thus home from school that day. It was the first day back after spring break, which was enhanced this year by the observation of Easter Monday, heretofore only recognized by banks and postal employees, but is now bleeding over into the education system. S woke up at two in the morning with a fever and delusions, causing all of us a great deal of distress. I was already awake due to my own allergy issues and stupidity at following my husband’s advice of popping two Sudafed before bedtime. He and I both tend to forget that we are not the same size or weight and what works for his strong constitution wreaks havoc on my chemically sensitive disposition. So I was up from a fitful bout of sleeplessness when I heard S’s screams and delirium, trying to calm her down enough to shove the ear thermometer with the low battery into her ear canal to get enough of an inaccurate reading to justify a dose of Motrin. She calmed down, after sips of water and pats on her back, and I returned to my night of tossing and turning, punctuated by my cat’s late night affections and the occasional neighboring dog bark.
The next morning, after round two of S’s screaming hallucinations, it was clear she was unwell for school that day and that I would begin day 11 of intense mother-daughter togetherness. Only this time , we enjoyed the added value of illness, meaning we would be spending about as much time in front of the television as the average American, with my intermittent pleas for S to drink more, drink more, just one more sip, don’t you want to get better? We watched The Pink Panther, we watched Oswald the Octopus, and then we watched Enchanted, which caused me to sing my requests for her to drink up rather than merely whine them.
Lucky for me, S was only feverish and lazy, with none of the truly fun signs of illness, like simultaneous puking and shitting, commonly referred to as “two exits, no waiting,” nor did she have green mucus streaming out of her nostrils, a dry hacking smoker’s cough, an unusual rash on her face or hands, nor any other sign that causes a babysitter to turn around before entering the quarantined space and flee for less contaminated air. My friend agreed to come over to babysit, knowing that her exposure to anything life threatening was unlikely, and I went about in my usual whirling dervish way to ensure that the kids’ routine was not too disrupted, which included our eating a home cooked meal together, selecting school clothes for the following day, and lovingly packing a nutritionally balanced lunch to take to school. I was so ready to go, it didn’t matter if it was roller derby, a tractor pull, or the living nativity, I just wanted to be out of my house and away from my kids.
We arrived downtown, found decent and affordable parking, and walked over to the Peace Center to look for our friends. The lobby was packed with more left wing types than are ever assembled in this town in one day. David Sedaris sat at a table, signing books and answering preshow questions while a line of witty liberals snaked its way around the available floor space. We decided to go back outside to wait for our friends, and on our way through the door to the seating area, we ran into some Jewish friends from our temple. “I see the Jews are out to support the gays tonight,” I remarked after greeting them. I also saw my writing friends and some of my mom friends, as if the entire local contents of my address book went out together on a Thursday night.
We finally found our friends and made our way to our seats. I was very excited, because I was the one who got the seats, and for the first time ever, I got box seats. They were the same price as orchestra seats, and I have always wanted to sit there, high and to the right, like Statler and Waldorf on The Muppet Show. Ideally, I would get to make snide comments loudly and heckle the whole time to the delight of the other patrons, but I knew my husband would push me from the box if I did that. He was secretly delighted to have box seats as well, and he leaned over and whispered to me that we were above the riff raff, as if we were going to watch a Barnum freak show and not paying $40 a pop to hear some guy read out of his journal.
We entered the box and imagine my surprise to find that our seats were not together. Unlike the seating in the rest of the theater, which is fixed, the box seats were unattached and on wheels. Two of our four seats were in the front row, which had four seats across, but the middle row had only three seats, leaving the last row with one sad lonely chair. Two women sat in the first row, and two women were seated in the middle row. There were small brass plates indicating the seat numbers on the floor, and it turned out that one of the women in the middle row was in one of our seats. Now, I hate to appear petty, but shit, I didn’t want to sit in the time out chair in the back of the box, so we stood there, looking at our tickets, and then looking at the chairs, and then looking at each other, until finally one of the women got up and moved out of our seat. Our husbands, forever the gentlemen, sat in the front row, and my friend, R, and I moved to the middle. I sat and made small talk with R while scanning the audience for more familiar faces. Why, I don’t know. What was I going to do? Stand up and yell like it was a graduation ceremony? While we talked, the woman seated in the lone chair edged it up slightly. We talked some more, and I overheard her complaining how she couldn’t see anything from that spot tucked in the back. Then she rolled forward a bit more. My friend and I continued to chatter, until the woman’s presence looking over my right shoulder took all my attention. If I had looked in her direction, I am sure her nose would have slammed against my cheek. I leaned forward and asked the husbands if they would like to sit on the same row with us. They agreed, so I offered our seats to the woman next to me and the woman who was supposed to be behind me. “Oh, no, honey,” she drawled, “We couldn’t take y’all’s front row seats,” like we had orchestra pit seats. I insisted, and they quickly arose and switched places with our husbands.
After our pleasantries had been exchanged, we started rolling and scooting the chairs around to bring that lone seat up in line with the other three, which was a tight fit, but comfortable with four people who know and like each other, and infinitely more relaxing than the back seat look-over I had been experiencing. By the time we had our seats arranged snugly, David Sedaris strode onto the stage, took a sip of water, and in his squeaky voice, made time fly.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Just Give Me Ten
I’m not a believer in numerology, but I think a lot, or a lot of nothing, can be defined by a span of ten minutes. I have, right now, ten minutes to write this thing, before I spend ten minutes waiting at the dry cleaners to get the last of my woolen sweaters returned to me, folded in a way I never learned from my short post-college stint at the Gap. Then I have another ten minutes to haul ass to my daughters’ school, where if I am lucky, I will wait less than ten minutes to get out of the car pool line and back on the road to home. It will take us about ten minutes of our drive back to run out of conversation, which usually consists of my asking how lunch was and one of them telling on the other one. We will get home and then spend another ten minutes settling into the afternoon routine, with me running in circles around my kitchen island, unpacking lunch boxes and doing dishes while my daughters alternate their posts in front of the open pantry door and open refrigerator door, looking for that perfect snack. Next we will spend too long doing what is really ten minutes’ worth of homework. Piano practice will follow, where each child spends ten minutes playing when it should be more like 25, but I cover for them each and every week we sit demurely with their suspiciously nice piano teacher. After that, if they are lucky, they will have ten minutes to play, after taking ten minutes to figure out what to play and another ten going to the bathroom and kicking off shoes. We’ll then spend ten minutes getting into ballet clothes, ten minutes driving there, ten minutes back, so I can try to throw fucking tacos together in about ten minutes, which will take us ten minutes to eat and now I have to stop because my ten minutes are up.
I bet it didn’t take ten minutes to read this. Like riding a bike downhill.
I bet it didn’t take ten minutes to read this. Like riding a bike downhill.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Spring Training?
This is my disclaimer. I have permission to write this by my oldest daughter, who for today’s purposes will be known as Esther. Yes, she picked the name. She has allowed me to share this story because she figured not everyone in the whole world would read this. Maybe not the whole world, but certainly her whole world. Don’t tell her that, please.
Esther brought something to my attention recently of which I was blissfully unaware. She is rapidly approaching puberty. I know, I know. She is almost 9 and a half. And things start happening. You know, body parts change. I am just now adjusting to the mood changes that she subjects us to on a daily basis. I thought that would be enough for a month or two, but no, she has to physically mature while she emotionally decompensates. And kids today, they want everything faster, at an earlier age. Cell phones, contact lenses, tattoos. They are in such a hurry to grow up, despite everything we as parents might do to keep them children just a little bit longer.
In short, Esther is starting to get her boobies. Now, we are not talking about a full grown rack. And lucky for all of us, we are not even talking about (blech) breast buds. Yuck. Who wants to talk about that? I feel for all those 10-14 year old girls who are starting to develop, harboring those little walnuts under their t-shirts for all the world to see. Well, maybe I don’t “feel” for them. Maybe I just empathize. I don’t remember getting my boobies when I was a girl. I remember when they were there, however.
One memory in particular stands out. I was ten years old at the time, and I went on a field trip in the fifth grade. I was wearing my dorky teacher’s patrol outfit, which consisted of a white short sleeved button down shirt and pleated navy skirt, complimented by navy knee high socks with a gold tassel on the side. I was proud to be wearing this outfit of honor in public, showing how special I was in the sea of regular kids as we stomped our way through the Jacksonville Coliseum to see some special show that I can’t remember at all. My shirt gapped a bit in the front, but I was certain that my white lightly padded training bra wasn’t visible to my classmates. But Terry, another patrol who had dark curly hair and lips like Tweety Bird’s beak, and who I mistakenly thought was my friend, decided to make sure everyone knew I was wearing a training bra. He spilled his red drink all over my white shirt, which became transparent with a slight pinkish hue, as if I were backlit in the red light district. I was mortified and humiliated, and I had to wear my shirt for the rest of the day, branded with a scarlet letter of Hawaiian punch.
I never did feel proud or excited to have boobs when I was a kid, but I am not Esther, who takes pride in things that cause other girls to run crying to their rooms. She informed me, while standing naked, waiting for the water to warm up for her shower, that she needed to go bra shopping. I asked her what for, and she frowned at me.
“For these,” she said, pointing at her raisin like nipples.
“What about them?”
“Mom,” she said as formally as a naked kid can say, “I am getting my breasts.”
I looked down at them and then quickly looked away. “I don’t see anything.”
“Look closer. One is bigger than the other.”
I didn’t want to inspect them but I looked closer, trying to pretend I was looking at something else, like unusual buttons or maybe gumdrops. But honestly, they looked the same. Like all kid nipples, flat and even and tiny. “They don’t look any different to me,” I said.
“Well, they feel different. They hurt.”
Now, Esther is no fool. She knows that I will act if pain is involved.
“They do?”I asked.
“Yes, they hurt when my t-shirts rub against them, even my nightgown.”
“Well, okay then. We’ll go shopping this week,” I told her, leaving her to inspect her little nubbins privately.
A few days later, we found ourselves at Target. We made a bee-line to the children’s underwear department, and I was shocked at what they had. It wasn’t just a rack of panties, training bras, and undershirts; it was a full blown lingerie department. Children should have a limited selection of undergarment options, consisting of white little girl granny panties, popular cartoon characters in appropriately girlie color combinations, or maybe some days of the week panties with fruits or horses on them. But since all little girl clothing is influenced by illegal sex trade and Britney Spears, underwear for little girls is now whorish enough that if you took a photo of your kid in her undies, you can be guaranteed that the Feds would show up less than an hour after you post it on Snapfish. They have briefs and bikinis and even boy shorts for girls. I didn’t see any thongs, but for all I know, they might have been out. And near where undershirts and camisoles should be, they had, I kid you not, push up bras with little padded cups. I assume that the padding is for nipple coverage and not creating Playboy style cleavage, but I can’t be certain. Esther immediately reached for the push-ups.
“I like these,” she said.
“Like hell,” I told her. “You have to actually have boobies for these. What about these sports bras?” I pointed to a selection of spandex tops that looked just like women’s sports bras, only much, much smaller.
“Too sporty,” she said.
“Look, Esther, you really just need something that is comfortable, that will protect your tender...um...that cuts down on the friction. How about these?”
I held up a plain white cotton bra top that looked more like a half camisole. It was sweet and plain without any under wires or shaping or anything sparkly. “See, Esther, they have some cute ones, with little pink polka dots and, look, a purple one with frogs on it.” Yes, bras for children. Nothing was labeled training bra at all, and I wondered to myself how a single father could navigate this scenario that I could barely handle. Without any more input from me, Esther picked out some cute girlie bras, and we left the store with six small reminders that my daughter is growing up.
She got home and ran upstairs with her bag, to take her bras out and remove all their plastic tags and touch them and organize them. She hung them up in her closet on their little plastic hangers, the same closet where she is unable to hang her jackets or her robe. She put one on immediately and sighed contentedly, as if it was the one thing that completed her.
I don’t know if those bras are really all that comfortable, or if she is pleased that I took her seriously enough to buy her new undergarments. But man, is she proud. Every night, she selects a new one, laying it out with her clothes for the next school day. She tends to have one strap conspicuously showing from the neck of her shirt, in case anyone is unaware of what is going on underneath. And the other night, she even slept in one, since her night gown caused too much rubbing. I guess I should be glad that the idea of something rubbing under her nightgown disturbs her. I know it disturbs me.
Esther brought something to my attention recently of which I was blissfully unaware. She is rapidly approaching puberty. I know, I know. She is almost 9 and a half. And things start happening. You know, body parts change. I am just now adjusting to the mood changes that she subjects us to on a daily basis. I thought that would be enough for a month or two, but no, she has to physically mature while she emotionally decompensates. And kids today, they want everything faster, at an earlier age. Cell phones, contact lenses, tattoos. They are in such a hurry to grow up, despite everything we as parents might do to keep them children just a little bit longer.
In short, Esther is starting to get her boobies. Now, we are not talking about a full grown rack. And lucky for all of us, we are not even talking about (blech) breast buds. Yuck. Who wants to talk about that? I feel for all those 10-14 year old girls who are starting to develop, harboring those little walnuts under their t-shirts for all the world to see. Well, maybe I don’t “feel” for them. Maybe I just empathize. I don’t remember getting my boobies when I was a girl. I remember when they were there, however.
One memory in particular stands out. I was ten years old at the time, and I went on a field trip in the fifth grade. I was wearing my dorky teacher’s patrol outfit, which consisted of a white short sleeved button down shirt and pleated navy skirt, complimented by navy knee high socks with a gold tassel on the side. I was proud to be wearing this outfit of honor in public, showing how special I was in the sea of regular kids as we stomped our way through the Jacksonville Coliseum to see some special show that I can’t remember at all. My shirt gapped a bit in the front, but I was certain that my white lightly padded training bra wasn’t visible to my classmates. But Terry, another patrol who had dark curly hair and lips like Tweety Bird’s beak, and who I mistakenly thought was my friend, decided to make sure everyone knew I was wearing a training bra. He spilled his red drink all over my white shirt, which became transparent with a slight pinkish hue, as if I were backlit in the red light district. I was mortified and humiliated, and I had to wear my shirt for the rest of the day, branded with a scarlet letter of Hawaiian punch.
I never did feel proud or excited to have boobs when I was a kid, but I am not Esther, who takes pride in things that cause other girls to run crying to their rooms. She informed me, while standing naked, waiting for the water to warm up for her shower, that she needed to go bra shopping. I asked her what for, and she frowned at me.
“For these,” she said, pointing at her raisin like nipples.
“What about them?”
“Mom,” she said as formally as a naked kid can say, “I am getting my breasts.”
I looked down at them and then quickly looked away. “I don’t see anything.”
“Look closer. One is bigger than the other.”
I didn’t want to inspect them but I looked closer, trying to pretend I was looking at something else, like unusual buttons or maybe gumdrops. But honestly, they looked the same. Like all kid nipples, flat and even and tiny. “They don’t look any different to me,” I said.
“Well, they feel different. They hurt.”
Now, Esther is no fool. She knows that I will act if pain is involved.
“They do?”I asked.
“Yes, they hurt when my t-shirts rub against them, even my nightgown.”
“Well, okay then. We’ll go shopping this week,” I told her, leaving her to inspect her little nubbins privately.
A few days later, we found ourselves at Target. We made a bee-line to the children’s underwear department, and I was shocked at what they had. It wasn’t just a rack of panties, training bras, and undershirts; it was a full blown lingerie department. Children should have a limited selection of undergarment options, consisting of white little girl granny panties, popular cartoon characters in appropriately girlie color combinations, or maybe some days of the week panties with fruits or horses on them. But since all little girl clothing is influenced by illegal sex trade and Britney Spears, underwear for little girls is now whorish enough that if you took a photo of your kid in her undies, you can be guaranteed that the Feds would show up less than an hour after you post it on Snapfish. They have briefs and bikinis and even boy shorts for girls. I didn’t see any thongs, but for all I know, they might have been out. And near where undershirts and camisoles should be, they had, I kid you not, push up bras with little padded cups. I assume that the padding is for nipple coverage and not creating Playboy style cleavage, but I can’t be certain. Esther immediately reached for the push-ups.
“I like these,” she said.
“Like hell,” I told her. “You have to actually have boobies for these. What about these sports bras?” I pointed to a selection of spandex tops that looked just like women’s sports bras, only much, much smaller.
“Too sporty,” she said.
“Look, Esther, you really just need something that is comfortable, that will protect your tender...um...that cuts down on the friction. How about these?”
I held up a plain white cotton bra top that looked more like a half camisole. It was sweet and plain without any under wires or shaping or anything sparkly. “See, Esther, they have some cute ones, with little pink polka dots and, look, a purple one with frogs on it.” Yes, bras for children. Nothing was labeled training bra at all, and I wondered to myself how a single father could navigate this scenario that I could barely handle. Without any more input from me, Esther picked out some cute girlie bras, and we left the store with six small reminders that my daughter is growing up.
She got home and ran upstairs with her bag, to take her bras out and remove all their plastic tags and touch them and organize them. She hung them up in her closet on their little plastic hangers, the same closet where she is unable to hang her jackets or her robe. She put one on immediately and sighed contentedly, as if it was the one thing that completed her.
I don’t know if those bras are really all that comfortable, or if she is pleased that I took her seriously enough to buy her new undergarments. But man, is she proud. Every night, she selects a new one, laying it out with her clothes for the next school day. She tends to have one strap conspicuously showing from the neck of her shirt, in case anyone is unaware of what is going on underneath. And the other night, she even slept in one, since her night gown caused too much rubbing. I guess I should be glad that the idea of something rubbing under her nightgown disturbs her. I know it disturbs me.
I'm No Kelis
My daughters came home from school today and I offered them a better than usual snack...banana milkshakes. Well, more like one banana milkshake divided between two old plastic kids' meal cups, but still, how special is that? It beats the bowl of dry cereal or "Chicken in a Biskit" crackers I normally force on them. I bet we are the only people in the US of A who even eat "Chicken in a Biskit" crackers, which are sort of like Waverly wafers (the free crackers that come with your salad that your kids steal from you) that have been crop dusted in instant Lipton's Chicken Soup powder (all of the sodium, yet none of the nutritional value of real chicken broth!) But back to the milkshake.
I took a ripe banana from the untouched fruit basket on the counter, located the freezer burned low fat vanilla ice cream hiding in the back of the freezer, and got out the chocolate milk since we finished the skim milk that morning at breakfast. I de-stringed the banana and threw the chunks in the blender, poured in some milk, scooped two big scoops of ice cream with the least amount of ice crystals on top, and squirted some old chocolate syrup on top of it before putting on the lid and blenderizing it.
My kids were so excited. They danced around the kitchen, fighting over who got to press the blender and which straws to use. They got out a ruler and measured to the closest millimeter to make sure they had equal servings, then rushed to the table and sat down to commence slurping.
E was mildly appreciative, but S launched into a slew of compliments, how creamy and rich and chocolaty with just the right hint of banana for health. My favorite compliment, however, was "Who wouldn't want one of Mommy's milkshakes? They are the best ever made." Yes, I almost started singing Kelis's "Milkshake," but I didn't, since I didn't want to hear my 9 and 7 year old walking around later, crooning " My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, damn right, it's better than yours, I can teach you, but I have to charge."
Here is the link, in case you are feeling inspired to make a milkshake yourself. Or just sing about it. Which I am pretty sure has nothing to do with milk shakes at all.
I took a ripe banana from the untouched fruit basket on the counter, located the freezer burned low fat vanilla ice cream hiding in the back of the freezer, and got out the chocolate milk since we finished the skim milk that morning at breakfast. I de-stringed the banana and threw the chunks in the blender, poured in some milk, scooped two big scoops of ice cream with the least amount of ice crystals on top, and squirted some old chocolate syrup on top of it before putting on the lid and blenderizing it.
My kids were so excited. They danced around the kitchen, fighting over who got to press the blender and which straws to use. They got out a ruler and measured to the closest millimeter to make sure they had equal servings, then rushed to the table and sat down to commence slurping.
E was mildly appreciative, but S launched into a slew of compliments, how creamy and rich and chocolaty with just the right hint of banana for health. My favorite compliment, however, was "Who wouldn't want one of Mommy's milkshakes? They are the best ever made." Yes, I almost started singing Kelis's "Milkshake," but I didn't, since I didn't want to hear my 9 and 7 year old walking around later, crooning " My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, damn right, it's better than yours, I can teach you, but I have to charge."
Here is the link, in case you are feeling inspired to make a milkshake yourself. Or just sing about it. Which I am pretty sure has nothing to do with milk shakes at all.
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