Did you enjoy your Valentine’s Day? You know, that Hallmark holiday dedicated to spending too much on greeting cards that no one reads, flowers that will die in a week, and chocolates that no one wants to eat because the Christmas weight has yet to be lost? It is definitely one of those quasi-holidays that I celebrate more out of a sense of obligation than a true belief in whatever it is really about. I don’t really know what St. Valentine did to achieve said sainthood, and does that in fact make it a religious holiday, and what exactly does it have to do with romance love anyway? My kids get all up in the Valentine’s spirit, wanting to know if their father or I want to be their Valentine. To which I say, Ew. No thanks. Incest. Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Statutory rape. Ugh. It doesn’t sound like a happy Valentine’s Day to me.
I suppose it could be argued that the reason anyone gives a crap at all about Valentine’s Day is that Christmas is over and there is not a lot to look forward to for the rest of winter. The groundhog let us down once again, and the next big event is that Irish Catholic holiday dedicated to drinking. Come on, we all know alcohol is a depressant. We are sick of the snow and the cold, and we are fatter and not ready to buy bathing suits. Face it, February sucks.
So instead of pushing off from shore on the nearest ice floe, we put all of our focus on February 14. We have yet to lose those extra winter pounds and would rather be hibernating, but instead, we pretend to be in love. Women actually shave that winter growth off their pasty white legs and squeeze themselves into garishly red, whorish lingerie. Men splash on too much cologne and make reservations for restaurants that don’t even have beer on tap for a meal which will be slapped on an overdrawn credit card and paid off for months way after the last shrimp has been digested.
Wait a minute, that’s not entirely accurate. Some men don’t even realize it’s Valentine’s Day until they stop by the grocery store or the drug stores and have one of those Oh Shit! moments, grabbing the nearest thing they can find that is red or has hearts on it. But I learned last week that you have to be careful what you grab.
On Valentine’s Day, my sister LM and I waited in the check-out line at “Your Valentine’s Headquarters,” the local Kroger grocery store. In addition to the oversized Mylar balloons and hastily arranged red roses with baby’s breath stuffed in cheap vases in front of the check-out area, they had an interesting collection of gift baskets wrapped in cellophane on display along the registers. We saw one basket with chocolates and other gourmet edibles. We saw another with a bath scrubbie, some bubble bath, and a little packet of 3-minute mud masque. And we also saw one with a tube of K-Y Jelly and a box of condoms.
Yes, you read that correctly. They actually had a basket wrapped up with a small bottle of lubricant, a variety pack of Purex condoms (not to be confused with Purell hand gel, which offers a different kind of protection) and a couple of cheap champagne flutes. The only thing missed for the perfect Valentine’s date night was the gift card for Red Lobster and a bottle of Tott’s Brut. For the eternally optimistic, there was a basket also laden with rubbers and lube, but instead of champagne flutes, it held a matched pair of coffee mugs. Because sometimes you want to fall asleep in each other’s arms and hold each other all night long. And sometimes you are counting the minutes before you search for your left shoe and your panties.
My sister and I were beyond delighted by the thoughtfulness of the Kroger Floral Department, which had the foresight to create such romantic gift baskets designed to delight any couple in love, or at least lust. We could imagine how that went down.
Floral Department Manager: Gladys, we need you to make up some gift baskets for Valentine’s Day.
Gladys: Should I get some of them fancy chocolates from the top shelf of the candy aisle?
Manager: Don’t bother, just grab a couple of packs of condoms and put them in these old baskets we have leftover from Easter.
At least Kroger was touting responsibility while promoting fornication. I was impressed those baskets were for sale in Cobb County, Georgia. I began to imagine other baskets they should have considered. Maybe one with a pack of Kleenex, a bottle of Vaseline, and a Star Wars action figure. Or perhaps one with handy wipes, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and an over the counter package of Plan B emergency contraceptive. Or maybe one with a couple of cans of Fancy Feast and a copy of Eat, Pray, Love. A little something for everyone.
Last year, I was at Wal-Mart after Valentine’s Day, and I scanned the clearance table looking for cheap chocolate. They didn't have any good dark chocolate, but they did have some leftover heart shaped candy boxes. They had the standard red and lace trimmed ones, and even a more rustic camouflage patterned one, but my favorite said “Get Er Done” real big on the front. If that didn’t scream romance, I don’t know what does. But honestly, I think Kroger’s love baskets win for creativity and directness. For $16.99, someone was going to have a happy Valentine’s Day. Too bad we only celebrate that kind of special love one day a year.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Renewed Faith
A few weeks ago, my younger daughter, S, became disillusioned with her Magic 8 Ball. I found her tears both ridiculous and heart breaking because it never occurred to me that her toy carried such a burden in answering her questions and concerns. In her eight year old way, however, S has already moved past it, and now she is on to yet another big and powerful force that I don’t feel equipped to explain. God.
I brushed S’s hair after her shower the other night, and she announced happily to me, “I prayed to God in my shower tonight.”
“Really?” I said. “God was in your shower?”
“Mom,” she groaned.
“What did you pray for?” I said, combing her bangs straight. “That is, if you want to tell me.” I was kind of concerned that telling me what she prayed for was the spiritual equivalent of sharing the wish one makes before blowing out the birthday candles. If you tell someone, it might not come true.
“No, I don’t mind. I prayed that tomorrow will be a good day, and that the mean girls in school will be nice to me. And I prayed for Yoko and Moshe (our cats.) And that I get a good night’s sleep.”
“That sounds like good stuff to pray for,” I told her, secretly disappointed that she hadn’t called on God to unleash His Almighty vengeance on the girls that bully her. But, she also prayed for the cats, so that made me happy and cancelled out the other letdown.
“Yes, and I think we should pray together every night as a family,” she went on.
“Every night? Hmmm, I’ll think about it.” Because all I need now is one more thing to do every night.
“Do you think God can hear me praying?” S asked me.
“It doesn’t matter if I think He can hear you. It only matters if you think He can hear you.”
“Well, I think He can. And you know what else?” she asked me.
“No,” I said. “What else?” I was beginning to pray a little myself. Please,
God, make this end.
“I’m going to make God a Valentine’s card, and I’m going to put it on the windowsill. And if He comes and gets it, I’ll know He’s real.” She looked at me with all the pureness and innocence of the young girl she is.
"Sweetie,” I said gently. “I don’t think it works that way. God isn’t like the Tooth Fairy. He doesn’t come in the middle of the night and take stuff.”
“Mom,” S, said, laughing, “that makes God sound like a robber!”
“I suppose it does,” I said. “But I don’t want you to be disappointed when your card is still there in the morning.” It’s all I can do at this point to keep up the charades of the other imaginary characters. I don’t want to have to stand in for God too.
The next day, true to her word, she came home from school with a Valentine’s Day card she had made for God. On the outside was a picture she drew of herself, with cankles, holding God’s whatever God has instead of a hand. On the inside, she drew a picture of God with a red smear on His face, her lips big and red from where she kissed Him. And she wrote, “Happy Valentine’s Day, God, hope you make lots of prayers come true. XOXOX, Love, SB.” I loved the way she drew God’s wispy hairs and how He sort of floats above her like a cloud.
She brought it home, left it on the kitchen counter, and never mentioned it or the need for daily prayer again. Which is fine by me, because I have enough to worry about with cooking dinner and packing lunch and picking out tomorrow’s clothes and folding laundry and reading bedtime stories. I don’t have the energy to be responsible for my child’s spiritual development on a daily basis too.
I brushed S’s hair after her shower the other night, and she announced happily to me, “I prayed to God in my shower tonight.”
“Really?” I said. “God was in your shower?”
“Mom,” she groaned.
“What did you pray for?” I said, combing her bangs straight. “That is, if you want to tell me.” I was kind of concerned that telling me what she prayed for was the spiritual equivalent of sharing the wish one makes before blowing out the birthday candles. If you tell someone, it might not come true.
“No, I don’t mind. I prayed that tomorrow will be a good day, and that the mean girls in school will be nice to me. And I prayed for Yoko and Moshe (our cats.) And that I get a good night’s sleep.”
“That sounds like good stuff to pray for,” I told her, secretly disappointed that she hadn’t called on God to unleash His Almighty vengeance on the girls that bully her. But, she also prayed for the cats, so that made me happy and cancelled out the other letdown.
“Yes, and I think we should pray together every night as a family,” she went on.
“Every night? Hmmm, I’ll think about it.” Because all I need now is one more thing to do every night.
“Do you think God can hear me praying?” S asked me.
“It doesn’t matter if I think He can hear you. It only matters if you think He can hear you.”
“Well, I think He can. And you know what else?” she asked me.
“No,” I said. “What else?” I was beginning to pray a little myself. Please,
God, make this end.
“I’m going to make God a Valentine’s card, and I’m going to put it on the windowsill. And if He comes and gets it, I’ll know He’s real.” She looked at me with all the pureness and innocence of the young girl she is.
"Sweetie,” I said gently. “I don’t think it works that way. God isn’t like the Tooth Fairy. He doesn’t come in the middle of the night and take stuff.”
“Mom,” S, said, laughing, “that makes God sound like a robber!”
“I suppose it does,” I said. “But I don’t want you to be disappointed when your card is still there in the morning.” It’s all I can do at this point to keep up the charades of the other imaginary characters. I don’t want to have to stand in for God too.
The next day, true to her word, she came home from school with a Valentine’s Day card she had made for God. On the outside was a picture she drew of herself, with cankles, holding God’s whatever God has instead of a hand. On the inside, she drew a picture of God with a red smear on His face, her lips big and red from where she kissed Him. And she wrote, “Happy Valentine’s Day, God, hope you make lots of prayers come true. XOXOX, Love, SB.” I loved the way she drew God’s wispy hairs and how He sort of floats above her like a cloud.
She brought it home, left it on the kitchen counter, and never mentioned it or the need for daily prayer again. Which is fine by me, because I have enough to worry about with cooking dinner and packing lunch and picking out tomorrow’s clothes and folding laundry and reading bedtime stories. I don’t have the energy to be responsible for my child’s spiritual development on a daily basis too.
Friday, February 12, 2010
It's Never Too Late for Fruitcake
My ten year old daughter, E, saw her first schizophrenic at the Earth Fare grocery store. Earth Fare is a regional chain of grocery stores offering organic and/or locally grown produce and meats, bulk whole grains and dried beans, vitamins, and other products that are so good for you and the environment that you can’t afford them. They also have a small hot food bar and sandwich counter as well as a seating area where you can dine on food both healthy and bland; it'll make you dream of a Doritos and Miracle Whip sandwich on white bread.
E and I were there to help my friend JR install her art in the small café area, as she had been asked to display her sculptures to enrich the diners’ experience. Well, we didn’t actually help her hang the art work. We entertained Lil JR, JR’s almost two year old toddler, who is surprisingly easy to keep busy as long as she can’t see her mother.
So E and I led Lil JR all around the store, trying to teach her new words and get her to find all the Elmos on the packages of kid-friendly health food. We succeeded in keeping her hands out of the cashew bins, and she only fell once before we decided to grab a pack of cold soy chicken nuggets and brown rice for her from the hot bar and head back to a table for lunch.
JR was busy hanging one of her pieces near a booth where a lone man sat with his laptop on the table. He was talking to her, but I couldn’t hear what he said from where I sat. But it didn’t matter, because I knew he was a nutbag without even speaking to him.
He looked young, about twenty to thirty-five, and he was thin. He had a full beard and wore a dingy knit cap. (Why do schizos always wear hats? To keep the voices from escaping?) At first glance, he looked like a typical granola tree hugger type. Until I saw his eyes, and that’s how I knew. He had that wild look about him.
JR came over to our table and snagged one of Lil JR’s soy chicken nuggets. She then reached across the table to grab another nail and her hammer.
“Schizo?” I asked her.
“Oh yeah. He’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.”
JR went over to another wall and hung more of her work. E leaned over to me, keeping one eye on the loony tune, and said quietly, “What’s a schizo?”
“A schizophrenic,” I said. “He has a serious mental illness. He probably thinks we are all out to get him, and he hears voices. And he needs medication, which from the looks of him he isn’t taking.”
“How can you tell?” E asked.
“Hmmm, well, how to explain? He looks like he’s set up a lot of stuff over there at his table, see?” E looked at the piles of papers next to his two frozen burritos which he had covered in massive amounts of free hot sauce. “See how he has food that he’s not eating? And how he is talking to JR, or to no one? And how he keeps getting up and walking around and then sitting back down? That’s kind of what schizophrenics do.”
“Why is he here?” E asked. “Shouldn’t he be in a mental hospital somewhere? Should we call the police?”
“Nah,” I said. “He’s probably pretty safe, from a distance. He’s here because Earth Fare has free Wi-Fi and as long as he doesn’t bother anyone, they won’t kick him out.”
JR came back over to us for a bite of my sandwich. “We’re just talking about the whacko over there,” I told her.
“That cuckoo clock? What about him?”
“Well, E has never seen one before. So naturally, she has a lot of questions.”
“Here, maybe this will help,” JR said, handing me a piece of paper. It was a full sheet of random words and incomplete sentences. The only thing they had in common was they were put there by a crazy dude. Some words were larger than others, some were in bold type. Certain other words stood out on their own, worlds like globalcide, and CIA/NSA , and Resident Evil Extinction. It that wasn’t bizarre enough, the paper was also covered in orange highlighter, with words circled and web addresses scrawled on the back. None of it made any sense, which delighted me to no end.
When we got home, I looked at a couple of the loco guy’s websites. They were the same kind of ranty incoherent diatribes as the paper he had given JR. You really must see them for yourself. Be sure to check out globalcide.livejournal.com. I promise you won’t be disappointed. And if you’re in my neighborhood, stop by the Earth Fare and check him out before he gets committed. I’m guessing he won’t be available for much longer, so don’t miss your chance.
E and I were there to help my friend JR install her art in the small café area, as she had been asked to display her sculptures to enrich the diners’ experience. Well, we didn’t actually help her hang the art work. We entertained Lil JR, JR’s almost two year old toddler, who is surprisingly easy to keep busy as long as she can’t see her mother.
So E and I led Lil JR all around the store, trying to teach her new words and get her to find all the Elmos on the packages of kid-friendly health food. We succeeded in keeping her hands out of the cashew bins, and she only fell once before we decided to grab a pack of cold soy chicken nuggets and brown rice for her from the hot bar and head back to a table for lunch.
JR was busy hanging one of her pieces near a booth where a lone man sat with his laptop on the table. He was talking to her, but I couldn’t hear what he said from where I sat. But it didn’t matter, because I knew he was a nutbag without even speaking to him.
He looked young, about twenty to thirty-five, and he was thin. He had a full beard and wore a dingy knit cap. (Why do schizos always wear hats? To keep the voices from escaping?) At first glance, he looked like a typical granola tree hugger type. Until I saw his eyes, and that’s how I knew. He had that wild look about him.
JR came over to our table and snagged one of Lil JR’s soy chicken nuggets. She then reached across the table to grab another nail and her hammer.
“Schizo?” I asked her.
“Oh yeah. He’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.”
JR went over to another wall and hung more of her work. E leaned over to me, keeping one eye on the loony tune, and said quietly, “What’s a schizo?”
“A schizophrenic,” I said. “He has a serious mental illness. He probably thinks we are all out to get him, and he hears voices. And he needs medication, which from the looks of him he isn’t taking.”
“How can you tell?” E asked.
“Hmmm, well, how to explain? He looks like he’s set up a lot of stuff over there at his table, see?” E looked at the piles of papers next to his two frozen burritos which he had covered in massive amounts of free hot sauce. “See how he has food that he’s not eating? And how he is talking to JR, or to no one? And how he keeps getting up and walking around and then sitting back down? That’s kind of what schizophrenics do.”
“Why is he here?” E asked. “Shouldn’t he be in a mental hospital somewhere? Should we call the police?”
“Nah,” I said. “He’s probably pretty safe, from a distance. He’s here because Earth Fare has free Wi-Fi and as long as he doesn’t bother anyone, they won’t kick him out.”
JR came back over to us for a bite of my sandwich. “We’re just talking about the whacko over there,” I told her.
“That cuckoo clock? What about him?”
“Well, E has never seen one before. So naturally, she has a lot of questions.”
“Here, maybe this will help,” JR said, handing me a piece of paper. It was a full sheet of random words and incomplete sentences. The only thing they had in common was they were put there by a crazy dude. Some words were larger than others, some were in bold type. Certain other words stood out on their own, worlds like globalcide, and CIA/NSA , and Resident Evil Extinction. It that wasn’t bizarre enough, the paper was also covered in orange highlighter, with words circled and web addresses scrawled on the back. None of it made any sense, which delighted me to no end.
When we got home, I looked at a couple of the loco guy’s websites. They were the same kind of ranty incoherent diatribes as the paper he had given JR. You really must see them for yourself. Be sure to check out globalcide.livejournal.com. I promise you won’t be disappointed. And if you’re in my neighborhood, stop by the Earth Fare and check him out before he gets committed. I’m guessing he won’t be available for much longer, so don’t miss your chance.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Dirty Penis
Just because you loved Seinfeld doesn’t make you an honorary Jew. For some people in America, watching Seinfeld was the closest they have ever come to having a real Jewish person in their home. They got their first taste of Jewish culture and mannerisms, only it was disguised as NYC culture and mannerisms. Perhaps they don’t realize that a large percentage of their favorite actors, comedians, musicians, and other entertainers (except for the sports gods) are Jewish. What made Seinfeld different was its openness about Jewish experiences. Elaine missing the last chocolate babka? Look to the Black and White cookie? Jerry’s parents being South Florida residents? The sitcom didn’t have to show men in full beards and long black coats davening to get the point across.
I don’t know if Seinfeld is responsible for making Yiddish part of everyday language, but it certainly had to do with how it became so mainstream. Suddenly, everyone could call their boss a putz or utter oy and it was all good. But seriously, how many people even know what they are saying? Some might think they have an idea, but if asked directly, they could not give a definitive answer as to what oy vey actually means.
It may seem like I’m kvetching, but I’m not. Mostly, I’m amused, and here’s why.
The other day, I was in line at a store behind a woman and her son. He had a smudge of something on his cheek. She rubbed the side of his face and said, “Come here, you’ve got a little schmuck on your face.”
How delightful! I probably grinned like an idiot, fighting every impulse to interject. This is what I wanted to say:
“Excuse me, Ma’am, but I think you meant to say he has a little schmutz on his face. Having a little schmuck on your face means something very different than what you think it does. If he had schmuck on his face, you would need to call Child Protective Services and swab him for a DNA sample.”
But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know if she made a one-time slip or if she habitually uses the word schmuck incorrectly. Maybe she says it at the dry cleaners: “Try to get that schmuck out of the back of my dress, please.” Or after someone tracks mud in the house from the yard: “Who got schmuck all over my clean floors?” All I know is, it didn’t seem like a slip an actual Jew would make. We pretty much know our schmucks from our schmutz.
I kept hoping an alarm would go off, only instead of a siren, it would be the blast of a shofar. Then a minyan would step from behind the display of canned pork and beans and approach her.
"Excuse me, ma'am, but you'll have to come with us. You have just misused Yiddish in a public place."
"But where are you taking me?"
"Downtown, to the mikvah. There you will be properly cleansed and infected with a mild rhinovirus that will produce enough mucus in the back of your throat to make the 'ch' sound correctly."
And just FYI, oy vey means woe is me, frequent expression of mild anguish. It sounds way cooler than everyone walking around spouting “woe is me” every five seconds, doesn’t it?
I don’t know if Seinfeld is responsible for making Yiddish part of everyday language, but it certainly had to do with how it became so mainstream. Suddenly, everyone could call their boss a putz or utter oy and it was all good. But seriously, how many people even know what they are saying? Some might think they have an idea, but if asked directly, they could not give a definitive answer as to what oy vey actually means.
It may seem like I’m kvetching, but I’m not. Mostly, I’m amused, and here’s why.
The other day, I was in line at a store behind a woman and her son. He had a smudge of something on his cheek. She rubbed the side of his face and said, “Come here, you’ve got a little schmuck on your face.”
How delightful! I probably grinned like an idiot, fighting every impulse to interject. This is what I wanted to say:
“Excuse me, Ma’am, but I think you meant to say he has a little schmutz on his face. Having a little schmuck on your face means something very different than what you think it does. If he had schmuck on his face, you would need to call Child Protective Services and swab him for a DNA sample.”
But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know if she made a one-time slip or if she habitually uses the word schmuck incorrectly. Maybe she says it at the dry cleaners: “Try to get that schmuck out of the back of my dress, please.” Or after someone tracks mud in the house from the yard: “Who got schmuck all over my clean floors?” All I know is, it didn’t seem like a slip an actual Jew would make. We pretty much know our schmucks from our schmutz.
I kept hoping an alarm would go off, only instead of a siren, it would be the blast of a shofar. Then a minyan would step from behind the display of canned pork and beans and approach her.
"Excuse me, ma'am, but you'll have to come with us. You have just misused Yiddish in a public place."
"But where are you taking me?"
"Downtown, to the mikvah. There you will be properly cleansed and infected with a mild rhinovirus that will produce enough mucus in the back of your throat to make the 'ch' sound correctly."
And just FYI, oy vey means woe is me, frequent expression of mild anguish. It sounds way cooler than everyone walking around spouting “woe is me” every five seconds, doesn’t it?
Friday, February 5, 2010
Everybody's Doing It
My friend JR and I took our kids to the zoo a few weeks ago, an excellent way to kill a morning. I love going to the zoo because there is always something so horrifyingly funny to see; the animal world never disappoints me. At our zoo, I have seen a squirrel monkey masturbate furiously on one occasion and fling its poop on another. I have almost been sprayed by both a tiger and an ocelot. I have seen more than my fair share of flaccid monkey penises. And who could forget the great Elephant Trunking of 2009?
Since JR is also a fan of the truly disgusting, she makes a perfect zoo companion. Her own home is a hotbed of the truly disgusting, and she know however gross it is, she can always call me and share it, because I too will be delighted. Why, just the other day, her big old dog ate the feces of one of her tiny dog’s, which didn’t agree with her, as she then threw it up on the back porch. Poop is gross. Vomit is gross. But poop vomit? Comedy genius.
We arrived at the zoo with our combined three children and walked over to the elephant enclosure, the first exhibit past the ticket booth. One of the elephants must have recognized us from previous visits, because the first thing she did was take a huge steaming dump right in front of us. JR turned to Lil JR and said, “See, the elephants makes a poop. Just like you make a poop, and Mommy makes a poop, and Daddy makes a poop.”
“Have you seen that book, Everyone Poops?” I asked. “’He wipes himself with paper, and put it in the toilet,’” I quoted from the book.
“No, but we need it,” said JR. “I thought Lil JR might be ready for potty training, so one day when she seemed like she needed to go, we sat her on the potty seat and she did it. But when she saw her turd in the bowl, it freaked her out, and now we can’t get her to try again.”
“Ha,” I said.
“I know, right? So, now every time we go to the bathroom, we call Lil JR in to take a look so she can see everyone does it and it’s normal.”
“Like desensitization therapy?” I pointed out.
“Exactly,” JR said. “Amy does it. S does it. E does it,” she said to Lil JR.
S giggled. E said, “I’m not showing it to her.”
“Oh, come on, be a sport,” I said. “You’ll be helping her learn a very important life skill.” E gave me the stink eye.
“Did you ever see that episode of South Park when Stan’s father makes the best poop ever and shows it to everyone? I think he even tries for a world record,” I asked JR.
“Nope, I haven’t seen it,” JR said.
“Well, I have this feeling most guys are like that. They make this masterpiece and want to share it with the world. And now your husband has the perfect excuse!”
JR’s husband, MR, share her affinity for grossness. They are my kind of people.
“I can see him now,” I said. “Oh, Lil JR, come here, I want to show you something. Daddy makes a poop!” I suspect that MR has been waiting a lifetime for an opportunity like this. “You know,” I went on, “there’s a companion book to the poop one called The Gas We Pass. It’s all about farting.”
“That’s not as much of an issue,” JR said.
“Nothing traumatic about a fart?” I asked.
“Not yet,” JR said.
Lil JR has not shown any further interest in toilet training, but she has shown quite a bit of interest in poop in general. JR now spends most of her free time collecting dog waste in the back yard, a job once done primarily by her husband, now that Lil JR’s hobby is pointing it out to her. “Poop,” she yells, pointing to a pile of dog crap. “Poop!” She screams, finding another pile. JR runs around behind her, picking up little dog turds like a squirrel gathering nuts for winter.
I suspect this is just the beginning of Lil JR’s love of potty humor, if not love for the potty itself.
Since JR is also a fan of the truly disgusting, she makes a perfect zoo companion. Her own home is a hotbed of the truly disgusting, and she know however gross it is, she can always call me and share it, because I too will be delighted. Why, just the other day, her big old dog ate the feces of one of her tiny dog’s, which didn’t agree with her, as she then threw it up on the back porch. Poop is gross. Vomit is gross. But poop vomit? Comedy genius.
We arrived at the zoo with our combined three children and walked over to the elephant enclosure, the first exhibit past the ticket booth. One of the elephants must have recognized us from previous visits, because the first thing she did was take a huge steaming dump right in front of us. JR turned to Lil JR and said, “See, the elephants makes a poop. Just like you make a poop, and Mommy makes a poop, and Daddy makes a poop.”
“Have you seen that book, Everyone Poops?” I asked. “’He wipes himself with paper, and put it in the toilet,’” I quoted from the book.
“No, but we need it,” said JR. “I thought Lil JR might be ready for potty training, so one day when she seemed like she needed to go, we sat her on the potty seat and she did it. But when she saw her turd in the bowl, it freaked her out, and now we can’t get her to try again.”
“Ha,” I said.
“I know, right? So, now every time we go to the bathroom, we call Lil JR in to take a look so she can see everyone does it and it’s normal.”
“Like desensitization therapy?” I pointed out.
“Exactly,” JR said. “Amy does it. S does it. E does it,” she said to Lil JR.
S giggled. E said, “I’m not showing it to her.”
“Oh, come on, be a sport,” I said. “You’ll be helping her learn a very important life skill.” E gave me the stink eye.
“Did you ever see that episode of South Park when Stan’s father makes the best poop ever and shows it to everyone? I think he even tries for a world record,” I asked JR.
“Nope, I haven’t seen it,” JR said.
“Well, I have this feeling most guys are like that. They make this masterpiece and want to share it with the world. And now your husband has the perfect excuse!”
JR’s husband, MR, share her affinity for grossness. They are my kind of people.
“I can see him now,” I said. “Oh, Lil JR, come here, I want to show you something. Daddy makes a poop!” I suspect that MR has been waiting a lifetime for an opportunity like this. “You know,” I went on, “there’s a companion book to the poop one called The Gas We Pass. It’s all about farting.”
“That’s not as much of an issue,” JR said.
“Nothing traumatic about a fart?” I asked.
“Not yet,” JR said.
Lil JR has not shown any further interest in toilet training, but she has shown quite a bit of interest in poop in general. JR now spends most of her free time collecting dog waste in the back yard, a job once done primarily by her husband, now that Lil JR’s hobby is pointing it out to her. “Poop,” she yells, pointing to a pile of dog crap. “Poop!” She screams, finding another pile. JR runs around behind her, picking up little dog turds like a squirrel gathering nuts for winter.
I suspect this is just the beginning of Lil JR’s love of potty humor, if not love for the potty itself.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The Magic's Gone
Think back, if you can, to a time when you were a child and you believed in magic. The world was filled with possibilities. Maybe there really was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, protected by an actual living leprechaun. Maybe that was the real Mickey Mouse and not some acne crusted kid sweating inside a giant head. Maybe your mother’s kisses could make a boo-boo all better. It was a time of life ruled by blind faith and trust. You didn’t know much about the bad things that happened in the rest of the world, only about the peace and comfort of your own home. And you believed the things that people told you, especially your parents. What reason would they have to lie to you?
Okay, remember that safe feeling? Now, remember when you found out it was all a lie? The shock, disappointment, and anger to discover that none of it was true, that you believed in something that seemed so real yet everyone but you knew was a big fat fairy tale? It was probably the first time you realized your parents were part of a giant conspiracy to control your behavior and beliefs. When that happened, a little piece of your childhood died, never to be with you again. What brought you comfort and joy was now a crushing disappointment, the first in a series of harsh realities that we all experience on our journey from happy childhood filled with blissful ignorance to cynical adulthood, wary and distrusting.
We all go through it, and it is horrible when we learn the truth about the magic of childhood. I found out the Tooth Fairy wasn’t real early on in my tooth losing years. One night, I put my baby tooth on the nightstand on a piece of paper with a circle drawn around it so the Tooth Fairy couldn’t miss it. The next morning, I awoke to my lonely tooth still inside its circle, blood dried on the rough end, no shiny quarter in its place. And I thought, well that sucks. What else are they lying about?
In my house, my children are still in their magic years. While they might have expressed doubt about the mall Santa, come Christmas morning, surrounded by all sorts of toys and goodies their hearts desired, they are again true believers. They wake up Easter morning to an overflowing basket, further evidence of the validity of the Easter Bunny. It never occurred to them that we are Jewish and shouldn’t be celebrating either holiday; the very fact that they get both Christmas and Easter gifts is clear proof that Santa and the Easter Bunny are real. But last week, S, my youngest daughter, experienced a loss of faith in the unlikeliest of ways. She was disillusioned by her Magic 8 Ball.
S came downstairs crying one night last week. “What’s wrong?” I asked her. “Why aren’t you getting ready for bed? You are supposed to be in the shower.” She didn’t cry like she was in pain, so I waited for the drama to unfold.
“I was upstairs, getting ready for my shower,” she sniffled, “and I asked my Magic 8 Ball if tomorrow was going to be a good day, and it said yes.”
Oh Lord, I thought, here we go. I tried not to roll my eyes.
“And then I asked it if ballet was going to be fun, and it said yes.”
“Do you always ask your Magic 8 Ball questions when you should be in the shower?” I asked.
She ignored my question and continued. “And then I asked it if AH (a bully in her class) was going to be mean to me, and that’s when I saw it wasn’t magic at all. It’s just a cube with words on it floating in some liquid.” She threw her arms around my neck and sobbed.
“Well, of course it has words on it, how else can it answer you when you ask it a question.” I tried to comfort her by rubbing her back and by not laughing.
“But it gave me the same answer three times in a row. Like it’s stuck on the yes. There’s no magic in there.”
S sensed that I was not appropriately shocked, so she went to her father and tried all over again, crying harder to up the sympathy factor. It didn’t work. He told her it was just a toy anyway, just for fun.
“What’s fun about a dumb old ball with a floating cube of lies?” she wailed.
What indeed. Although, up to this point, it did provide a sense of believable magic, that soothsaying billiard ball which has sold millions for decades. In reality, it does nothing but take up room on a book shelf or desk top. Oh yeah, and disillusion kids. A Magic 8 Ball has the same level of legitimacy as a newspaper horoscope or a fortune cookie, which is where grownups go for a little direction in life. They too are not magic, but they can be fun, if you find papers baked in oddly folded cookies fun.
S’s strong reaction surprised and frightened me. It never dawned on me that she would trust her Magic 8 Ball in earnest. The thought of her or her sister learning the truth about other childhood magical heroes scares the crap out of me. The day she no longer believes in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy, the trifecta of magical beings, is the day she might also no longer believe in me.
When I asked her Magic 8 Ball is that was going to happen, the answer was yes. Maybe I should just get her a new one, one that hasn’t lost all its magic.
Okay, remember that safe feeling? Now, remember when you found out it was all a lie? The shock, disappointment, and anger to discover that none of it was true, that you believed in something that seemed so real yet everyone but you knew was a big fat fairy tale? It was probably the first time you realized your parents were part of a giant conspiracy to control your behavior and beliefs. When that happened, a little piece of your childhood died, never to be with you again. What brought you comfort and joy was now a crushing disappointment, the first in a series of harsh realities that we all experience on our journey from happy childhood filled with blissful ignorance to cynical adulthood, wary and distrusting.
We all go through it, and it is horrible when we learn the truth about the magic of childhood. I found out the Tooth Fairy wasn’t real early on in my tooth losing years. One night, I put my baby tooth on the nightstand on a piece of paper with a circle drawn around it so the Tooth Fairy couldn’t miss it. The next morning, I awoke to my lonely tooth still inside its circle, blood dried on the rough end, no shiny quarter in its place. And I thought, well that sucks. What else are they lying about?
In my house, my children are still in their magic years. While they might have expressed doubt about the mall Santa, come Christmas morning, surrounded by all sorts of toys and goodies their hearts desired, they are again true believers. They wake up Easter morning to an overflowing basket, further evidence of the validity of the Easter Bunny. It never occurred to them that we are Jewish and shouldn’t be celebrating either holiday; the very fact that they get both Christmas and Easter gifts is clear proof that Santa and the Easter Bunny are real. But last week, S, my youngest daughter, experienced a loss of faith in the unlikeliest of ways. She was disillusioned by her Magic 8 Ball.
S came downstairs crying one night last week. “What’s wrong?” I asked her. “Why aren’t you getting ready for bed? You are supposed to be in the shower.” She didn’t cry like she was in pain, so I waited for the drama to unfold.
“I was upstairs, getting ready for my shower,” she sniffled, “and I asked my Magic 8 Ball if tomorrow was going to be a good day, and it said yes.”
Oh Lord, I thought, here we go. I tried not to roll my eyes.
“And then I asked it if ballet was going to be fun, and it said yes.”
“Do you always ask your Magic 8 Ball questions when you should be in the shower?” I asked.
She ignored my question and continued. “And then I asked it if AH (a bully in her class) was going to be mean to me, and that’s when I saw it wasn’t magic at all. It’s just a cube with words on it floating in some liquid.” She threw her arms around my neck and sobbed.
“Well, of course it has words on it, how else can it answer you when you ask it a question.” I tried to comfort her by rubbing her back and by not laughing.
“But it gave me the same answer three times in a row. Like it’s stuck on the yes. There’s no magic in there.”
S sensed that I was not appropriately shocked, so she went to her father and tried all over again, crying harder to up the sympathy factor. It didn’t work. He told her it was just a toy anyway, just for fun.
“What’s fun about a dumb old ball with a floating cube of lies?” she wailed.
What indeed. Although, up to this point, it did provide a sense of believable magic, that soothsaying billiard ball which has sold millions for decades. In reality, it does nothing but take up room on a book shelf or desk top. Oh yeah, and disillusion kids. A Magic 8 Ball has the same level of legitimacy as a newspaper horoscope or a fortune cookie, which is where grownups go for a little direction in life. They too are not magic, but they can be fun, if you find papers baked in oddly folded cookies fun.
S’s strong reaction surprised and frightened me. It never dawned on me that she would trust her Magic 8 Ball in earnest. The thought of her or her sister learning the truth about other childhood magical heroes scares the crap out of me. The day she no longer believes in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy, the trifecta of magical beings, is the day she might also no longer believe in me.
When I asked her Magic 8 Ball is that was going to happen, the answer was yes. Maybe I should just get her a new one, one that hasn’t lost all its magic.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)