Category: humor

Why I drive like Mr. Magoo, and how that might help me finish my book before I’m dead

**An apology to those of you who accidentally got this yesterday. I guess I blog a little like Mr. Magoo, too.

I was recently explaining to a friend why I have trouble getting much writing done.

I described the runway approach I use to build momentum: collecting my thoughts…exercising to clear my head…I need a full stomach, a glass of water, and my phone nearby, set to vibrate. I like my work area to be clean and organized. In fact, it’s best if the whole house is clean and organized, the bills paid, meal planning done, and groceries in the fridge, so there’s no lingering ‘to do’ list hanging over my head.

I wish I were exaggerating.

I need a writing soundtrack. Headphones are best, with familiar music rambling like an old friend inside my head. I like to drift in and out of a song without it snagging my attention.

Once I actually sit down and face the computer, I usually need to write a healthy chunk of crap before I can access the good stuff. Then, after the initial spew, I need about three or four solid hours of uninterrupted time to make any measurable progress.

As I was describing this process, it suddenly struck me how absurd it all was. Sure, who wouldn’t write best under those circumstances? The problem is that they occur simultaneously maybe once a year; the remainder of the time, I just wish I were seriously writing. I might squeeze out a blog post now and then, but when is The Book going to happen?

Here’s my revelation:  I simply can’t wait for the stars to align to produce the perfect writing conditions; if I do, I won’t finish my book until long after I’m dead.

I need to write now, regardless of the circumstances (or, for that matter, the litany of mental obstacles listed previously).

And I’ll bet it’s possible.

After all, I drive best when I’m well-rested, well-fed, and alone in the car, listening to my favorite music. But, I don’t wait to go places until I meet all of the aforementioned conditions. If I need to be somewhere, I go. If I need to get my loved ones around, I do. I take small people to school and to the doctor and the dentist. I fill up with gas and get a few things for dinner. Maybe I parked in the sun so I have to hold the steering wheel with some slightly used tissues I found under the seat. Maybe the playdate gets carsick and I can’t find a plastic bag. No matter. If I need to drive, I drive. Never mind that I have to crank Today’s Hits in order for my two lovely children to refrain from bickering or throwing something at the driver. Shoot, I even have to drive when there is bickering and throwing. I have to drive when people are crying or asking questions like ‘what is god?’ I have to drive when I’m in a bad mood, when I’m sick, and when I’ve been so busy that I’ve forgotten to eat a meal or two. When I need to be somewhere, I go–no matter what is happening in and around me. It might not be graceful. I might careen a bit like Mr. Magoo, but I can get there.

IT’S THE SAME WITH WRITING OR MAKING ART OR PARENTING OR HAVING IMPORTANT CONVERSATIONS OR ANYTHING AT ALL. If we wait for the perfect set of circumstances, we will miss our opportunity completely. End of story.

Why I am not out Shooting Fabulous Photographs

A few years ago, I wrote a list of all the reasons that I was not out taking photographs. Here are fifty-five of them, pretty much intact. Few things have changed, though I did finally graduate and purchase a digital camera. Now technological issues hinder me more than the cost of film, and–since my father stopped driving–I worry about his health instead.

It is terribly disappointing to discover that I still sabotage myself in exactly the same ways. Self-awareness may be the first step, but it’s obviously not the only step necessary to get out of my own way and MAKE STUFF.

I dedicate this list to Larry Sultan, a teacher of such power, insight, and humor that I will be forever grateful for that one short semester I sat in his class.

Roughly Half of the Reasons Why I Am Not Out Shooting Fabulous Photographs Right Now

  1. I was up last night worrying about the shoot.
  2. The light is not right.
  3. I cannot figure out the spot meter.
  4. The camera is wobbly on the tripod.
  5. I do not have a light tight place to load sheet film.
  6. I do not know what to take a picture of.
  7. I suspect that I am not really a photographer.
  8. I need a snack.
  9. If I don’t try too hard, then I have an excuse later if nothing comes out well.
  10. I think I might be getting sick.
  11. I am panicked about finances.
  12. I need to pay the bills.
  13. I was up last night because the cat was making a ruckus.
  14. My professional life is in the toilet.
  15. I still haven’t finished unpacking the boxes from my move four years ago.
  16. I am perplexed that Alan Ernst has not responded to my emails.
  17. I am worried about my father’s driving.
  18. I can’t find my checkbook.
  19. The zone system does not speak to me.
  20. I need a few things from the store.
  21. I should really call my mother.
  22. No matter what I think of, someone has done it well already.
  23. I am not sure what to do about the gophers.
  24. I just thought of a great status update that I don’t want to waste.
  25. I need to read a little theory to situate myself.
  26. I should probably head out early in case traffic is bad on the bridge.
  27. I haven’t finished my homework.
  28. I need to pick a celebrity doppelganger for my facebook profile.
  29. I missed the light for today.
  30. When was my last dental appointment?
  31. I feel a little queasy.
  32. I haven’t finished my thank you notes.
  33. It’s hard to think straight when the place is a mess.
  34. I am afraid of disappointing myself.
  35. I am afraid of disappointing Larry.
  36. I am too wound up to concentrate.
  37. I accidentally unwound too much.
  38. I should really make travel arrangements for the holidays.
  39. I think I forgot my brother’s birthday.
  40. I feel guilty spending so much money on film.
  41. And developing.
  42. And paper.
  43. Maybe I should do a little research on digital cameras.
  44. Was that my phone?
  45. I feel guilty spending time at art school while my kids are off growing up somewhere else.
  46. A little yoga would really clear my head.
  47. I’m almost out of cat litter.
  48. My pants are too snug to be comfortable.
  49. I need to update my resume.
  50. I can’t concentrate with the kids running amok.
  51. Now that they are in bed, I am too tired.
  52. I need to reorganize my negatives.
  53. I am worried that my parents are going to die.
  54. I can’t find all of the equipment I need when I need it.
  55. I probably don’t have enough time now to really get a good start.

Mushroom Head: bad hair and bad puns

 

It's always nice to know that things could be worse.
It’s always nice to know that things could be worse.

For a brief period of my life–back in the days before kids and mortgages–I had a hair guy in a super style-y salon. He was awesome. James was fast, smashingly handsome, and gave fantastic scalp massages. He was also way too hip for me. He talked me into a variety of things that were a wee bit out of my league: very, very short hair, for example, and purple hair, and stripes here and there. I went willingly along, though, and I always felt fabulous.

Then I got pregnant, quit my job, and went back to school. My James Days were over. Nevermind. By that time, James was so popular he booked up six months out, and a substandard scalp massage was administered by one of his minions.

After a year or two of husband haircuts, I started going to a ‘salon’ notable for a). being significantly less expensive than Supercuts, as well as for b). its ridiculously stupid pun name. What is it with salons and puns? Open a phone book and you’ll find: Beyond the Fringe, The Grateful Head, Curl up and Dye.

Occasionally I asked them to color my hair, but mostly I had them hack an inch or two off the ends once or twice a year. That was awesome too, in a completely different way. No need to schedule in advance. Conveniently located. Super cheap.

Every once in a while I would ask for a little something different, which was never a good idea. After a couple of fails, I brought in photographs to help explain what I wanted. I described in great detail what I liked about a couple of different cuts and asked whoever was available which they thought might work on my head of hair.

She looked at me for a long, silent moment. “You want side-bang?” she asked finally. “I give you side-bang.”

That was not an attractive period.

In the meantime, my hair did not recover after two pregnancies. My stick straight hair became mildly wavy, then completely out of control. Instead of falling to my shoulders, it reached out into some sort of giant frizz triangle, just as wide as it was long. At the same time, my forehead grew and grew. When I got to the point where my “bad hair day” was morphing into a “bad hair decade,” I knew I needed a REAL haircut.

A very patient friend of mine sent me out into the big world with some advice: “you will pay $$$ for your haircut…and you will give them a nice tip on top of that…and you will feel fabulous.”

That was when I got what I called “The Mushroom.”

Don’t get me wrong. I looked great when I left. I felt fabulous for two whole days. It’s just that I don’t have the time, tools, products, and assistants to get my hair to do that on a regular basis. Or…ever. What happened at home was that the bottom layers flattened out into long straggly bits, and the top layers swelled up and out until the overall effect was like this:

Imagine my face somewhere in the middle of the stem.
Imagine my face somewhere in the middle of the stem.

It was utterly appalling.

I never went back.

And it took months and months to gather the courage to try again.

What happened to my jet-setting lifestyle?

Not me. Also, not my photo.

It recently occurred to me that I might never step onto a plane with perfectly coifed hair, a single leather bag, and jaw-dropping heels. Women like that never bump into anyone or drop anything.  They are never running to make connections, a bit sweaty and wild-eyed, with plastic bags dangling from their forearms.  They are never hit on the head with something poorly stowed in the overhead compartment.

No, they simply glide onto their flight, murmuring amiably with the attractive stranger seated beside them, perhaps gesturing with an adult beverage.

For years, I kept hoping I would evolve, so the moment of my epiphany hit me pretty hard. After boarding a cross-country flight not long ago, I heard myself hailing a flight attendant because I had forgotten my special back pillow in the airport lounge. Egads. Have I really gone straight from new, incompetent travel mom to pre-geriatric without stopping? That hardly seems fair.

For the record, I took ballet for years, followed by modern dance and a long stint of yoga. I can stand on one foot for an eternity. I can ride a bike, do an elbow stand, a head stand, and a cartwheel, though none of the above is advised after a glass of wine. So how come when I enter an airport I look as if I were cast in my own personal slapstick comedy?

I imagine this is largely due to a variety of personal failings, but there are a number of forces conspiring against me.

1.  Security.

Though I have settled down considerably since my teenage years, authority figures continue to make me very, very nervous.  I even get a little clammy when asked for ID in the grocery store, so imagine my demeanor as I go through security.  No doubt this is why I am often the target of ‘random’ searches, and have had dangerous items like artichoke paste, Chapstick, and electrical tape seized. Thank goodness someone is looking out for wily people like me, though.  You probably didn’t even know that world domination was possible, armed with soft lips and duct tape’s travel-sized cousin.

And where exactly are you supposed to put your ID and boarding passes between checkpoints? It’s nerve-wracking (and feels foolish) to stow them in my carry-on and let them roll through security without me.  If I hold them, I’m afraid I’ll set them down and forget them when I tie my shoes and re-stow my laptop. Please don’t suggest pockets. Girl pockets are stupid. They are for show only. No decent wallet fits in a girl pants pocket, and even if you manage to squeeze the ID card in solo, it’s not like you can sit down afterwards.

2.  The age of carry ons vs. the world’s tiniest bladder.

Is it possible to remain properly hydrated without anxiously boring a hole in the seatbelt sign, waiting to make a break for the toilet? Sure, I go before I board the plane, but everything about using the airport restroom is a nightmare. Oh, how I miss my bag-checking days. How can I squeeze into the ludicrously undersized stall and close the door without dropping something in the toilet?  My latest trick is to set my backpack atop my top-heavy roll-y bag while dropping my trousers, only to topple the tower with my knees when I sit down. Everything scoots out from under the door, ramming some irritable/delayed/altitude-assed traveller on the shin. Nobody likes that. If you have ever seen a bride-to-be trying to use the facilities in full regalia, you might have some inkling of what is happening behind my door.  But brides have attendants, so there the similarity ends. Not that I want an extra person in there with me; I just want the disabled stall. Or iron kidneys.

3.  Annoying dietary restraints.

As a gluten-intolerant person unable to digest red meat, food is also an issue. I should mention that things are better these days, thank goodness, and I feel privileged to be able to purchase the $12 packet of hummus so I won’t starve en route. But that’s not going to help me when I land in South Dakota at 11 pm. I need to bring a loaf of my sad cardboard bread or a bag of rice cakes wherever I go, which is hard to squeeze into my carry-ons after laptop, camera, clothing, reading material, journal, toiletries, and bottle of water.  My bags are so over-stuffed that looking for a set of headphones could take twenty minutes and a complete reorg. How do you cram stuff in so it is possible to access what you need–without revealing your entire personal life to the folks sandwiched on either side? Oh, well. They probably saw it all when my bag was searched at security. Nothing will surprise them now.

4.  A bad back.

Never mind that I have a few good stories–including breaking up a fight and ‘exercising’ in an ‘unorthodox position.’  A bad back is a poor traveling companion, no matter how it happened. I simply can’t survive a long flight without my orthopedic pillow.  Wish that thing deflated, or somehow collapsed to fit in one of my bags. No can do.

So here I am, dragging a suitcase, a backpack, my ID and boarding pass, a pillow, a bag of rice cakes, and usually a couple of kids as well. I’m probably looking for the restroom. Maybe you could think kind thoughts, and try not to stare.

 

Charlie work for parents.

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept of Charlie work, it originated on an episode of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, and refers to the crappy jobs that no one wants to do–like cleaning toilets.

As parents, there are endless rewards and inspiring moments, and you can read all about them in a stack of Hallmark cards, or in one of those Chicken Soup-y books.

Then, there are the boring moments, like when your child is not quite sick enough–when pulling the shades and administrating tylenol is not sufficient–and you are forced to read Rainbow Magic Fairy books aloud all day long.

What remains after all the inspiration and the boredom is the Charlie work.  This category includes diaper duty, of course, but the bad jobs continue long past potty-training days.  Here’s the very tip top of my current list of Charlie work for parents.  Feel free to add to my list.

Attending assemblies.  Weirdly, I’ve heard some parents dig these.  I don’t know why.  They are always scheduled smack in the middle of the day, so you get to hunt for parking at drop off, pick up, AND assembly, but don’t have time to do anything useful in between except lament having to go.  You are funneled into a malodorous multi-purpose room, where the floor clings to your shoes with the lingering remains of corn dogs and barf.  Time to choose:  scrunch onto the end of one of those long clammy tables, or duel for one of the last rusty folding chairs in the back?   Choose wisely, because assemblies start late–REALLY late–providing ample time to reflect on “chicken fried steak” and canned peas.  An eternity passes.

The room swells with more and more children that are NOT YOURS and are consequently far less tolerable.  Someone is being gleefully squashed by their neighbors on the bench.  As the collisions escalate, crying starts, triggering an endless lecture.  Someone is making fart noises, and at least one or two small people have a sticky appendage lodged in a nostril at any given moment.  Make a mental note to use hand sanitizer at the next opportunity.  At last, the Principal waves awkwardly, taps the shrieking microphone, and makes the sign for “silent fox.”

Ears open; mouth closed.

The show commences.

Time grinds to a halt while everyone else’s kids do impossibly boring things that you can’t hear anyway. Then, when your own darling child finally lurches onto stage and does the most amazing thing ever, some asshole with a ten-inch lens elbows you out of the way and you miss the shot.

I’d like to see a greeting card for that mess.

 

 

Losing my Nouns

In my dreams, I channel Dorothy Parker. Each time I open my mouth, words with weight and wit wander past my admiring audience, directly onto the pages of the New Yorker.

In my reality, however, I have always been a slow talker, rummaging a little desperately for the second half of my sentence. It’s a bit like having a Southern drawl–without the charming accent to keep the listener entertained.

In the past couple of years, it’s been getting worse. I’ve started losing my nouns. You know…the words I need to add to my sentence to have anything at all to say. Given enough time, I can pull out any number of qualifiers or adjectives, verb after verb, and even an adverb now and then. But nouns are frequently and conspicuously absent from my conversational menu.

This is causing some discord on the marriage front. In addition to my inability to finish a sentence, I need visuals to remember what the other person is saying. I recently asked my spouse to “please stop talking” about his upcoming travel schedule and “send it to me via email instead.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Why do want me to talk to you, anyway, if you’re just going to forget what I said?” Good question. I can’t remember.

Not that it would make me feel much better, but I can’t dismiss these as senior moments yet, either. I’m not a teenager anymore, but it’s not like I’m a card carrying member of AARP. Besides, I don’t feel old; I just feel stupid.

Sometimes I am so horrified at the prolonged, awkward silences that I fill in with whatever is in my line of sight. “Bills!” I blurt. “Clip ons!” “Peanut butter!” I might say with feigned certainty. Then I try to cover. My poor kids get so confused. “What are you talking about?” my nine-year-old asked me once. “I don’t even eat peanut butter.” “Yeah, well, look,” I said. “There it is. If you did like it, we have plenty.” By that time, I have confused myself as well, and I don’t remember what I was trying to say in the first place. Oh well, perhaps that is a blessing. It’s always worse when you know what you’re missing.

I remember vividly the first time this happened to me. I was visiting my brother-in-law, and I had just confided how I repeatedly tried to turn off the skylight in his bathroom. We laughed, and it was a nice moment–until we were teamed up for Pictionary minutes later. Guess what word he got? He was so excited! He started drawing and I knew immediately what it was, but I could not remember that word! “Sky-window?” I said, in a teeny, tiny voice. “Window-light?” “Ceiling-window?” I tried endlessly and in vain, watching him turn purple, a single vein throbbing at his temple. We never played Pictionary again, but I frequently have that same feeling. I am losing it, whatever it is.

After listening to my anxious whinging for a while, a friend suggested I get some of those Gingko Biloba supplements. Herbally-minded folks claim that regular usage works wonders to sharpen the old gray matter. I bought myself some. Trouble is, you have to remember to take it. At this very moment, there are at least two bottles of expired Gingko Biloba sitting in my kitchen cupboard, and they haven’t helped me one bit.

I don’t forget everything, though.

I remember advertising jingles from my childhood. That’s super handy, as you can imagine. Come to think of it, that’s probably what is taking up the bulk of my RAM.

I remember other people’s kids’ names. When necessary, #1 and #2 will suffice for my own kids, so that’s not much of a problem, either. Grown ups all look more or less the same, say the same sort of things, and behave as expected most of the time, so their names generally vanish into the unknown. There are exceptions, of course. If you shave half of your mustache, run for office, or throw up on the sushi platter at a party, I will probably remember your name.

Most unfortunately, I remember all of the things I would dearly love to forget. Let’s say you make a disparaging comment such as: “That font you chose for your thesis work reminds me of Sunset Magazine.” Oof. I will remember that until the day I die. How could that have been at all helpful in the evolution of humankind? I would probably write a letter to ask that Mr. Whosit evolution guy if he were still alive.

Wait. What was I talking about?

Iceland Did Not Suck

I just got back from the trip of a lifetime, so you probably won’t feel all that sorry for me, despite the fact that I am waking up every day at 4 a.m.  I toss and turn for 45 minutes or so–just long enough to really start annoying the spouse–then drag myself out of bed and stare at the wall, waiting for the kids to wake up.  They have jet lag, too, so this doesn’t take nearly as long as one might hope.

Though cranky and somewhat incoherent, I do manage to muddle around somewhat successfully until about 4 p.m, at which point I give up and let the kids watch Project Runway reruns ad nauseum.  Meanwhile, I push myself to multitask; I try to think about dinner magically appearing while simultaneously staring at the wall.

In a burst of inspiration, I have decided to try to use the extra comatose hours I now have each day to do a little writing.  Staring at a blank computer screen is not that much of a stretch.

Let’s start with Iceland, then.

As you may have gathered from my post title, going there did not suck, and someday I will wow you with amazing stories about the days and nights I spent in Reykjavik and beyond.  At the moment, though, I am still mourning my departure.  In fact, in order to pry myself out of that country I had to make a list of the things I would NOT miss, which is all I am prepared to share at the moment.

THINGS I WILL NOT MISS ABOUT ICELAND

1.  The midnight sun is unbelievably awesome but no love will be lost on the 4 a.m. sun.  Reykjavik is nestled much closer to the North Pole than anywhere I have ever visited, and I was eagerly awaiting the impossibly long days.  But, I did not fully comprehend that there would be no darkness at all, or how that would feel.  The sun sets and sets for hours and hours, burning across the horizon line; teasing.  There is a buzz of anticipation, like when you throw something up in the air, and you don’t see or hear it hit the ground.  You keep looking, stomach in a lurch.   Likewise, I kept waiting for the moment when a breath of shadow would bring relief and the capacity to sleep.  I had a sleep mask.  I had melatonin.  I had ambien, but even when I dozed off, I simply could not continue to do so for a reasonable number of hours when all visual indications were counterintuitive.  With my temporal clues turned on end, I was actually widest awake at all the wrong times.  Of course, now that I am home, I am still a mess.  It gets dark here, but I still lie wide awake, waiting for the sun to finally drift out of the Icelandic sky.

2.  Taking a shower at our apartment in Reykjavik.  Iceland has about 130 volcanoes.  Consequently, they use the hot water and steam from geothermal hot springs to heat homes and generate power.  There is absolutely no need for water heaters.  That is fantastically green and fabulous, and there are some marvelous side effects:  the pools, geysers, steaming landscape, and all.  Meanwhile, the hot water from the tap smells overwhelmingly like sulphur.  Imagine taking a shower in that.  Steamy, rotten-eggy nastiness, streaming over your head.  Possible upside: whence emerging from the bathroom after a lengthy spell, no one is quite sure if you have taken a particularly malodorous dump or merely washed your hair.

3.  Vegetables?  What vegetables?  There is very little that grows in Iceland.  No trees, for example.  Or nearly none.  This is the source of  the only Icelandic joke, according to the internet.  (i.e., “what do you do if you are lost in the forest in Iceland?” Stand up.)  Visualize stark, stoic, volcanic peaks rising sharply out of lava fields like Scandinavian relatives.  Throw in some glaciers.  In the other direction, fjords, the ocean.  There are sheep–lots of sheep–and a multitude of mullet-sporting horses, but no foliage.  A chocolate bar is therefore less expensive–not cheap!–and much easier to find than an apple, for example.  I spent $3 on a half-rotten onion.  One dinner at a lovely, well-regarded, jaw-droppingly expensive restaurant, I was initially thrilled to find a single mangy-looking strawberry garnishing my plate.  It tasted like dust.

Ah, the memories.

As the rest of the world is starting to stir, the remaining list items will have to wait for another day.

The Party

A few weeks ago, my youngest turned seven.  Normally, I have a conniption before hosting birthday parties, but Josie had decided months in advance to have a cooking party.  I had plenty of time to track down aprons, chef hats, and mini-rolling pins.  I ordered cookie cutters, too, to flesh out the goodie bags.  Even the menu was decided well in advance:  pizza and chocolate soufflés.  This shindig was going to be a breeze.

I asked my husband that morning, “Should I be worried about something?  Because I’m not.”  He just shrugged at me, confused.  He doesn’t worry about kid parties.

Cherubic guests arrived, smiling shyly.

Suddenly I realized I had skipped lunch while cleaning house.  There was no way my celiac-self would survive a house full of pizza without eating something.  While the girls chatted politely, I rummaged in the freezer and found a chunk of a gluten-free pizza crust, about the size of a single, large slice.  I topped it and tossed it in the oven.  All was well.

Then we started cooking with the girls.  Holy crap.

I have repressed most of that pizza-making extravaganza, but I do vaguely recall a boatload of whining and yelling and hogging cheese.  Leon and I finally shoved the pizzas in the oven and began to deal with the aftermath left in the wake of ten small chefs.

Suddenly a new guest arrived.  I got all of the ingredients out again and helped her make a pizza while Leon took care of criers and looked for bandaids.  We sort of forgot about the pizzas in the oven.

“It’s burnt!” one child announced with disdain.  I looked down at her pizza and had to admit it was pretty unappetizing.  Man.  I asked a few kids if they would share.  As expected, they would not.  I sighed and took the sullen child back to the kitchen.  I got out all of the ingredients for a third time, and we made her another pizza.  This time, I set two timers.

She moped at the table, so I got out extra tasty things to share around and keep her busy. The chorus of whining and yelling for drink, napkin, new cup, a different seat, went on relentlessly.

“Do you want to eat now?” my husband asked.

I laughed, a little maniacally.  “Are you kidding?”  I asked.  “Now is the time to maintain vigilance.”  I looked longingly at my little nub of gluten free pizza, though.  Someday we would be united.

Finally, late girl and sullen girl’s pizzas were ready.  They looked perfect.  Late girl was full from snacking, though, and ran off to play.  Sullen girl wanted the pieces cut a certain way.  A fresh napkin.  More to drink.  Then she called me over.  “I forgot I can’t eat pizza,” she said.  I stared at her.  I may have narrowed my eyes a little.  I picked up her plate and inserted it directly into the compost while maintaining stern eye contact.  “Go play,” I ordered. It was the nicest thing I could think of to say.

What followed was another round of herding cats in order to whip up the soufflés and get them in the oven.

I accidentally said yes when Josie asked to open a couple of presents.  I really meant to wait until after dessert, but who knew when that would be done, anyway?  The girls crowded around her and fought to see first, to grab card, to foist gift.  I was losing track of who gave what.  At this point, the party was actually supposed to be over, but who was going to leave before soufflé?

Parents started to arrive.  Leon had quaffed our last two beers trying to survive the party, so he sent me to retrieve the magnum of scotch from the living room.  Mostly to be funny, I think, but we got a few takers and then one of the dads went on a beer run.  It was a mercy mission.  The chaos continued.

I found myself completely overcome for a minute.  I took a swig from a giant wine glass and stared blankly out the window until I realized a parent was standing directly on the other side of it, frowning at me and gesturing toward the door.  I wonder how long she’d been there.  By this time, it was so loud we couldn’t hear ourselves think, so no one had heard her pounding.

I wish this had been a parent I knew better.  Instead, it was basically a stranger, eyeing the gigantic bottle of scotch on the kitchen counter, empty beer bottles, dirty dishes piled to oblivion.  Feisty folks were talking smack about annoying children and teetering marriages.  I felt like the whole scene was a neon sign reading:  “We’d have looked after your kid if we weren’t so busy getting soused.”

In the living room, things were much worse.  Inappropriate songs–think ‘Teenage Dreams’ and ‘Love Game’–were blaring while my oldest was sashaying around in what looked like hot pants, a bra, and thigh high black boots.  It was actually her swim suit and a pair of my boots, I swear, but it looked terribly risqué.  To add to the effect, she was sporting Jackie O-type sunglasses and an eight-foot stuffed snake wrapped around her like a boa.  I don’t know where she learned her moves, either, but I was glad all of the dads were in the kitchen.  Meanwhile, a critical mass of the younger girls had shoved all of the furniture out of the way and were beating each other to a pulp with every single pillow in the house.  Half were screaming in delirium, half pain, with a couple of criers here and there.

The unknown mom sank onto the stairs while I hunted around for her kid and her belongings.  “I know she’s here somewhere,” I reassured her. When I finally got them out the door, I turned to the folks in the kitchen and gestured toward the living room.  “Don’t even think of going in there,” I advised firmly, refilling my glass.

“Party’s over!”  Leon yelled.  “If your parents aren’t here, you can wait on the curb.”

No one paid any mind–except the adult guests, who laughed.  Frankly, I was only 50% sure that Leon was joking.

About this time, I decided I absolutely must eat before becoming completely delirious.  I looked at the stovetop, from which my pizza had beckoned all evening.  Empty.  I looked at Leon.  “Where’s my pizza?”

He shrugged.  “Where’d you put it?”  So helpful.

Then I noticed the dish towel over his arm.  I turned to look at the sink and saw a tower of dirty dishes under the running faucet, and three or four levels down I found my pizza slice, literally swimming in the run off.  I took a long swig from my glass.  I punched Leon half-heartedly and stared at the soggy remains.  Then I reached in, shook it off, and put it back in the oven to dry.

An hour or two later, when we finally had a moment of silence, I ate that thing, too.  It wasn’t so bad.  Next year we’ll order out, though.  Happy Birthday, Josie!

My cat is the reincarnation of Chuck Berry.

I heard Chuck Berry is actually still alive somewhere, but I don’t think that interferes with what follows.

For those who are unaware, Mr. Berry is also known as “Johnny B. Bad.”  I’m sure Google could enlighten you regarding the scandals which surround him.  Please proceed with caution, though.  I am already feeling a wee bit apologetic for what I am about to divulge.

****************************************************************

Elsie found me at the SPCA.  The minute I walked into her room, she shimmied up me, licked my cheek, and unzipped my fleece with her teeth.  It was unsettling but charming, and I didn’t say no.

As I was filling out the adoption paperwork, a volunteer went to pack her up.  He returned 20 minutes later, wild-eyed and disheveled, and shoved the cardboard carrier at me. “Whatever you do,” he said breathlessly, “DO NOT OPEN THE BOX UNTIL YOU GET HOME.”

In hindsight, we should have tossed her in the trunk, but I foolishly sat with the carrier on my lap the whole way home.  Elsie promptly destroyed my favorite sweater by clawing at me through the air holes, and sensing her anxiety, I tried to yelp as soothingly as possible.  Next she pressed her face into the side of the box with such force she made a hole.  Rather than let her escape, I pressed the carrier against me while she eviscerated my torso.  Frankly, I was afraid she would jump the driver and we would all die.

Now settled, Elsie likes to leap out of nowhere to attack innocent children.  She steals stuffed animals and rips their eyes out.  She has taken over the loveseat, and will defend it by any means necessary.  Do not even lean against that thing.  She swipes bacon and roast chicken off my plate if my attention wanders for even a nanosecond.  She perches on my shoulder when I sit down at the computer.  If I don’t start fawning immediately, she digs her front claws into whatever bare flesh she can find and dangles her rear down until it hits the keyboard and ruins something important.

When my children have playdates, it is not uncommon for the visitors to express terror and frustration.  “Can you please move your cat?”  tiny voices ask me.  “She is staring at me in a scary way.”  I totally understand.

Still, she has a number of more endearing qualities.  She quacks, for example, which is entertaining.  She plays fetch.  She sleeps curled around my neck like a scarf.  She cleans my eyebrows, kneads my neck, purrs in my ear.  And, she loooooves me.  She follows me about the house, outside, even down to the corner, and holds a vigil for me when I go beyond that.  When I drive up, she runs out into the middle of the street and lies down in oncoming traffic.  She REFUSES TO MOVE, too, until I also walk into traffic and scratch her belly.  So far, drivers have thankfully noticed and stopped in the nick of time, but they stare at the black fuzzy blob blocking their way.  ‘Is that your cat?’ they ask, staring incredulously.  Not really.  I’m her person.

Elsie was the temporary name assigned by the shelter, and we tried hard to rename her. Nothing stuck.  She does have quite a few nicknames, however, including “Buttwig.”  Here’s where the ghost of Chuck Berry emerges.

When everyone is away or asleep, I generally do not close the bathroom door.  I think ventilation can be your friend in there, and the bathroom window is essentially broken.  In the event of an emergency, I could probably pry it open, but I would need a good 10 minutes to wrestle the thing shut before the hinges give out completely and I behead one of the neighbors.  I’ve heard they frown on that sort of thing.

Trouble is, now that Elsie has moved in, she likes to hang out wherever I am–especially in the bathroom.  Specifically, she likes to squeeze behind me on the seat and settle in. Buttwig.  She licks my buttocks.  Gross.

If I forget and complain about it, my spouse will suggest gallantly: “why don’t you just close the f*cking door?”  That makes sense, of course, except that’s the sort of thing I would need to remember to do BEFORE I sit down.  Also, it’s difficult to pry her off once she’s settled.  Have you ever tried to pick up a clawed creature from behind your back?

I now have to flush before I stand up, too, or that cat will try and climb into the soiled toilet.  What is that about?

I also tend to leave the door open when I shower to help with condensation issues (c.f. broken window).  Elsie will hop on the side of the tub and stare at me with a spooky intensity that makes me blush.  If she leaves, it is only to go and take a dump outside the door, so we can both marvel at the deadly aroma emitted by kitten poo.  The she will return to befoul my fluffy white towel and stare at me some more.

Perhaps there is a reasonable explanation for her odd behavior, but I can’t think what it might be.

The bizarre thing is that when I occasionally lock her in the basement or outside for the night–usually by accident–I find I miss that crazy cat.  Where is my scarf, I wonder.

A neighbor saw me today, wrestling gigantic things out of the trunk.  He offered to help, for which I was very grateful.  As we lugged boxes into the house he noticed Elsie.  “Um.”  Long pause.  “Is that YOUR cat?” he finally asked.  I was a little embarrassed to say yes.  “She seems very sweet,” he said, “but completely crazy.”  Agreed.

Ill-advised Double Features

Long, long ago, when I was allowed near the remote now and then…

It was possible to rent movies, but a person had to actually walk to the store to do so.  I lived in a funkier part of town then, one with decent public transportation, cheap, interesting restaurants, and a movie Mecca called Leather Tongue Video.  That place had just about anything you could imagine–from the craptastic to the inscrutable and obscure.

Every Tuesday, the painfully hip folks at Leather Tongue offered a double feature deal. They rubber-banded two VHS tapes together and you could rent them both for the price of one.  The catch was, you had to take them both.  I probably only made it there once on a Tuesday–I also had a regular paying job and a life in those days– but I will never forget the first pairing I randomly picked up:  Joe Piscopo Live and Misery.

I didn’t rent them, of course.  Is it really necessary to see if you can survive those two back to back?  I went home empty-handed, opened a few beers, and spent the entire evening making up equally hilarious pairings with a pile of my beloved housemates.  It was one of those magical times when you laugh so hard you weep and hiccough, and the next morning your abs are mysteriously sore.

*****************************************************************

A couple of days ago, I had the good fortune to see a few of those former housemates, and it was delightful to hang out once again.  An hour or two in, I mentioned the doomed double feature night.  “Remember?”  I asked them.  “I want to write about those mythic double features in my blog, but I can’t for the life of me recall any of our inspired pairings.  Help me brainstorm a few to get me going on the post.”

They looked at me blankly as we sat in silence for an awkward couple of minutes.

“I think it was really about the beer,” one woman finally offered.

Damn!  Is that why I used to think I was funnier?

Now that we are on a cleanse, pregnant, ill, gluten-free, living in the suburbs, and/or trying to keep the wee ones regular, it’s rare to see us really let loose.  It’s not like grown-ups are always boring or even necessarily sober, and parenting itself can be goofy delirium on a fairly regular basis.  Still, I have some mighty fond memories from a time when everyone was single-ish, childless, and too broke to go out.  We all just lurked on the sofa and amused ourselves night after night.

So here I am sitting here at a coffee house chain, sucking down a lame-ass decaf latte and racking my brain for a couple of decently ridiculous double features, to no avail.

Dead Ringers with episodes of Saved by the Bell?

Bigger, Longer, and Uncut with Yentl?

Ugh.

Maybe you’ll have better luck.  Ping me if you do.