mothers without borders

My previous post, about my declining health, while rich in detail and ripe with candor, barely elicited a nickel's worth of sympathy (read: comments) from you unfeeling bastards, so I hesitate to post again. However, having just survived an apocalypse of sorts, I couldn't suppress my primal need to scrawl my story along the cave walls for everyone to see.

Last week my mom forwarded an email from Borders advertising a kid party this Saturday (today), apparently to celebrate the new children's area. Immediately my stomach began churning, for joining inane revelry in large groups of strangers is pretty much a little slice of hell as far as I'm concerned. Unfortunately I have unwittingly passed this discomfort along to my kids, whom you will never find sitting Indian-style on a carpet with thirty other kids singing "If You're Happy and You Know It." Thus, I was quite surprised when Reilly asked if we could go. My initial response was to try and appeal to her judgmental side and tell her that it was going to be totally lame. She would have believed me. Alas, I have recently embarked upon a mission to reclaim some of the innocence my kids have lost due to my loud, cynical, and incessant views on life in general. Compounding the pressure in this particular case was the fact that I knew my mom would ask later if we had gone. While she is a truly amazing mother, grandmother, human being, and Democrat, she harbors a bit of doubt about my kids' education. Like many of us, she constantly applies a public school standard to what we're doing, and always calculates that my kids are coming up just a tad short, which she puts as nicely as possible. All in all, I knew I was destined for the "exciting games and prizes" today.

The celebration only ran from 2-4pm, so of course I was reminded of this at 2:13 while checking my email, dripping wet from a shower. All I wanted in the world today was to stretch out in comfy pants and finish my book, but my internal moral compass (mine's a miniature, which I'm sure surprises no one) led me to ask Reilly if she still wanted to go. I clung to the hope that just the magnanimous act of asking would be rewarded karmically, and that she would say no. So, I flinched a little when she said she did. Quinn was with Todd, and opted out, so I was left to slap on a little makeup and the aforementioned comfy pants, and make my daughter's day.

(By the way, one of the ways in which Murphy's Law applies to my particular life is that if I go to Borders in yoga pants, flip flops, unpainted toenails, and my hair half wet, the laws of nature guarantee that I will see one, if not all, of my mortal enemies. And I have more than you may think. So today's outfit redemption was my custom-made Obama shirt. My enemies are all Republicans, and they are all a great deal less intelligent than I, so I decided to flaunt my Democratic pride, and hope no one saw my toenails.)

Okay okay so Reilly and I made our way through Borders, anticipating a gleeful swarm of kids, moving from one age-appropriate activity to another (as promised in the email). What we saw, however, were twenty very young children seated on the floor singing a song about a lima bean. There was some sort of pun, like, "Where oh where has that lima been." I literally had to use my hand to wipe the scowl off my face, and then I looked down at Rei, hoping I'd succeeded in conjuring up an excited look. But, I could see instantly that Reilly was doing the exact same thing. So we stood, like wallflowers at a school dance (which my kids will never attend, take THAT Mom!), trying to figure out what to do. She would sooner have stripped naked than squeeze in amongst the gaggle of five year olds on the floor, to sing a song she doesn't know. (What can I say? Raffi didn't do the lima bean song.) Telepathically I knew that the whole scene was embarrassing for Reilly, and that we were both noting the disparity between the vibrant email, and what we saw before us. Just when we were beginning to slink away, the adult leading the singing announced that it was time for the scavenger hunt. Okay now this was promising. We took one of the sheets, gave it a quick glance, and scurried towards our first challenge. The paper asked who the Democratic Presidential candidate is, and instructed us to find a book about him, and to write the title and author's name. Easy enough. Reilly said, rather audibly, "That's easy, Barack Obama!" Oh the pride. The second question was about the Republican candidate, which Reilly also knows, so we were really cooking. It was a little troubling that the space in between each instruction was a little over a millimeter, so we started getting frustrated. My way of expressing frustration is to criticize my daughter's handwriting, and to shrink in pain, certain that everyone in Borders can see that she still begins a few of her letters from the bottom. The bottom! (Gasp! Maybe Mom is RIGHT!) Shortly thereafter we realized that our problems had only just begun, for squeezing letters into a space like this = for a child who is accustomed to regular lined paper, is nothing compared to the mind-numbing obscurity of the rest of the questions. Now, we love love love Borders, and we go there all the time. When we entered the other day, to pick out Todd's birthday presents, Quinn and Reilly knew exactly where to go. But today, after our initial rush of confidence, Rei and I were struck by the subsequent challenges. I mean, perhaps we haven't acquainted ourselves thoroughly enough with Borders' vast sea of titles, but how the hell am I supposed to find the sixth book written by the half brother of Lithuania's most popular author, let alone Reilly? When asked to find a "HISTORY" book "ALL ABOUT" your favorite state, Rei and I were nearly driven into comas scouring shelf after sodding shelf looking for anything about California. (Little traitor, ain't she?) Finally I blurted out, "What about the fucking gold rush?" Just when I was about to enlist in Al Qaida out of desperation, we saw a book about the San Francisco earthquake of 1906. Reilly's hands literally shook as she wrote, some from the top, some from the bottom. The best I could not to harass her was to sigh a lot and bite my lip until it bled. Next up we had to find a book about our favorite sport. Conveniently, the 3'x10' sign that said "Sports & Leisure" actually leads you to the health and wellness aisle. My sweet determined girl and I sifted through approximately 615 books on everything from cancer to diabetes to macrobiotic diets, before we realized their error. Then, once we found the sports aisle, we were dismayed that there was nothing about track. So Rei said how about cheerleading? Nada. Swimming? Zilch. In fact the only sports recognized by Borders at all are football, baseball, basketball, and golf. Luckily, we found a stowaway about bowling, which Rei has done. Must have been some errant Waldenbooks return...

We were sweating profusely, and swearing like sailors (well, one of us was). These questions were so confounding as to almost make my pituitary gland explode. Were all the other kids using this same list? Where were their parents? Did we accidentally get the MENSA scavenger hunt sheet? Find a book "ALL ABOUT" the ninth deepest fault line in Japan. So immersed were we in our quest for an excerpt from page 455 of the book written by the scientist who split the quark the second to the last time, that we actually began hyperventilating when we read the next question: Find a CD featuring three brothers. OMG. Could it be? We looked at each other. "The Jonas Brothers, right?" We said it aloud. We reread the sheet to make sure they weren't asking for their producer's blood type. Nope, just the Jonas Brothers. Reilly nearly collapsed from the lack of complexity of this question. Finally, we hunted down a Disney DVD about some sort of camp, and we were done. Ragged, limping, husks of ourselves, we returned to the children's area, which had become a ghost town. We found one of the employees who had sung the lima bean song, and we flung ourselves at her feet, as though we had just crossed the desert and she had the canteen. Her face lit up, she grabbed our sheet with gusto, and as marched over to what was, presumably, the prize shelf. She readily stuffed something into Reilly's hand, and as we walked away, blinking our eyes back into focus, we saw that in this demented, mind-altering game, Borders had bested us. For all our hard work, for all our valor and determination, we received a leaflet with a cupcake recipe on it. Seeing that Reilly was also dialing the recruiting officer for Al Qaida, I remembered the "free beverage and free cookie," and steered my shell-shocked daughter to the cafe. After watching a stream of about nine kids walk away with drinks, I asked confidently, "Hi, is this where they're handing out the refreshments for the kids' party?" Not even looking up, the employee said, "Oh, um, actually, the deal was that if you bought a large drink, you got a small one free." It was as though we had survived a war and then missed our ride home. I clutched her tiny, cramped-from-all-the-writing hand, and we left in silence. Everything we had been through (like kneeling in spilled chai to write down an answer), more tedium than a year at Harvard Law School, my baby's blistered fingers. For what? A recipe? I am so pissed. Never again will I stifle my lack of enthusiasm for these lima-bean-sing-a-long festivities, attended by children who look like they're auditioning to appear on an episode of Barney. I will wear my scorn proudly, along with my Obama shirt, and I will forevermore drill it into my kids that it is imperative to see the prize before you accept the challenge. And we'll try not to bake any dynamite into those motherfucking cupcakes.

buy the book

This time I just really wish you all could have been there. It's damned near indescribable. So surreal words won't do it justice, but I'll take a crack at it. The setting for this unfathomable occurrence was Costco, yesterday. The kids and I were hustling through the warehouse, and its $9,000 patio sets, in search of humbler things like Goldfish crackers and of course, my psych meds du jour. As we sped past the books, I made a note to myself to check back on the way around to look for David Sedaris' new book, which has received much acclaim by Adam and B. In fact they've taken to reading me excerpts sometimes as long as 35 pages. I wasn't sure Costco would sell a Sedaris book, and if they did, I was going to buy a copy when I get my allowance Friday. Oh God, I'm afraid a little background on my allowance is in order. It's a very touchy subject but it works something like this: Todd makes a respectable chunk of change and gives me a comfortable allowance each week. This particular week I had not only lost, for the first time in history, $20, which miraculously did not trigger a heart attack, but I had also been a little free with my spending and as such, didn't have the cash on me to buy the book yesterday.

So we're weaving in and out of the aisles in search of primo samples, but my kids got the shaft with chipotle spread and some succotash or something creepy. We loaded up on the staples, and all the while I kept seeing a woman I recognized, shopping with her mom, but I couldn't place her, which is rare for me. Grabbed flax cereal, there was the woman. Hoisted a 90 pound flat of bottled water onto the cart, she was there to see my grunting and wiping away the sweat. Damn, how do I know her? Finally we're nestled cozily in the pharmacy, my home away from home, my kids know just where to go to wait out the line. I get Maggie, who absolutely delights in my self-deprecating jokes, which is the surest way to keep me standing there until armageddon, but finally we make our way to the register. After schlepping so many boxes onto he conveyor, I felt like an honorary Egyptian, I stood up and realized that behind me were the mother and daughter duo of unknown origin. The daughter ran back for something, and as I rudely surveyed their cart, I noticed, perched atop the heap, was the David Sedaris book! Crap! I must have been fairly obvious in my exasperation, because Mom inquired as to my histrionics. I explained that I had come in looking specifically for that book, but had forgotten to go back. Dear God I had unwittingly unleashed the good samaritan from hell. First she offered to stand with my kids while I ran to fetch the book. "Oh no I couldn't, our things are on the conveyor." (Read: I don't have the coin to buy the book today.) Next she offered to ask the checker to wait, to which I sort of coughed and shook my head, smiling. As it became my turn, the daughter came back, and I continued to search my failing memory with a fine tooth comb in hopes of recognizing her. My concentration was lost however when the Mom said, "Honey, this woman came in to get this book and then forgot it. You have to go back." Again I stated that that was not necessary, and smiled, though I had long been faking it. I'm not exactly a doormat, but I definitely lack the cajones to shout out, "Listen lady, my (ex) husband buys the groceries and I live on an allowance, which I blew through already, and I can't actually afford the book until Friday, thankyouverymuch." Finally, as my purchase was complete, and I was holding four receipts (long story), Todd's debit card, my Costco card, and the cart, this precious do-gooding warrior did the unthinkable. She handed her copy of the book to the cashier, who didn't even look up for my approval, and just scanned it right through. "That's $14.89 ma'am." This is pretty much when time came to a crawl and I started hearing cacophonous music, and everything began to rotate. The truth was, I wasn't putting my fag-o-rama book on Todd's debit card, nor was I canceling the purchase, nor was I in a position to do anything but fake a seizure. I took the only money I possessed, my $20 for gas, and handed it to the man. What's worse, I had to make lovebird eyes at these wretchedly well-intended women, and thank them no less than 15 times for ruining my entire week. And I mean ruined. Thanks to them, I had to cancel an appointment, due to insufficient petrol, and my kids and I folded laundry that day and watched a very haggard, and as Quinn observed, "trans-gendered" Carly Simon on the Ellen show.

If you're wondering why I didn't just go and return it, it's because there was a very serious Japanese man returning a really large computer, but each piece was in a Ziploc baggie. If you're wondering why I didn't grow some stones and just refuse once and for all, it's because I was weak. What I'm wondering, as I'm sure are you, is how much I will love this book having already heard 89% of it. The answer to that is, hell yes, once I finish Middlesex. (Long stream of expletives!)

I hope, on those women's next shopping voyage, that some "kind" and/or deranged person loudly and fiercely insists on handing over her 1,000 pack of feminine itch relief products. Sweeter still would be if the clerk had to ask for the price over the intercom...

misquoted

Perhaps I should just shut up and enjoy the moment, but, um, have we met?

This is what the Oregonian printed this morning:

Cheyenne Fitzpatrick, who called herself a stay-at-home mom, said she and her friends are "torn" between Obama and Clinton and wanted him to outline their differences.

What a crock of shit.

My exact words were: "I am a 30 year old stay-at-home homeschooling mom of two who is so proud to be here, and immensely proud to be supporting you. I have a few friends who are good Democrats, but who are genuinely on the fence between you and Senator Clinton because there are so many similarities on key issues. I was hoping you could distinguish yourself, in a nutshell, from Senator Clinton, for the sake of my friends on the fence."

Even with two reporters putting their empty heads together, they couldn't get my quote even in the vicinity of the truth. They made me out to be some lazy-ass know-nothing who feels "torn" between the jowly, snarling Clinton, and His Majesty Barack Obama. As if. And it also sounds like my friends don't know their asses from their elbows either. (SCREAM!)

And I thought the Statesman Journal was a rag...

fist fight, in theaters now

Okay the straws were just a decoy so I could construct this seething, hate-filled post. I am livid. Trembling.

I think a little back story is warranted. Todd and I took Quinn to the movies tonight, and I was really looking forward to some face time with my secret boyfriend, Matthew Fox. His hair was freshly shorn, his clothes crisp, eyes squinty, stubble perfect. The mood was set. Quinn was next to me, happily horking down a shitload of candy that Todd surprisingly A) consented to, and B) snuck into the theater. Anyway, things were great until about half way through the movie when I carefully opened the pocket of my pea coat to check the time on my cell phone. Instantly I felt a hand clenched on my shoulder, and heard a loud, raspy, entitled, "Turn that light off!" so close to my ear I felt the spittle. I was shocked. It harkened back to being scolded in school, and I was too intimidated to turn around and look at the guy. Todd was on the other side of Quinn, so I couldn't ask him for help, and it's just as well, for it's likely he would have quoted me a Scripture about either peace or endurance. I wanted uh, a gun. Several minutes later the guy and the woman I presumed to be his wife, shouted in unison at some other people behind us, "STOP TALKING!" There were also intermittent "shushs." But the worst part, the part where I may have ended up in jail tonight, was that every time Quinn leaned over to whisper something to Todd, and I assure you, this movie theater regular was totally inaudible, the man would KICK OUR SEAT! The movie was nearing the end, and I wasn't sure how just how to confront these shitheads, so I just waited for it to be over. Once it was, I stood and looked into their pathetic, pasty white faces, and the 40 year old man was boring holes right through me. "Fucking thanks for kicking our chair through the entire movie," I said as I imagined ramming his glasses down his throat. Mrs. Shithead hissed that I deserved it because I opened my cell phone (in my pocket!). People were watching at this point, including my nine year old, so the best I could do was to say, loudly, "Nazis are so 1940's." I don't know why I said that, especially since they aren't sophisticated enough to know that that sentence is meant as an uber-cool insult, but I really emphasized Nazi, so that was satisfying.

I decided on our way out to wait for them, filling Todd in on their behavior as we walked. I was shocked that he agreed to a confrontation. He was really not happy that the guy kicked Quinn's seat, but let's face it, I'm a much scarier sight to behold than Todd could ever be, so we agreed that I would accost them. I wanted blood you guys, I'm not kidding. We waited for about twenty minutes, but they never came. They either slipped out another door without me seeing, or they stayed in their for an hour, correctly assessing that any number of people might be waiting to bash their brains in upon their exit. The longer we waited the more obscenities and sweat poured out of me, and Todd ultimately expressed a fear that I might actually decimate someone, and he tugged at me to leave. I can not recall being this angry ever before in my life. I was shaking, my blood was ice, and I felt that I could never resume being human until I had annihilated something. I texted Sam, and she ordered me to breathe, and not kill anyone. Then she pointed out that my blinding rage was only hurting me at this point, and to try to let it go. Slowly, my need to destroy something began to fade, until finally, I was at B's doorstep, trying like hell to jam the wrong key into the door, and in the process of finding the right one, got to slam the screen a lot. I was there to let Tawney out, while they were out of town, and the good old dog was so excited to see me, one of the icicles in my heart started to melt.

I didn't get a good enough look to ever recognize The Shitheads again, and it's probably for the best. I'll just be content with my image of them kicking some other kid's seat, and that parent carrying out what I wish I could have done. And I'll do my best to limit my violence to uncooperative screen doors.