The Genesis Story Of My Favorite Stuffed Animal.

I’ve been working on my memoir (“Popsicle Toes”) and it’s brought up all sorts of things, the way a giant burrito brings up heartburn and possibly gas. Not that all my memories are bad. I had a favorite stuffed animal and I still think about it. (And there are other good things too like mushroom hunting and Han Solo fantasies.) My favorite stuffed animal was, of course, something rather unusual. See, I lived in Traverse City and one day my mom got me a stuffed bison from Olsen’s Market. Olsen’s owned a herd of buffalo and every summer we’d eat buffalo burgers at Northern Community college and look at pottery during their art fair. (“Tanya, it’s good! It almost tastes like a real hamburger!”)

Anyway. I remember the bison and told my daughter about it. (Her favorite stuffed animal is a much-loved elephant.) I also remember us being pretty poor so the idea that my mom would just buy me a stuffed animal at the grocery store when I remember pretty empty cupboards at home didn’t make sense.

So when she came over yesterday, I asked her about it.

ME: Do you remember that stuffed buffalo I had?

MOM: A buffalo? You mean a bison?

ME: Yeah. A bison.

MOM: No. Don’t remember that.

ME:

You bought me one at the grocery store.

MOM: Ohhhh! Bison! I didn’t buy it for you. Bison did.

ME: Bison? Who the hell was Bison?

MOM: You don’t remember?

ME: I think I’d remember someone named Bison.

MOM: Oh, I dated him for a while. He was huge!

(Slight pause as I hoped she was talking about his height and not…something else.)

MOM: He was an ex-hockey player and was really scary looking especially because he didn’t have his two front teeth. People were really scared of him, but he was such a softy. When I found out he was into hard drugs, I dumped him.

***

Ah. Childhood memories. Now I know that my beloved stuffed bison was a gift from an actual Bison, the toothless ex-hockey player who was also a drug addict.

And that, folks, is why I’m writing a memoir.

Conversation with Moxie about Disney Movies

MOXIE:

Mom, can I watch Bambi?

ME: Welll….I don’t know.

MOXIE: Why? Why can’t I watch it?

ME: Well, it’s a little sad in the beginning because…

MOXIE: I know. Bambi’s mom dies.

ME: It’s very sad.

MOXIE: Mom, come on. The mom dies in, like, every Disney movie. Like, the moms die all over the place. It happens.

ME: That’s true.

(I paused here thinking this was A Teachable Moment.)

ME:

Do you know why they kill the moms?

(I paused again because A) this was not the exact direction I wanted A Teachable Moment to take and B) I didn’t actually know the answer to why Disney kills all the moms. Moxie rolled her eyes, very teenage-like for her seven years.)

MOXIE:

Duh. Because the moms are the most important. Because they’re the ones that birthed the other characters.

ME: Uh…right…and that means that Bambi, or Snow White, or Cinderella has to work harder to…uh…

MOXIE: I know. I know. I just want to see the rabbits.

ME: Ah. Okay then. You can watch it.

D&W, Special Adults, And An Unappetizing Reuben

Ahhh. Blogging. I missed dipping into my blog last week, especially when I had a strange lunch at D&W and my first thought was “I! Must! Blog!” and then I thought, “Oh. But I’m saving myself for my memoir.” (I wonder if people saving themselves for marriage think this when they wake-up/go-to-the-bathroom/look-at-magazines…not I! Must! Blog!, but I Must Have Sex followed by I’m Saving Myself For Marriage. Then I think they must imagine I! Must! Get! Married! NOW! It’s exhausting being in my brain.)

Anyway. So when I narrate, I like to grab lunch out. Mostly it’s to just get out of the tiny, dark studio, relax, let my mind wander. In theory, going out to lunch is a sort of Zen moment in which I breathe deeply and collect myself. In actuality, it’s more a panic hour. I rush to Panera Bread hoping the line isn’t too long, which it always is, and if I get my food, I sit down and try to snarf everything down while listening to old people talk about their grandkids and God and constipation. (Not necessarily in that order.) I have nothing against old people. In fact, I’ll be one soon. And I loved “Quartet” and that film about people at some happy, Indian hotel. I just don’t like conversations during lunch about grandkids, God, and/or constipation. Sorry. That’s the truth.

I decided on Friday that I would snub Panera and pick up a sandwich at D&W and sit in their somewhat sad, but quiet, ‘dining’ area. It’s basically tables and chairs with dusty, little plastic flowers in bad vases.

I got a Reuben Panini, sat down, brought said sandwich to my mouth and…heard an enormous cough, that kind of cough where stuff is rattling in the chest as the cougher is trying to ‘bring something up’. I set the sandwich down, tried to find my center, brought the sandwich to my mouth again, bit and then that awful, horrible coughing started again. The person was either trying to hack up a monstrous phleghm ball or…perhaps…an entire cat.

I tried to find the offending person to give them a very passive-aggressive glare that said “Dude, if you’re coughing that much, get the f*** out of here. You’re around people. AND FOOD.”

I found the person sitting at a table of twenty septuagenarian ‘special’ adults. One of them waved. I immediately felt guilty.

Then I noticed that I was sitting in a room full of septuagenarian ‘special’ adults. There was the old Santa Claus like guy sitting in a wheel chair to my right (he had no legs), and the table of women trying to play Mah Jong but really just shuffling tiles around the table. And the coughing kept going and going so I did the only thing I could think of doing. And I thought, “Why does my life always bring me around special adults? What’s the message here?” (You’’ll understand when you read my memoir.) So I did the only thing I could do: I grabbed my sandwich and I ran.

I ran like the wind, like Superman trying to spin the earth back in time, I ran like a nearly-forty year old woman trying to capture her youth and eat a fucking sandwich at the same time.

I locked myself in my car where I listened to Terry Gross go on and on about Joaquin Phoenix.

Then I went back to the studio.

My car still smells like Reuben. I blame D&W. I blame D&W for everything. I also blame Terry Gross. Just because I can.

Encore: Conversation With The Bad Ass Russian Pedicurist

Encore Week concludes with a blog that my friend K. requested. And since she requested, I feel obligated/honored to re-post it. This was originally posted May 12, 2012, which means my one-year anniversary with the Russian Pedicurist is coming up. I better get her a present or she might hurt me:  

My Conversation With The

Bad Ass Russian Pedicurist

I am trying to look at my next couple of months without work not as a time of unemployment, but as an ‘opportunity to focus on my health and my writing’. It’s the Zen way to keep myself from freaking out and screaming Why can’t I get more narrating gigs? Why didn’t I teach summer classes? When will Tim Burton and Johnny Depp break up?

So. Ahhhh. Back to my meditative state.

To stay sane, I need a schedule, so my basic schedule is (after I’ve taken the kids to school when I have them): work out, write, read. Those are the three things I need to accomplish every day. Today I added one more: Get Pedicure. It’s not wholly self-indulgent. Last week my son pointed at my feet and said “Your feet look really weird, Mom.” And I realized, yeah, my soles needed some buffing because they were sorta looking like I had some weird creature that was going to hatch from my heel. Ew.

I decided not to go to the cheap Korean pedicure place because I always get this one guy and he’s really rough. Plus I feel a little creeped out with a dude manipulating my toes. It just doesn’t seem NATURAL.

So I went to a bonafide salon. Instead of a Korean working on me, this time I got someone from what used to be called Russia (and I just don’t know what it’s called anymore, maybe it's Republic of Fear or something.)

She was nice, but very…strict. It began like this (and you should read her with a thick Slavic accent.)

LADY WITH SLAVIC ACCENT PUTTING OUT ASSORTMENT OF TOWELS AND GYNECOLOGICAL-LOOKING INSTRUMENTS: I see your name. Tanya. What is that?

ME: What do you mean? It’s my name.

LADY SCRUBBING MY FEET: Yes. I know. But what are you? You Greek? I know a lot of Greek Tanyas.

ME: Really? I’ve never met a Greek Tanya. I don’t think I’ve actually met a Greek anyone. Some people think I’m Russian.

LADY USING SHARP TINY TONGS ON MY CUTICLES: If you were Russian, your name would be Tatiana. But it’s not. What? Your mom just like the name?

ME: Yep. I think she was obsessed with Dr. Zhivago or something.

LADY RUBBING MY LEGS LIKE TRYING TO ERASE BLOOD STAINS: My name is Isabella. Not a Russian name. Everyone call me Bella. My mom, she just like the name, so. Here I am.

ME: Oh? You’re Russian? Cool.

We then had a few minutes of awkward silence and as she aggressively worked on my feet I started to sweat a little. I sat a little straighter in my chair. I mean, she was RUSSIAN and they have like gulags there. Then I started thinking about goulash and I wondered if they were related semantically, and then I just wanted to go to Coney Island and have chili fries. That’s how my mind works.

BELLA: Pick a color.

ME: Oh? Okay. From here?

BELLA: Yeah. Just tell me the number. I don’t need the color. Just the number.

ME: Oh. Okay? Uhm….how about…I dunno…9?

She looked at me and I felt a bead of sweat dribble between my boobs. I HATE when that happens.

BELLA: You sure?

She stared at me. Holy shit? WAS I sure? Did I pick the wrong number? Would she break my toes because I didn’t choose 11? I mean, 9 was pink and I’m not really a pink person, but I wanted something cute and feminine…and shit….I should have gone with 17. BLACK!

ME: Sure? I mean, yeah? 9?

Suddenly, I was that annoying person that speaks only in question marks.

Bella didn’t say anything, just nodded curtly as if to say: dah.

BELLA: You come here before?

ME: No. I usually go to a cheap place…but…I uh…live close to here…

BELLA: You live close and you no come here? You come here from now on.

It wasn’t a question.

ME: Okay.

She then worked on my feet and I tried to behave and read my book quietly. She did a mint rub on my toes and wrapped them in towels. When she was finished, I sorta felt like I’d been dipped in Christmas I was so minty.

She smiled kindly and helped me waddle to the dryer for my toes.

Then she disappeared. I don’t think she defected or anything. I mean, she’s probably got family here and stuff.

I dried my toes. I breathed a sigh of relief.

And now I’m writing this with deliciously girly-cute pink toes, and I feel like I have a new friend. Next time I’ll try to ask her for emotional advice because I’m pretty sure Bella is pragmatic as hell and she’ll tell me to stop being such a pussy and man up. I like that in a person. It’s something I’ve been yearning for. I’m pretty sure that if you’re raised in Russia, you learn how to bite nails and stuff when you’re a toddler.

That’s what I like to think anyway.

And I’m now contemplating changing my name to Tatiana. It’s just damned sexy and tough sounding, especially when I say it with a bad Russian accent.

Encore: Carl at Open Mic Night

This blog was published last september, 2012. It has been my most popular blog on my site to date, which is funny, because it's not a real blog at all, but a scene. Maybe because there's a naughty haiku in it. Enjoy.

Open Mic Night at the iHop on East Beltline

BUD: Well, okay. Welcome back to our 2^nd Open Mic and All You Can Eat Waffle Night hosted by us, your iHop, and the Women’s Writing Group. Sorry about the abrupt end to the poetry reading last week, but things were getting hot. In the kitchen that is.  Before we start, just a reminder to keep it clean, folks. We’re a family establishment. And tip your servers!

Polite applause.

Connie takes over the mic. She’s in her late sixties and is wearing a long velvet dress, Renaissance Fair style. Her long, clearly hennaed hair falls down her back. She wears a crown of plastic flowers.

CONNIE: Welcome back everyone! Tonight we have an assortment of interesting people to read. I’m pleased to say my granddaughter Melody is going to read some of her poems.

MELODY: Fuck you, grandma!

CONNIE: (Pause.) My sweet  granddaughter is staying with me for a while while her mother finishes up her sent...her vacation...and Melody will read some of her work once she gets some food in her system and spikes her blood sugar a bit. Until then we have Carmen…

She looks at her sheet again.

CONNIE: Excuse me. We have Carl who wants to share something he’s written.

Connie exits the stage as CARL approaches. Carl is huge. He’s wearing big boots, big jeans, a t-shirt with wolves howling at the moon, and red suspenders. He has a big beard and a bald head. His voice is deep and sounds like he either drinks a lot of whiskey or swallowed a porcupine. Maybe both.

CARL: Hey. I’m Carl.

AUDIENCE: Hi, Carl!

CARL: I’m a trucker. That big rig out there in the parking lot, she’s mine. And we’ve seen some long roads, let me tell you. I’ve been all over this country and, sheesh, I’ve seen things that should be in books or movies or something, but then maybe not because you’d want to poke your eyes out. Yeah. Anywho. I’ve seen the love days of the sixties, the sexual freedom of the seventies, and I was fiscally irresponsible in the eighties. I repented in the nineties. And now I’m nearing retirement, but I’ve still got a few thousand miles of hard road before me.

Life is hard on the road, and it gets mighty lonely. So some days after I’ve listened to some audiobooks where people get murdered and such, well, I turn off my iPod and I like to write poems. Mostly I write them in my head, because if I wrote them down in a book while I’m driving, I’d probably jackknife or something. Or run over things like squirrels. Deer. Moose. Hitchhikers. What have you. At any rate, I forgot most of my poems on account of all the uppers I take to stay awake. It can make you sorta hazy like, but this poem I’ve got for you is real special. It’s part of a series. It’ll make you think. It might even change your life. And I guess maybe I’ve said enough about it. Now I’ll read to you. This is my poem. It’s one of them haiku things. I call it “Springtime”.

Carl clears his throat.

CARL:

Springtime. A Haiku.

You sit on my face.

I ponder hummingbird wings

And flutter my tongue.

Silence. Carl nods his head and then sits down.

Silence.

Somebody coughs.

Mabel VanderSteen, in her wheelchair, claps.

WAITRESS: Anybody here order the Senior Sampler?

MABEL: I’d rather sample some of that.

Encore: F***ing Pajama Day

My encore week continues with this blog I posted on June7, 2012. Every time Theme Day rolls around, or I have trouble getting dressed in the morning, I think of this episode:  

F***ing Pajama Day

My kids’ school sometimes has Theme Days. You get these emails where it’s like “Today is Sports Day! Wear your sports clothes!” or “Today is School Spirit Day! Wear Blue and Gold!” There are all sorts of Days: Crazy Hat, Crazy Hair, Cowboy, Superhero, Glitter, Carnival, Jean, T-shirt, and Flesh Eating Zombie. (I might’ve made that last one up. I keep freaking out over that Miami Zombie.)

So on the calendar for Tuesday was PJ Day. “Wear your favorite PJs and snuggle in for an afternoon of fun!” I put it on the calendar; got a reminder email from the school; double-checked with the kids’ biodad and stepmom. Fine. Fucking PJ Day. Okay.

So the morning was nice. I didn’t even make the kids get dressed. They just stayed in their PJs. Franz wore a too-tight SpongeBob shirt exposing his round belly and super long shorts with guys on skateboards doing flips. Moxie wore a cute but slightly-too-big nightgown that kept slipping off her shoulder. She also has a red little chin with four stitches. We drove to school.

As we neared the school, a wave of unease swept over me. There were all the happy kids streaming into school…wearing…sundresses and shorts and tank tops…BUT NO PAJAMAS! What? Was I seeing things? It was PJ Day! I had an email! Where were all the fucking PJs? We got closer. I tried to ignore it. Maybe kids wore full outfits to bed. Then I heard Moxie's voice, edged with fear say “Mom?” and then “MOM?” and then “MMMMOMMMMMM!!!” Panic was thick.

I couldn’t deny it. No one was wearing PJs! Not one fucking kid! I suddenly had this vision of Moxie going in to Kindergarten and her teacher looking at her with the stitches on her chin and an old nightgown and saying “Just a minute, honey. I need to call Child Protective Services”.

I mean, just imagine the HORROR. You show up to school one day just randomly wearing pajamas. Your mom MAKES you wear PJs! I mean, it’s awful!

Franz said, “Huh. No one’s in pajamas.”

I said, “Uhhh….” panicking on the inside.

“Okay. See ya, Ma,” Franz said and then jumped out of the car, belly first. (We were parked of course.)

I took one look at Moxie, sitting terrified and shivering in her car seat and I said: “Okay. We’re out of here.” We squealed out of the parking lot, rushed home, I ran inside, grabbed a sundress, tore off the muther fucking nightgown, put her in the sundress, floored the car in reverse, dodged a baby carriage, careened over steps, throttled the car through rush hour traffic, and five minutes later, Moxie stepped into her Kindergarten class as if nothing had happened.

Turns out it WAS Pajama Day, but only in Franz's class. He said a couple kids wore PJS but mostly everyone just looked like they needed a bath.

Encore: What Happened When I Found A Dead Woman In Panera's Parking Lot

Since I'm working on my memoir this week, I posting some of my favorite blogs from the past (for different reasons). Yesterday I posted a link to my first Christmas as a single mom and how I broke my foot on the day I bought the Christmas tree. Today, it's an encore from March 08, 2012. If I ever had to say what my blog was about, I might point someone to this story:

 What Happened When I Found A Dead Woman In Panera's Parking Lot

On my way to the studio, I like to grab a coffee right before I start work. Narrating starts at 8:30AM so that’s pretty early, and the warm coffee and caffeine jolt helps me. So today, I swung by Panera for my $1.75 cuppa joe.

The parking lot was pretty full, but I found a spot. As I got out of my car, I noticed there was a woman in the parking lot sitting in her car. Then I realized that she wasn’t really sitting, she was slouching. And her car was running. And she was slouching back with her mouth wide open. Like, WIDE open, like zombie open…and I thought…holy shit. That woman is dead. She is dead in the parking lot of Panera Bread and what am I supposed to do?

I briefly thought of moving my car to another spot, and getting my coffee, and pretending I hadn’t witnessed her there like that, but I just couldn’t do it. What if she wasn’t totally dead, but NEARLY dead? I’d be responsible if I didn’t do something.

But first I needed to find out if she was totally dead, nearly dead, or just taking a nap. I mean, she could be taking a nap. So I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I stared at her. I stared and stared and stared at her, just willing her to breathe. If I saw she was breathing then I’d be fine and get my coffee and no one would know. If she wasn’t breathing then I’d…I don’t know…run into Panera and scream “THERE’S A DEAD WOMAN IN YOUR PARKING LOT AND CAN I HAVE A TALL HAZLENUT TO GO?”

I stared at her. For a long time. Like a really long time. I couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not. She was wearing a big red sweater and I couldn’t see her stomach moving. It slowly dawned on me. She was NOT breathing. I just found a dead woman in Panera’s parking lot and I was somehow responsible for her passing and what was I supposed to do and what about…SUDDENLY the woman jerked awake, saw me staring at her and SCREAMED.

I mean, if she wasn’t dead at the beginning, I probably gave her a heart attack. Imagine, there you are taking a quick little nap, you wake up, and immediately notice there’s a crazy chick with her face pressed up against your window STARING at you.

It was horrible. What could I do? How could I explain to her that I was only trying to save her life or make sure her loved ones knew she’d expired? I was being a good Samaritan, and not a Peeping Tom. You can’t explain that to a perfect stranger, so I just immediately turned and ran into Panera for my coffee.

I’m still embarrassed. I might just give up drinking coffee because I don’t EVER want to repeat that experience again. EVER.

I Confess. I Cheated On My Hairdresser.

Look, the sad truth is I am a complex woman. I have NEEDS. And when I have a need, I like to have that need answered right away. Like, when I want a cookie, I want a cookie NOW. Not in a week. Or when I want Kealoha to rub my back and talk to me about lighting supplies so that I can fall asleep, I want him to do it right away.  

So when my son looked at the gray in my hair and shouted: “Stranger danger!” I knew I needed to get my hair done. AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. In this case, ‘as soon as possible’ meant NOW.

On Sunday, I emailed my salon. I checked my email frantically. Did my hair stylist check her messages from home? Did she get my message on her phone? Was she ignoring me? No. It was Sunday evening. I mean, it’s not like we were in a relationship or anything.

I waited until Monday.

Nothing! No answer. No response.

I waited until Tuesday…and still…nothing. What could I do? I had a NEED!

I called my old hair stylist. The one I’d left six months ago for the new. She was there. Waiting. She took my call. She made time for me. She could meet me in less than twelve hours. In twelve hours, I could stop scaring my son! I could be ten years younger!

I booked the appointment. An hour after I booked it, the stylist I’d originally wanted, called. She was sorry. She could fit me in. I was important to her. She’d do what she could. She was there for me! But not until Saturday.

I ignored her call and this morning I sat in my old stylist’s chair.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” she said. Was there a hint of menace or jealousy in her voice?

“Yeah. I’ve been…busy…” I said, my cheeks blushing. Did she know? Did she know how many colors the other hair stylist had tried on me? The different ways she’d…cut…my…hair?

She ran her hands through my hair. “Hmm.” I knew what that meant. “This is…cute. Looks like you had it done, what, six weeks ago?”

Oh, the drama! The subtext! We both knew the truth! I’d been seeing another stylist! Some other stylist had run her hands through my hair and had her way with me. What could I do? I had to admit the truth, because she could read the truth in my roots! “Yes,” I whispered. “I saw someone six weeks ago.”

She squeezed my shoulders. She understood. We would not speak of my…transgressions…but she let me know that she knew.

She shamed me.

She colored my roots. She remembered the way I like to part my hair. She showered me with adjectives on how young I look, and how she loves how my hair looks messy like it’s got attitude, and how she understands me.

And I enjoyed my time with her. I did! But still…I thought of the stylist I’d been seeing for the last six months. Imagined her in the salon wearing her black apron, listening to opera music, and crying because I’d done her wrong.

As I paid for the cut and color, the stylist looked at me and said, “So, do you want to schedule your next appointment?”

This was it. This was the moment. Who would I choose? Her…or the Other?

I lowered my eyes. “I’ll call you,” I said. She pursed her lips and turned away from me.

*

I’m so ashamed.

My needs were met, but at what price, I ask you? WHAT PRICE?

My hair is really cute though, and I feel much better.

Cabin Fever? More Like Storm RAGE.

I don’t know what’s going on with me this year, but I’ve gone somewhere beyond Cabin Fever and straight into Storm Rage. I’m like a character in the Shining. Not Jack with the ax, but his wife running all wimpy in the snow*, while carrying a flopping knife. She’s running away from a murderer, and I’m running around trying to find enough food to make an enormous sandwich. Still. We’re both a little nutso.

And I’m not even running OUTSIDE. No. I just run from room to room, bump into walls, fall on the ground and then crawl to my couch where I then eat potato chips and miniature candy bars, because “it’s just a few calories”.

Even my fucking yoga pants are tight.

I mean, COME ON!

I am over Winter. Over it. I want flowers. And clear roads. And nice commutes in the morning to the studio, instead of clutching the steering wheel praying (because when I drive in a storm, I suddenly become VERY religious). I’m over the ice and the cold and the stupid long coats and mittens. I’m over looking like a bag lady all the time. And I’m sick of trying to get exercise on the treadmill because the treadmill NEVER STOPS. It just keeps going and going and going making me insane, sorta like an episode of American Idol.

And being stuck inside is turning my children into tantrum-spouting-spawn. Of Satan. (Of course, in this analogy, I realize I've just said that I am Satan, since the kids are my spawn.)

We need to get outside and go for walks and bike rides and I need to garden and get my aggression out by pulling up weeds and walking around Reed’s Lake and listening to birds and venting about the perfect East Grand Rapids Moms because it makes me feel less jealous.

And I need to get out of these yoga pants and into a cute dress. I need to put on makeup and possibly, maybe, even a bra. Maybe.

Please, Spring, get here. FAST. Before my head starts spinning and I slip into another horror movie.

*Here's the scene I was talking about:

Conversation With Franz, 8, While He Studies My Face

ME:

What was your favorite part about the party last night?

FRANZ:

Well, I got to act.

ME:

Yes.

FRANZ:

And I got to eat like eight cupcakes.

ME:

Yes. I’m aware of that.

FRANZ:

And I got to talk to people.

(Pause.)

You need to be a man and shave your chin.

ME:

WHAT?

FRANZ:

You have, like, a beard.

ME:

I have a whisker. One. Maybe two. Maybe.

FRANZ:

More than one, ma. They’re like…

 

ME:

You never tell a woman to shave.

Women pluck and we don’t talk about it.

We ignore that little issue.

FRANZ:

I could make you look more like a man by taking your hair and making

it grow out of your ears and nose, like this.

ME:

Stop it! I don’t want to look like a man.

FRANZ:

And what’s THAT?

ME:

What?

FRANZ:

On your face. You’ve got a bump.

ME:

It’s a mole. Leave it. Just…Franz!

You’re making me self-conscious!

FRANZ:

I don’t even know what that means.

ME:

It means, you’re pointing out all my flaws and it’s freaking me out.

FRANZ:

What? Why? You’re pretty, Mom.

You’re pretty. You’re pretty. You’re pretty.

ME:

Say that again.

He said it like a dozen times more, whispering it into my ear until my arm broke out in goosebumps, and until it was almost like I was telling it to myself: “You’re pretty, you’re pretty, chin hair, spider lines, extra pounds and all. You’re pretty.”

God, I love that kid.

There is No Such Thing as a Foolproof Plant

I admit I am no green thumb. I want to be. I mean, I watch PBS dramas and I see those English gardens, and I think, man, I want me one of those. I also want a butler and a pretty dress and an accent. See? You can’t have everything. Except I could make some scones, and that's a comfort.  

My sister is a genius with plants. She has this garden that I’m pretty sure was grown on Jupiter and then space-shot here. Me? Well. You’ve heard my plight with zucchini. At least I can grow a tomato plant and other edibles. But give me flowers or indoor plants, and everything either dies of thirst or molds in a flood. There is no in between.

Okay. So here's what happened:

See, the poor kiddos have about two-dozen allergies and since we can’t have cats or dogs, they pleaded for something alive to take care of. Franz wanted a snake and Moxie wanted a hamster. We compromised. I bought my kids a couple of succulents. Or cacti without the prickers.

I know. I know. Giving a kid a cactus instead of a pet is a lousy consolation prize, but the kids have done well. I mean, they’ve been as happy as you can be with a plant for a best friend, although it is a little sad to see them try to play with the plant. The plant never catches a ball, never cuddles, never does anything except look slightly depressed.

Anyway. Nana came over to see the kids, and they happily showed off their cacti. Moxie’s plant was going crazy, mostly because I forget about it and leave it alone. She got lots of praise from Nana. Franz wanted to show off his plant, so he grabbed the pot, started to walk towards Nana and all of a sudden, the plant’s head POPPED OFF.

I mean, KABLAM! Off rolled its head.

Franz started screaming. It really was like we’d decapitated a puppy. Not at all pleasant.

Nana tried to soothe him by picking up the plant’s head. “Oh, this happens, honey. It’s okay. We’ll just take one of the leaves here and put it in some dirt and it’ll grow roots.” To show Franz, she ripped one of the leaves off the plant. Franz screamed harder, his eyes wide with fright. I mean, from his perspective, not only had the plant been decapitated, but now Nana was ripping it limb from limb.

THE HORROR.

We finally got him calmed down.

I don’t know what to do with the plant. Half of it is sitting in a bowl, and the part with the plant-body is by the window. I’m afraid to water it, not water it, breathe on it or what have you.

All I can say is, thank god it wasn’t a puppy.

The Worst Valentines Gift EVER. A Scene.

Here is a scene that I think should be in a romantic comedy. If I return to writing romantic comedies, I may include this. It’s based on a story I once heard, which could be an urban legend, but it makes me laugh.

Two friends are having coffee, EMILY is a newlywed and depressed over her lackluster Valentine’s Day. JEN is a little more pragmatic about love.

EMILY

I mean, when we were dating it was all flowers and romance and little stuffed animals and then hot, hot sex.

JEN The operative phrase there was ‘when we were dating’. You’re married now. Valentine’s Day is really about guaranteeing a night when your husband gets lucky.

EMILY

I know that, but he should at least give me pretty things. I mean, he gave me a waffle iron.

A. Waffle. Iron. I don’t even cook! It’s the worst gift ever.

JEN Compared to my worst gift ever, it IS very romantic.

EMILY

Convince me.

JEN All right. Now, granted, this took place when I was like 22 and just out of college.

My boyfriend, let us call him Alex to protect his identity, was sweet but childish.

EMILY Childish how?

JEN He liked to tell stupid jokes. Tickle me. And fart on command.

EMILY What? Why?

JEN I don’t know, maybe he wanted to join the circus. So, on Valentine’s Day,

I come home and he’s sitting on my steps in my apartment, holding a rose.

EMILY See? That’s sweet. That’s romantic!

JEN

He’s also naked. Completely buck naked.

EMILY Oh. Okay. Sorta sweet?

JEN

Not sweet. I see him sitting there in all his glory and before I can say anything he says “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

and then lifts his leg to fart on command. I guess for emphasis.

EMILY Oh god. No!

JEN It gets worse. Because he doesn’t fart.

EMILY No?

JEN No. He poops.

(Pause)

JEN He says “Happy Valentine’s Day!” lifts his leg to fart, and out shoots a poop nugget.

(Pause. Emily is trying not to laugh. She is not winning.)

EMILY You. Are. Kidding. Me.

JEN

No.

EMILY So what did you do?

JEN I mean, what can you do? I just stared at him. He was mortified.

He kept saying: “I thought it was a fart! Oh god. Oh my god. I just did a poop fart! In front of you!”

I grabbed some paper towel and his clothes and let him take care of stuff.

We broke up shortly after that. He’s now in the Witness Protection Program.

EMILY That is the most horrifying thing I’ve ever heard.

JEN Actually, it turned out to be a pretty nice gift, because even fifteen years later, I still think about it and laugh.

So really, not only did Alex give me a poop nugget on that Valentine’s Day, he gave me joy.

EMILY I guess it’s all in how you look at it. And thank you. I like my waffle iron more now.

Especially because I’m going to have my husband cook for me.

JEN Thatta girl.

A Brain-Wise Therapist's Answer To My Son's Fascination With Guns

Yesterday, I posted a blog about my concerns of raising a gun-fixated boy in today’s society, and what does that mean, and how do I support him but not encourage violence. I had a lot of great comments and emails. I want to share this email with you from my Aunt Connie who is a "brain-wise therapist", a clinical social worker who provides psychotherapy and clinical supervision holding the brain in mind. She’s terrific, and I think she brings up some really good points that I found both interesting and comforting. Maybe you will too:  

Her response:

I get your concern.  I just finished listening to a five CD presentation on The Minds of Boys and Girls, by Michael Gurian.  I recommend you look at his website MichaelGuerin.com.  You will be impressed with the body of research on the difference between the minds of boys and girls (and thus, mothers and sons!).

I think you should buy "The Wonder of Boys" to get more support for parenting your son, especially around this guns/weapons issue; I think ALL parents, teachers and therapists should have access to this stuff.  It is so much easier to do well by our kids if we really understand how their brains work instead of projecting our own biases (or brains) onto them.

Gurian's research supports the blog response of your friend who suggested classes and training for Franz.  That is a great response with good ideas for supporting an interest without supporting violence.

After listening to Gurian, I understand that in our effort to empower the feminine in our culture we have swung too far the other way, placing high value on the feminine brain and how it works: relationally, attachment oriented, able to sit still and to focus on auditory learning and cooperation.  So our schools are set up to teach girls.  But the system fails many of our boys, whose brains are oriented to the spatial mechanical and objects in motion (guns and how they work!), and whose testosterone makes them need to move, to compete and to be aggressive without it having any meaning about relationships or whether or not they care for others.

In the minds of boys there is more gray matter and less white matter, which allows boys to compartmentalize their actions.  Playing an attack game with friends does not mean they don't value friendship.  It's separate.  Of course, we need to help these boys make the connections between their actions and how to be caring in relationships, but we should not de-value as evil their interest in guns, swords, bows and arrows...all those things that are objects in motion and have complex spatial mechanical workings.

As mothers (women) our brains are attuned to the relational, and all things move around those concerns, sometimes to our detriment.  It is hard for us to separate the emotional from the factual.  So we want our boys to be like US.  That would be so much easier!  But we need to learn more about how their minds operate differently from ours, and support their development with their unique brains in mind.

Did you know that there is a boy I babysit, Charlie, and he is obsessed with knights, swords, bows and arrows and battling knight armies? When I play with him, my knights are always killed! Franz’s obsession with guns is coming in a world that is focused on the terrible ways some people use them.  But the people who use them so viciously are not doing so because guns fascinate them.  They are doing so because of other motives or mental disorder or psychopathy.  Guns didn't create those motives or illness or personality disorder.  The AVAILABILITY of guns let those perpetrators act out their rage with guns.

Because of the current climate and recent tragedies, it would be easier for you if Franz was obsessed with weapons that were more fanciful or part of a long ago past.  Somehow it doesn't seem so bad when the hero of Princess Bride kills so many people with his sword and looks so dashing.  So Franz’z interests are much harder for you to swallow, of course!! You don't want to be the parent who misses something, as the press has taken to writing about Mrs. Lanza, the mother of the Connecticut murderer.  So it is admirable of you to think deeply about what you want to support and encourage in Franz and where you want to re-direct.  I think all of us need to avail ourselves of more good, solid research about how to best support the positive growth of our boys and girls, so I recommend the Gurian books, CDs and DVDs.  They are a rich resource that every family deserves to have available.

So.....your blog was engaging and well written and captured the dilemma of parents all over the world...especially mothers! This is a looong answer but I hope it is helpful in giving more food for thought as you create your own approach to your concerns.  In the end, it needs to be YOUR approach that YOU feel comfortable with.

##

MY COMMENT:

Is it any wonder I love this woman? She should totally write a book. 

How do you support your kid when their interests go against your moral code?

As a parent, I sometimes read other parents’ blog posts. I’m comforted by those posts when you have a parent who supports their child in whatever they choose to do and whoever they choose to be. I’m thinking of the dad who put on a dress to support his son wearing dresses. Or the mom who supports her young daughter who already knows she’s gay. I mean, these stories are INSPIRING. And to me, easy. If my kids come out or if they want to be artists or designers, philanthropists, missionaries, business execs, whatever, I’m on board. I’ll carry a flag. Or so I thought.  

It reminds me of a woman I was a friend with once. She told me that she was ready to support her son in anything he chose. They’d sign him up for summer classes, they’d take him to institutes, whatever. She’d encourage and promote whatever he was interested in. Her test came when it was clear her son wasn’t interested in ANYTHING. Totally apathetic. He didn’t want to go to college. Didn’t want a job. Didn’t want to date. Just wanted to be home. How do you support THAT?

That’s the sort of thing I’m dealing with with my 8 year old. I could support anything, but how do I support and encourage his fascination with guns? Should I? This goes beyond the whole “he’s a boy and likes gun” stereotype. I mean, my 8 year old is OBSESSED with guns. He wants to be a policeman. He’s got a plan: first he’ll join the army, then he’ll become a police officer. He lifts hand weights while watching war documentaries. He plays army men and puts them into tactical formations. He’s started a folder where he draws guns, notes down their names and abilities. Last night he was working on a description of anthrax: what it does, how it affects people, and how to destroy it. (Apparently you heat it to 10,000 degrees.)

So. My dilemma. His interest in guns and war is the only thing that is getting him reading and writing and studying. But do I encourage this? I tried to get him to watch and be interested in kid shows, but put on the Wiggles and it’s like throwing acid on him. (I sorta get that.)

Instead I’m trying to teach Franz that the important thing about police and the army is that they PROTECT people. And I don’t want to go into the details with him about war, and death, and destruction. I try to support him and his interests and also humanize it.

But inside I want to say “Hell no! You are not playing with toy guns, or war scenarios! You are NOT going into the army. You are going to get an education and become a pharmacist. Or a fashionista. Whatever you want. Just not THAT!” And I refrain from telling him about all the school shooting tragedy, but as a parent, I worry about it. What if his fascination with violence is because he’s angry? What if he…

I can’t even finish that thought. The trouble sometimes with being a neurotic writer, is that your mind goes places you don’t want it to. I mean, what if these are BEHAVIORAL SIGNS? But what if they’re not? What if Franz will lose interest? What if this is totally normal? How do you know what normal IS?

I guess supporting your kid is a little harder than I thought. Why, why, why couldn’t Franz want to wear dresses?

Going Chuck Norris on my Garden

For eight years, I have been trying to grow zucchini in my garden. Every year, I hear other gardeners boasting :“We have so much zucchini that we pay people to take it from us! I mean, buckets and buckets!” And then I imagine punching the person in the solar plexus, and I am not a violent person. Apparently, I am a violent gardener.  

I have grown exactly two measly zucchini in 8 years. My plants consistently suffer from root rot, alien grubs, and general wilting. I’ve even tried saying positive affirmations to the plant stalks, you know, like a Kindergarten teacher: “Come on! You can do it! I believe in you!” And the plants promptly die. Fuckers.

This year, I am determined, yet again, to have a garden. Last year, I had lovely green shoots of fresh peas and green beans growing. I tenderly gave them netting to grow and cling to and imagined wearing white and fluttering in my garden picking my cornucopia of fresh vegetables while birds landed on my shoulders and random beavers said hello to me. (Yes. I dreamed of beavers.)

Then a fucking evil rabbit consumed all those lovely tendrils, we had a drought, meteors fell from the sky, and it snowed in July. There went my garden.

I am determined this year. This year will be different! I will have so much green stuff that I’ll force it onto my neighbors and say: “Take that, beotch!”

I’ve been flipping through catalogs circling soil testing stuff, and seeds, and sprouts, and all sorts of things.

This morning I asked the kids for their help. “So, what do you guys think we should do about that rabbit in our yard?”

Franz, 8, immediately spoke up: “See, what we do is we get some gear on and a tranquilizer gun and we wait for that rabbit to show up and BLAM! We hit it with the gun and put it in a cage and toss it in a…”

Moxie, 7, began to cry. At first, I considered Franz’s idea, but then I thought maybe I was getting a little too commando with my gardening. It is, after all, supposed to be a gentle and loving thing.

“Maybe we’ll just have Kealoha spread blood meal all over to freak the rabbit out.”

Moxie said, “What’s blood meal?”

I said, “Uhhh…”

I’m back to the catalog, dreaming.

Someone please tell me the secret to growing zucchini before I go all Terminator Rambo Chuck Norris on my yard.

The Flu. A Teachable Moment.

If I were speaking, this blog would be punctuated with hacking coughs, occasional sneezes, and general stomach-churning throat clearing. Luckily, I am not reading this, nor do I have to narrate for another week—that’s a good thing because my voice is about as sexy right now as Joe Biden with his shirt off. (The horror)  

I’ve spent the last four days moving from the basement couch to the upstairs couch and have had various hallucinations due to sinus medication. I’ve gone through two boxes of Kleenex, and my fair share of my Netflix queue.

This experience has not been for naught. While suffering from the flu, I’ve learned a few things which I will now share with you.

1)   Having the flu is an excellent time for a Hitchcock marathon. I’m glad I purchased a boxset for myself for an ‘emergency’. I watched “The Birds”, “North by Northwest” and “Psycho”. I learned (or was reminded) that Hitchcock heroines are cold mofos who have manicures that match their lipstick. I am envious of this. I also learned:

1. “Psycho” is still brilliant.
2. “North by Northwest” has a great drunken driving scene with Cary Grant mugging for the camera. It made me warm and happy.
3. “The Birds” is a weird movie. Tippi Hedren proves that you can be beautiful and blank even when birds are trying to peck your eyes out.

2)   You can’t snap out of the flu the way you snap out of drinking too much. There’s no sobering up. You just have to suffer.

3)   If there is ever a plague, I will get it. And I will get it hard.

4)   When you can’t taste anything, even chocolate will taste bad. This will cause you deep sorrow. The only thing that will work for you is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And tea.

5)   If you have to be sick, it’s nice to be sick with someone who loves you unconditionally and doesn’t tell you you look like a beached porpoise while you’re panting on the couch, feverish, and stripped down to your skivvies.

I’m trying to take it easy. It’s really hard. I have so many things to do, like record another book, and exercise, and get groceries. Kealoha keeps warning me to stop, take it easy, slow down. So. I’ll try. Today I’ll watch “Vertigo” and “Rear Window” and try to work on my memoir. I’m thinking my slight hallucinations from cough medicine will enhance my writing with some excellent ‘memories’ of my days in the circus.

Ridiculous Things I've Said To My Children

It occurred to me this morning when I was talking to my kiddos about if there was a zombie apocalypse would it also affect walruses, that I have said many, many things to my kids that I never envisioned. I mean, I envisioned saying “I love you” and “Let me get a Band-Aid” and “Call 911!” but the things I’ve ACTUALLY said trump my imagination. Here then are some ridiculous things I’ve actually said to my children.  

1)   Put the monkey down. Do not fling the monkey! How would you feel if you were a monkey and you were being flung all over the place? Yes. Monkeys fling poo. They do not, however, fling other monkeys. I repeat: Monkeys do not fling other monkeys.

2)   I know it itches but I’m not touching your butthole. You touch it. I’m not doing it. I’ll get a Q-tip for that. I didn’t sign up for that when I became a mom. I’ll get a Q-tip.  Just…don’t…move.

3)   Try the falafel. Just try it. Try the falafel. I made this falafel. It’s falafel and I made it so try the falafel. FA. LA. FEL. Arrggghhh! Falafel!!!!

4)   It’s okay, sweetie. No one likes to be sick. Just let it out and…oh. Okay. It’s okay. I don’t know why I tried to catch that. Mommy has to run to the bathroom.

5)   Mommy is barfing! Leave. Me. Alone.

6)   Yes. Babies come out of mommies. Where? Their vaginas. It stretches. Yes. It hurts. A whole lot. Yes. If you adopt, you’re still a mommy.

7)   Get your fingers out of each others’ belly buttons!!!! I don’t know WHY…just…don’t do it.

8)   If you were a vampire would I still love you? Probably. From a distance. While wearing garlic.

9)   Do not put that kabob directly in your mouth! Why? Because if you move your head rapidly you could impale yourself. Remember when I told you about Vlad The Impaler? Yeah. Like that.

10)                   Mommy loves you. Mommy loves you more than chocolate and the sounds of the night and swimming and the ocean and even more than she loves the moon. Because I said so.

Poll

Man, it's cold out. And there's snow. And I'm dieting. It's the perfect time for a nice, fattening, cheesy, gooey dip! But I can't decide.

Which new dip recipe should I try for my food blog? Hmmm? Help a girl out here. Voting is open until I go to the grocery store. It could be open until spring.

[poll id="2"]

To The OCD Snowblower, Just Keep Blowing

I admit that I have a few teeny, tiny quirks. I will list some of them here so that you and I can establish trust. After I have shared my vulnerability with you, this will enable me to talk about what an ASSHOLE my next door neighbor is, and I will have credibility.

It helps when you have therapists for relatives.

My teeny, tiny quirks, then:

1) I leave cupboard doors open. I don’t know why. I’m pretty sure it’s genetic because my mom and brother do the same thing. 2) I haphazardly turn off lights to save on electricity, even when it’s dungeon-dark and even if someone (Kealoha) is in the room. 3) I wear socks to bed because my feet are ice cold ALL THE TIME. 4) As soon as I am in bed, my feet heat up to coal furnaces and I kick the socks off. 5) There are sometimes four to five pairs of socks trapped at the bottom of my bed. Sometimes one makes a death defying leap and escapes. 6) I get anxious about socializing, driving, flying, working, eating, and relaxing.

There. So, see, I’m not entirely normal. We all have tender pieces of our soul.

That said…

THE NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR IS AN ASSHOLE.

There. I said it.

Maybe asshole is too tough. Really? I mean, who can blame a guy for snowblowing his yard, especially when there’s two inches of the white stuff? Two inches is A LOT. I don’t blame him for not using a shovel. I DO blame him for having a snowblower that also seems to serve as a walker, thus enabling even an octogenarian to snowblow a yard. But faster than the guy next door.

He has a small yard. And he goes over every single inch of it in the slow, heel to toe pace. Now, mind you, this is in the middle of the day when I’m trying to record from my home studio. It’s not his fault that I sometimes work from home. I don’t blame him for that. But could he please, please blow his yard in a half hour and not THREE? Could he please, please, blow with the snowblower and not switch to a LEAF BLOWER until he’s uncovered the crisp frozen grass underneath?

No one should blow that long.

At least for free.

And with that, I release my anger into the wind like a kite in a strong breeze. Fly away, kite. Fly.

When Depressed, Sing 80s Music Loudly

I'm not totally depressed. Just mildly depressed. Sorta...oh...melancholy. I blame it on the new diet I'm doing, which isn't a diet but more of a cutting-back on stuff. And my body is missing the sugar. To help with the endorphins, I've decided to sing to 80s music this morning, loudly, into a brush-microphone. Join me.

Any other suggestions?