I almost have it memorized
Next week is Staff Appreciation week at Ruby’s school and since everything seems to be about Ruby’s school these days, I thought I’d share this gem, sent to me by my friend The Lethal Weapon. You know who you are.
All hail Tweezerman. Now: What to do about this growing up business
After attending a kindergarten forum last night, Sam and I headed to our favorite neighborhood bar for some decompression. Wasn’t it just last week that we were bringing a baby home from Chicago? How is it possible we’re getting her ready to go to school? And is that really a gray eyebrow growing in above my left eye?
My favorite bartender took one look at me and whipped up my favorite cocktail, which I sipped as I plotted an uptick in naked dancing. There is going to be an exponential increase starting ASAP, before Ruby is old enough to be self-conscious.
Uh…that was awkward
Ruby had already buckled herself into her car seat when she realized she’d forgotten the drawings for her teacher. I ignored the urge to say, too bad, kid. We’re late. Chalk it up to a lesson learned about having your shit together. (God, how I love my fantasy life.) Instead I channeled June Cleaver, set my travel mug in the cup holder, dashed back into the house, grabbed the three sheets of paper she’d worked on with her dad and headed out the door.
Ten minutes later, Ruby was handing her pictures over to Miss Sarah. “This is a castle,” I heard her say. I was distracted by her little friend G. who was hurrying to peel away his shoes and socks so I could see how beautiful his pink toenails looked. “And this is Miss Carlee as a princess,” Ruby continued her parallel conversation. I told G. that Ruby’s dad likes to have his nails painted, too. “He likes purples and blues and greens and sometimes sparkles! How cool is that?” I asked him. His mother seemed embarrassed but also relieved at my reaction.
“Thanks for saying that,” she said.
“I’m not making this up,” I told her. “He’s artsy.”
Just then, I turned to see my daughter handing her teacher this:
He’s artsy, alright. He’s 8th grade, trapper-keeper, boy-doodle artsy.
Down there in the lower left quadrant? That is a naked person bending over with an asterisk for a butthole. Up above that guy are two formerly androgynous people drawn “without clothes!” per request of the child. Since Sam decided to make these two clowns G-rated—unlike the blue muscle man bending to pick up a dumbbell—she who is obsessed with all things penis, grabbed a sharpie and filled in the blanks. And then there’s the scary monster thing with hair made of lightning bolts, a squiggly smile and a Sonny Crockett 5 o’clock shadow. Notice the sharpied-on boxer shorts with the open fly. I’m not positive, but given the severe focus of conversation in our home lately, those are either tampon strings or urine running down his leg. Could just as easily be one as the other.
Of course, the upshot—I always like to find an upshot— is that the child is accurate and has some fairly impressive fine motor skills. But back to pre-school.
I saw the drawings and gasped. Then I stammered. So much for having my shit together. I hemmed and hawed and grabbed the paper with less subtlety than I would have liked. “I’ll just take this back home,” I said, withering. “Ruby’s in a phase…she asked Sam to do it and…um…well, we don’t do everything she asks…I mean…she did it.” I was selling out my man and my kid. I was losing credibility. I looked back and forth at the teacher and G.’s mother, apologizing, swearing that we do not normally sit around the house drawing wieners and sphincters. Princesses with giant breasts and “nibbles,” sure. But wieners and sphincters?
No siree.
Normally, we prefer naked dancing.
Mrs. Robinson’s ego needs a little love from time to time
I had just come from Madalena’s and was driving to meet my husband for a late afternoon drink when I got picked up. Never mind that I had worked out that morning and was still in my gym clothes, marinating in my own grit and stink and general grossness derived from being packaged in Lycra for 8-plus hours. It wasn’t pretty. I was disgusting enough that I apologized repeatedly to Madelena as I lifted my arms so she could pin and stuff padding into my favorite strapless dress, but not so disgusting that I decided to postpone my alterations for another, more shower-filled day. Poor Madelena. Suffering the slings and arrows of dried gym sweat, all because I’m derelict when it comes to time management.
However evident my yuckness was to anyone within arms-length, the state of my filth was apparently well shielded by a) my car, b) my tinted windows, c) my over-sized sunglasses and d) my lip gloss. (Lip gloss has magic powers. Praise the lip gloss!) All I know is that I slowed, smiled and waved into my lane a car full of wild-haired, teen-ish boys at a two-way stop on Adams Avenue and suddenly, I was Eva Mendes.
On my best day I should hope to look so gross.
And so I found myself crawling along in single-lane traffic, behind a white Honda Civic filled with lanky kids of the male persuasion who probably weren’t old enough to vote in 2008. The driver, wearing Ray-Bans circa Risky Business—a movie he’s probably never heard of—kept checking on me in his side mirror. The two boys in back turned to face me, as excited to watch me follow as my friends’ small daughters, who make funny faces out the rear window of their father’s car whenever our families take our Minis for an afternoon drive. And the guy in the passenger seat poked first his head, then his arm, out his window, waving a cell phone, signaling me to call him. Which required a number, so he set the phone down and began slowly and methodically flashing a series of numbers with his long fingers. It was like the mating dance of some rare, exotic bird that was vaguely familiar and yet incredibly foreign. It didn’t matter that he was of a different species; I understood the language. He was thoughtful and precise, leaving enough time between digits for me to write them all down. Too bad I was DRIVING! Further evidence of an evolutionary gap.
My hands were on the wheel and I was smiling wide at this point. Chuckling, even, as the passenger twisted to flash an eight, a six, a nine. Oh, if they knew, I thought. If they only saw me close up. I imagined the surprise that would register in their eyes if we were to stand face-to-face, realizing their mistake and figuring out how best to get out of this uncomfortable situation. I contemplated what their conversation under such circumstances might be—surely involving several “DUUUde!”s— when I noticed the driver eyeballing me again in his mirror. I held his eye contact and pointed to myself slowly and methodically, making sure the line of communication was open. He adjusted his glasses, rested his elbow casually across the door and nodded at me. He was ready to receive.
I lifted my right hand off the steering wheel and pointed at myself one more time. He nodded: Got it, got it. He was sort of adorable, this man-child. The whole group of them was. But I had to have my say. I crossed my thumb over my open palm and held my arm straight out toward my windshield. I held it there until the boy in the mirror nodded again. Then, with my fingers touching my thumb, I made a perfect O.
The boy didn’t move. I laughed and repeated my message knowing I’d undercut myself; flashing my real age would have required both hands on my part and maybe a little too much work on his. He was using a mirror, after all. Plus there was that other hurdle of DRIVING A CAR with which we were both grappling. I conceded the six months because a one-handed “four” and “zero” were the safest route to the same destination. And anyway, at their age, what the hell’s the difference?
4-0 babe, I smiled. His eyebrows went up and that’s all I saw because I’d arrived at the bar where I’d be meeting my husband. I performed my award-worthy parallel park job, and looked up in time to see the boys disappear into the rain, their four mussed heads a silhouette against the gray day. It had been good while it lasted. It was silly but exciting, I admit this. And I was slightly more dirty when it was over.
Dichotomy: Heidi Montag journeys to become ‘the best me’ while thousands die beneath rubble
An acquaintance of mine blogged recently about some things she’s sick and tired of, and her post inspired me to account for a few of my own. As I racked up my itemized list of grievances, the worst earthquake in 200 years struck the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. Oh, Haiti. How you put things in such clear perspective for the rest of us.
On Jan. 12, 2010, this list might have been just a bunch of snark. Today, it’s down right absurd. That being said, here are a few things that I am really friggin’ sick and tired of:
1. Carrie Prejean. San Diego’s crown jewel—and the boobs that beauty-pageant officials cruelly forced on her—simply will not go away. Prejean and her erect right nipple were spotted frolicking in a Hawaiian ocean with her boyfriend du jour last week and made the headlines alongside “Thousands Feared Dead.” Since when did 15 minutes become 15 years?
2. Adam Lambert. OK, I’m not sick of Adam Lambert, per se; he’s the anti-Carrie Prejean, a guy with actual talent who used his celebrity to encourage his fans to donate to Haitian relief. So I root for him. I’m more sick of the hullabaloo over his American Music Awards performance, for which he is now on a World Apology Tour. I watched his three minutes on the AMA’s via YouTube. That he nearly finger fucked one of his female dancers was surprising. But kissing a boy? Bitch, please. He should have shoved his tongue down Carrie Prejean’s throat if he wanted to be outrageous.
3. Speaking of outrageous, how about Heidi Montag’s 10-hour, 10-procedure plastic surgery? At 23 years old, this talentless, soulless fame-whore has finally chiseled away her self-proclaimed “ugly duckling” looks for something a little more Barbie. I guess she didn’t get the memo that beauty comes from the inside. Too bad for her, there’s no surgery to fix inner ugly.
4. The goddamned pandas. The adult pandas, the baby pandas, whatever. Seriously. I. Am. Over. It. Panda-cam? Bo-ring. The giant panda exhibit at the zoo? Zzzzzzzzzzzzz. The line to get into the panda exhibit at the zoo? Biggest scam they have going. I like to go through the exhibit of always-snoozing pandas just to eavesdrop on disappointed tourists. I watch as they try to navigate their double-wide strollers along the narrow passage, keep the kids from swinging on the railings and strain to hear the barrage of panda factoids whispered over a microphone by zoo employees. “All they do is sleep” and “We should have gone to SeaWorld” are two of my favorite overheards.
5. Christmas decorations left up after Jan. 1. Look, I know it’s festive and romantic and twinkly and Christ-y, but FYI to my neighbors with the giant corner window: We’re pushing February here. It’s time to let go. The tree must come down. The electric moving snowman, too.
6. Shitty customer service. Hey, Tom, at Fairlane Cleaners. If you melt the buttons off my sweater without first warning me that the buttons might melt off my sweater, it’s your fault, and I do not appreciate a lecture about why it’s my fault.
7. The orange construction cones left behind by the company that made my neighborhood sidewalks wheelchair friendly more than a month ago. Way to find conscientious contractors, city of San Diego! It’s nice that the physically disabled have better access, but is it really that hard to clean up your mess?
8. Oversharing via Twitter. Tila Tequila, Courtney Love and Lindsay Lohan can tweet “the truth hurts” or “it’s the truth” or “the truth will come out” all they want. They’re still abominable, individually and collectively, and no amount of truth-telling will change that. Unplug, ladies, unplug.
9. Athletes and crocodile tears. Mark McGuire, I’m talking to you.
10. Liars who lie and know they lie and don’t get called on their lies by people who perpetuate their lies. Two recent lies that come to mind: “We had no domestic attacks under Bush,” by liar Rudy Guiliani and “We did not have a terrorist attack on our country during President Bush’s term,” by liar Dana Perino.
11. Not Of This World window decals. If you’re not of this world, what world are you of, exactly? I can only assume you’re of the world that teaches you how to expertly snake parking spaces from me at the library. Obviously, being Not of This World anoints you with VIP status, and your need to check out that book trumps the fact that I was waiting patiently—indicator on—for that space. Peace to you, brother. I don’t care what world you’re from: I would help your sorry ass in a crisis.
12. Pat Robertson and Rush Limbaugh. Your responses to this particular human emergency were predictable and nothing short of vile. You are worms, both of you, which is a bitter insult to worms the world over. Keith Olbermann said it better: “Mr. Robertson, Mr. Limbaugh, your lives are not worth those of the lowest, meanest, poorest of those victims still lying under the rubble in Haiti tonight.”
Aaaand just like that, I’m back to Haiti. I can’t not think about Haiti for very long, the devastation and the heartbreak and the unimaginable horror those people have endured—continue to endure—all while life here hums right along. It’s senseless and unfair that the sun should rise and set on two places not so far apart and yet everything is terrifically lopsided. I feel helpless and frustrated. So I donate a few bucks and make a few jokes to feel normal. I go to the gym and the bank and the grocery store. I play with my child who tonight sleeps safely under layers of blankets and a solid roof, unlike thousands and thousands of Haitian children just like her. All I can do is not linger too long on the images and be extremely thankful for my plain luck of geography.
And when it all gets to be too much, when things get really low, that panda-cam sure can take the edge off the overwhelming sense of hopelessness.
(Image from Reuters)
(As published—sans photos— today in San Diego CityBeat.)
It’s most certainly not comparable to Trent Lott’s comment
Michael Steele is a peach.
The Republican Party’s chairman and blackface (double entendre, intended), is calling for Senator Harry Reid to step down as US Senate Majority Leader over a purportedly racist comment he made during the 2008 election. In the forthcoming book Game Change, Reid is quoted as having said that Barack Obama would be a viable presidential candidate because he is “light-skinned” and had “no Negro dialect, unless he wanted to have one.”
Fear of Flying: Or if not that, fear of lots of other stuff that’s happening in 2010
On the morning of New Year’s Eve, I woke up in my own bed for the first time following a week of hedonism in the Pacific Northwest. Unlike the lurching gray skies I’d left the night before, cheery sunlight poured through my curtain-less French doors forcing me to be happy-happy. Unable to sleep—what with all that garish light—I resolved to purchase window coverings at Ikea, like, yesterday, and then stumbled to the bathroom where I was confronted by Kate Gosselin in the mirror. So much for happy-happy.
The brunette doppelganger stared back at me for three heartbeats, and then I ran, horrified, back to bed and dove under the blankets, where I decided to stay until 2011. Forget reality, I thought as I alternately licked the palm of my hand and then used it to smooth down the back of my hair. I’m not coming out. Certainly not looking like this.
It was a solid plan, the beginnings of which I executed with precision until I began to suffocate beneath the down quilt. Gasping for air, I threw the blankets from my head. And wouldn’t you know it? There in the room was all that blasted sunlight forcing me to look directly at my life. Knowing I’m going into the New Year with a haircut only slightly less offensive than fur lined Crocs adorned with Christmas charms isn’t terribly reassuring.
I’m not normally the kind of person who’s afraid of much—other than rats and heights and earwax—but I’ve never been so afraid of any year in all my life. “Terrified” sort of gets to the edges of it. “Petrified” comes a little closer to the center. But it’s a schizophrenic kind of afraid because it’s punctuated by excitement and thrill and possibility. Like standing atop the Leaning Tower of Pisa in a rainstorm, it’s vertigo unlike any other.
At some point in twenty-ten, as I learned it’s to be called, I am going to turn forty. Good lord, doesn’t that look hideous? F-O-R-T-Y. Ack! The numeric version doesn’t look much better. Forty is so scary that even a giant Quarenteñera won’t completely take the edge off (I’m looking for a DJ. E-mail me). Out there, a specific number of months and days from right now, I’m going to be this [] much closer to societal irrelevance. And that isn’t even the worst of what’s on the 2010 agenda.
At some point this year, I’m going to lose my job. Now, to those of you who love to hate me: Don’t throw your hats into the air just yet. I’m not talking about this gig, though I’m guessing a pink slip from CityBeat isn’t out of the realm of possibilities. I did have a dream the other night that my editors canned me and though I cried and begged, promising not to swear so much, they opted to hire Josh Board (The Reader’s “Party Crasher”) instead because they felt his grammatical ineptitude and interchangeable uses of there, their and they’re were more authentically indie.
No, my lovelies, I’m talking about losing my day job, which is bureaucratic and important-sounding but which I quite dislike. It’s the kind of job that doesn’t define who I am so much as it provides a safety net (i.e. insurance) for who I am in my real life. It’s a sort of background hum to everything else, the necessary evil that allows me the perks that matter. It’s the devil I know and were it not for the perfect storm of events, he and I might have continued our dance indefinitely with me cuddling up to him, taking his paycheck and resenting every minute.
Once I got over the initial holy-crap-I’m-going-to-lose-my-job shock and spent a night caressing a bottle of Maker’s Mark—while intermittently yelling at my proactive husband to quit trying to solve my damn problem and please just feel sorry for me for 30 seconds!—I was able to see the opportunities laid out.
OK. Not really. I have no idea what the hell I’m going to do with the rest of my life. But I do know what I’m not going to do with the rest of my life, which, in and of itself, is liberating. And ghastly. Sort of like my morning apparition.
And since things happen in threes, something else is taking place this year that I hadn’t anticipated: I’m having a baby. Aw, just kidding! That joke is so 2009 (see the April Fools edition). Screw that. Nooooo babies.
Seriously though. What does every unemployed almost-40-year-old wife / mother do? She goes to Italy, of course, to conquer her real fears.
That’s right. I’m hocking the wedding ring and attending a writer’s conference on the Amalfi Coast. I am going solo, across a continent and an ocean, to a country whose language I do not speak, to interact with people I do not know but who I deeply respect and who think, just maybe, I am not a fraud.
Did I mention I’m going by myself? Alone. Nobody else. Just me: The girl with the deepening crows feet and no job; the girl who knows only what she doesn’t want to do; the girl who has never been solely responsible for the rent check; the girl who has never lived alone and who is very rarely alone even when dreaming; the girl who will go to a conference with laptop in hand, feigned confidence and a quiet prayer flung to Vesuvius or Etna or Stromboli that she isn’t unveiled as a fraud.
Those bed covers look mighty appealing. Yet, given the choice of suffocating in the safety of bed or putting it out there to have my breath taken away, the decision is clear.
As Donald Rumsfeld once said, “[T]here are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns—the ones we don’t know we don’t know.”
My sentiments, exactly. Bring on the unknowns.
But first, I need to make a hair appointment.
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)