Last night, some random classical song came on and made Shawn Joaquin sit up in his booster seat and start dancing.
SJ: THAT'S PARADE MUSIC!!!!
G: Who's in a parade?
SJ: Horses.
G: And clowns?
SJ: NO CLOWNS.
G: What about fire engines?
SJ: NO FIRE ENGINES! Fire engines are for saving ANIMALS.
G: What about floats?
SJ: Floats are for WATER.
G: What about motorcycles or cars?
SJ: NO. They're for the STREET, DAD. NOT for PARADES. IT'S JUST HORSES.
G: What about —
SJ: NO MORE TALKING ABOUT MY PARADE.
And with a look of disgust, he put his blanket over his head and went back to dancing in a world where his ignorant father does not exist.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Oh my god, I'M WHITE
Due to my immersion in multiple cultures, especially Latino, I sometimes forget myself. So it was with great delight and comfort that I headed down yesterday to International Blvd and 50th in Oakland — that "real" Oakland that so many people think of when they hear the city's name, rather than the deer-infested, forest-like and idyllic backyards of my neighborhood.
As I parked, I looked around the neighborhood. On one corner were three kids with hoods up, shades on, grills on their teeth, cell phones active. A few feet down were two hookers of indeterminate gender, and one guy passed out on the ground with a plastic bottle of vodka clutched to his chest. As I stepped over the used condoms and sidled past the working...PEOPLE...the guys on the corner sized me up while I feigned nonchalance, confident in my ability to Be One With The People as I headed down to Corazon del Pueblo to buy my papel picado for Gregg’s birthday fiesta.
And then suddenly, as one of the boys gave me an up and down, I saw what THEY saw.
I saw my Swedish car with the Thule on top and the "I saved public radio" window sticker on the back. My blond hair. My pony tail. My J. Jill corduroy jacket and velvet hippy slipper shoes with flowers stitched across the top. A loose black tunic shirt that no self-respecting woman of color would be caught in and simple silver earrings. No make up other than Pretty-in-Pink lip gloss.
And in that moment I realized what they all knew the second my car rounded the corner — I'M WHITE. I'M SOOOOO WHITE.
I panicked. What if I was like Robert on Everybody Loves Raymond, when his black partner started taking him to clubs but then had to dump him because he had, in her words, gone "too ethnic" with his "what's up, my BROTHA" and "WORD" affectations. When I insisted — even in Safeway or Taco Bell — on pronouncing tortilla and burrito and carnitas correctly as opposed to butchering it with the common American pronunciation, had I become a mockery? Had I crossed a line somewhere and forgotten that I was not a Latina but a very Scandinavian-looking woman whose residency in Latin American countries had been limited to weeks at surf camp and beach houses, a mere visitor in the back streets of a small fishing town or the calles of Guatemala?
HAD I BECOME VANILLA ICE?
I entered the store, after being buzzed in and three locks being thrown open and then quickly locked behind me. I felt tall and white and as gawky as I had returning to school after growing 4 inches one summer. I was absolutely sure that I looked as out of place as big jar of mayonnaise in the middle of a salsa bar.
The woman behind the counter spoke no English and to my surprise I had no problem asking for help in Spanish with papel picado and a variety of other items to dress up our Norwegian dining space. At no point did she appear aghast at my language skills, so apparently I never accidentally asked her about her sex life or if she was a dog or where I could find my name.
As I began to talk to her about the party, our Spanish-immersion school and how her daughter might like it, how her business was doing and more, I realized something. Yes, I am white. White white white white white WHITE. I will never be mistaken for a Latina, an African-American, a Filipino, an Asian or even someone with any mix of races other than the most blond and stalwart and cheek-bone laden. But I could cross cultures, thanks to my determination to learn Spanish as an adult, my continuing cultural education through my friendships, my reading, my travels and my commitment to raising my children with pride in the country that gave them to us.
As long as I don’t start modeling myself after Ugly Betty’s sister and start tossing off the “ay, mami” in business meetings, I think I’m okay. For now. And I trust my Latina friends to smack me upside the head if I ever cross la línea.
As I parked, I looked around the neighborhood. On one corner were three kids with hoods up, shades on, grills on their teeth, cell phones active. A few feet down were two hookers of indeterminate gender, and one guy passed out on the ground with a plastic bottle of vodka clutched to his chest. As I stepped over the used condoms and sidled past the working...PEOPLE...the guys on the corner sized me up while I feigned nonchalance, confident in my ability to Be One With The People as I headed down to Corazon del Pueblo to buy my papel picado for Gregg’s birthday fiesta.
And then suddenly, as one of the boys gave me an up and down, I saw what THEY saw.
I saw my Swedish car with the Thule on top and the "I saved public radio" window sticker on the back. My blond hair. My pony tail. My J. Jill corduroy jacket and velvet hippy slipper shoes with flowers stitched across the top. A loose black tunic shirt that no self-respecting woman of color would be caught in and simple silver earrings. No make up other than Pretty-in-Pink lip gloss.
And in that moment I realized what they all knew the second my car rounded the corner — I'M WHITE. I'M SOOOOO WHITE.
I panicked. What if I was like Robert on Everybody Loves Raymond, when his black partner started taking him to clubs but then had to dump him because he had, in her words, gone "too ethnic" with his "what's up, my BROTHA" and "WORD" affectations. When I insisted — even in Safeway or Taco Bell — on pronouncing tortilla and burrito and carnitas correctly as opposed to butchering it with the common American pronunciation, had I become a mockery? Had I crossed a line somewhere and forgotten that I was not a Latina but a very Scandinavian-looking woman whose residency in Latin American countries had been limited to weeks at surf camp and beach houses, a mere visitor in the back streets of a small fishing town or the calles of Guatemala?
HAD I BECOME VANILLA ICE?
I entered the store, after being buzzed in and three locks being thrown open and then quickly locked behind me. I felt tall and white and as gawky as I had returning to school after growing 4 inches one summer. I was absolutely sure that I looked as out of place as big jar of mayonnaise in the middle of a salsa bar.
The woman behind the counter spoke no English and to my surprise I had no problem asking for help in Spanish with papel picado and a variety of other items to dress up our Norwegian dining space. At no point did she appear aghast at my language skills, so apparently I never accidentally asked her about her sex life or if she was a dog or where I could find my name.
As I began to talk to her about the party, our Spanish-immersion school and how her daughter might like it, how her business was doing and more, I realized something. Yes, I am white. White white white white white WHITE. I will never be mistaken for a Latina, an African-American, a Filipino, an Asian or even someone with any mix of races other than the most blond and stalwart and cheek-bone laden. But I could cross cultures, thanks to my determination to learn Spanish as an adult, my continuing cultural education through my friendships, my reading, my travels and my commitment to raising my children with pride in the country that gave them to us.
As long as I don’t start modeling myself after Ugly Betty’s sister and start tossing off the “ay, mami” in business meetings, I think I’m okay. For now. And I trust my Latina friends to smack me upside the head if I ever cross la línea.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Our own private Festivus
Last night I explained the whole Easter Bunny concept to Shawn Joaquin, with Gregg's mumbled "we took a religious holiday and made it ours so we could have candy" commentary running in the background. I think that's his inner anxiety about having to pony up a basket for his holiday-loving wife talking, but he declined to clarify.
Shawn Joaquin was very excited about the whole Easter concept and immediately wanted to call his grandmother to tell her about it, in case she was out of the loop.
SJ: Gam, the rabbit is coming to our house for Easter.
Gam: Yes, the Easter Bunny is coming.
SJ: No, it's a COSTUME rabbit. With a boy inside.
Gam: What?
SJ: He brings a box with eggs. The eggs have snacks inside. And he hides them under my bed when it's dark.
Gam: No, it's —
SJ: A BOY. In a COSTUME. I'm gonna hang up now.
And so begins what will be an oft-told tale in the future: Sneaky Day, the holiday when the costumed boy creeps into your room and hides cookies under your bed. It will be like our own Festivus. Perhaps we can add our own twists, like the Hiding of the Underwear, the traditional eating of taqueria food, and favorite songs like "Sneaky Boy, Sneaky Boy" sung to the tune of Smelly Cat.
Sneaky boy, sneaky boy
Why are you so sneaky?
Sneaky boy, sneaky boy
Thanks for the snacks.
Ah, I can almost taste them now.
Shawn Joaquin was very excited about the whole Easter concept and immediately wanted to call his grandmother to tell her about it, in case she was out of the loop.
SJ: Gam, the rabbit is coming to our house for Easter.
Gam: Yes, the Easter Bunny is coming.
SJ: No, it's a COSTUME rabbit. With a boy inside.
Gam: What?
SJ: He brings a box with eggs. The eggs have snacks inside. And he hides them under my bed when it's dark.
Gam: No, it's —
SJ: A BOY. In a COSTUME. I'm gonna hang up now.
And so begins what will be an oft-told tale in the future: Sneaky Day, the holiday when the costumed boy creeps into your room and hides cookies under your bed. It will be like our own Festivus. Perhaps we can add our own twists, like the Hiding of the Underwear, the traditional eating of taqueria food, and favorite songs like "Sneaky Boy, Sneaky Boy" sung to the tune of Smelly Cat.
Sneaky boy, sneaky boy
Why are you so sneaky?
Sneaky boy, sneaky boy
Thanks for the snacks.
Ah, I can almost taste them now.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
No, you can't keep the wagon wheel table*
Gregg and I were chatting in the shower this morning. In the past, showers together were de rigueur and a vrrrrrry nice way to wake up. Now they're rare and more utilitarian and have all the romance of cleaning the kitchen and something of the same dialog.
"Are you sure that's clean?"
"Just scrape it."
"Ack - what's THAT?"
I'd like to say romance isn't dead, but perhaps ready for a stay in the ICU. Now we spend our shower time figuring out who's going to do what — and not in a who's-going-to-do-what-to-whom fun kind of way but more like who's-going-to-take-out-the-trash kind of way. Today's conversation was about where we'd go to buy a sofa, our first-ever piece of furniture together — until now we've had HIS bed, MY chair...no OUR furniture. To me, this was a big step, almost as big as that I Do we managed to croak out just over a year ago. Gregg seemed unaware of the enormity of this task, that if he should choose the Wrong Sofa I would be forced to call into question our ENTIRE RELATIONSHIP. It was not unlike when we were trying to choose baby names and he wrote down "Racquel" and "Veronica." Had he ever actually uttered those names and put them in the final running, he might again be living alone in Sacramento and sitting in a lawn chair in the open garage, drinking a Bud Light and watching the neighbors wash their RV.
After visiting the three stores that surround Levitz like parasitic outliers that wait for the remnants of a beast's meal, we settled on a relatively inexpensive brown leather sofa that is guaranteed to resist the liquids that will most commonly be found near it — urine, milk and beer.
There were only a couple of Racquel moments, one of which included the sofa pictured here and the other a contemporary bar in which Gregg felt compelled to play Tom Cruise in Cocktail with imaginary bottles flying through the air. All straight men have this pained and wistful expression on the
ir faces when they see a bar that they might have in their fantasy Man Pit....the one that doesn't exist YET but just MIGHT be part of the negotiation if denied a sports car or a $5,000 trip to Fantasy Baseball Camp.
Hey — a guy can dream. As long as he keeps those dreams in his head and NOT in my living room. Because, as my friend Hank says of me, I'm a Decider. And I've decided that no, my dear, THAT is not OUR furniture.
*See the classic movie When Harry Met Sally
"Are you sure that's clean?"
"Just scrape it."
"Ack - what's THAT?"
I'd like to say romance isn't dead, but perhaps ready for a stay in the ICU. Now we spend our shower time figuring out who's going to do what — and not in a who's-going-to-do-what-to-whom fun kind of way but more like who's-going-to-take-out-the-trash kind of way. Today's conversation was about where we'd go to buy a sofa, our first-ever piece of furniture together — until now we've had HIS bed, MY chair...no OUR furniture. To me, this was a big step, almost as big as that I Do we managed to croak out just over a year ago. Gregg seemed unaware of the enormity of this task, that if he should choose the Wrong Sofa I would be forced to call into question our ENTIRE RELATIONSHIP. It was not unlike when we were trying to choose baby names and he wrote down "Racquel" and "Veronica." Had he ever actually uttered those names and put them in the final running, he might again be living alone in Sacramento and sitting in a lawn chair in the open garage, drinking a Bud Light and watching the neighbors wash their RV.
After visiting the three stores that surround Levitz like parasitic outliers that wait for the remnants of a beast's meal, we settled on a relatively inexpensive brown leather sofa that is guaranteed to resist the liquids that will most commonly be found near it — urine, milk and beer.
There were only a couple of Racquel moments, one of which included the sofa pictured here and the other a contemporary bar in which Gregg felt compelled to play Tom Cruise in Cocktail with imaginary bottles flying through the air. All straight men have this pained and wistful expression on the
ir faces when they see a bar that they might have in their fantasy Man Pit....the one that doesn't exist YET but just MIGHT be part of the negotiation if denied a sports car or a $5,000 trip to Fantasy Baseball Camp. Hey — a guy can dream. As long as he keeps those dreams in his head and NOT in my living room. Because, as my friend Hank says of me, I'm a Decider. And I've decided that no, my dear, THAT is not OUR furniture.
*See the classic movie When Harry Met Sally
Friday, March 23, 2007
The good Wife...2007
Someone sent me this Good Wife's Guide, originally published in 1955. I ask you, what wife doesn't need a handy dandy guide to know just how to succeed in her role? Isn't it enough that advertising and publishing tell us what to wear, how to pluck, preen and clean, how to improve our sex lives, our financial future and the appearance of our skin, hair and teeth? I was so inspired by this guide to being a Good Wife, which of course I aspire to, that I updated it for 2007. To really understand how thoughtful my update is, please read the 1955 version first.
The 2007 Good Wife Guide
Have dinner ready.
Call your husband on his way home from work, and tell him in specific detail what you’d like him to pick up, and it better be hot, DAMNIT. If your husband is like many others and needs a list for three items or more, write up your dinner request on a post it note the night before. Place the post it note on his steering wheel and repeat on the dash, in his daytimer, on his cell phone, his underwear, wallet and the inside both of his shoes. Unless he shows up naked and on foot, he has a pretty good shot of actually bringing home 50% of what you asked for and some disgusting fruit pie that was on sale and next to the register.
Prepare yourself.
If you’re looking bedraggled from your commute home or from a long day of wrestling short people into clothes, naps and behaving well, so be it. Less chance he’ll hit you up for sex in the first five minutes. If you’re looking particularly hot from a client meeting or a ladies-who-lunch day, immediately change into sweats, preferably his. Top it off with a ripped sweatshirt to ensure a good night’s sleep.
Be a little gay.
Not too gay, because men LOVE that girl-on-girl action and might get enthusiastic. Try just being just “I wear sensible shoes and fleece” gay, not San Francisco “I wear great shoes and glasses and designer clothing” gay.
Clear away the clutter.
Gather all the newspapers he’s left strewn about, last night’s beer can and perhaps some stale snack food found on the floor and put them in his favorite chair so he can be a dear and clean it up when he tries to sit down. Gather up school books, toys etc and throw them into the kids’ beds so they can be a dear and clean up before bed.
In the cooler months of the year, light a fire to provide a pleasant environment.
The fire needn’t be made of traditional kindling and wood, but can be comprised of all the smelly socks, sports jerseys made for young and lithe bodies no longer found in your house, and ripped underwear that you can’t bear to see one more time. If you use lighter fluid or kerosene (highly recommended for the greatest burn possible) be sure to open the damper. No need to knock anyone unconscious so early in the evening.
Prepare the children.
Let them know their father will be physically present but may not be engaged, and to just write down all of the little slights so they have a better record for their future therapists.
Be happy to see him.
Or at least the hot meal he better be carrying.
Greet him...
with the recycling or garbage that needs to go out. Lord knows that once he steps foot inside the door it’s a lost cause.
Listen to him.
This is a tough assignment, but practice listening in front of the mirror. Many people think that listening is done with the ears, but no, it’s all about facial expression. If possible, draw eyebrows slightly higher on your forehead so you also appear to be interested.
Make the evening his.
Turn on a game, SportsCenter or a Victoria’s Secret infomercial. He will enjoy himself while you have the bubble bath you so richly deserve. Be sure to lock the door to keep those pesky kids out, and immerse your whole head to block out any annoying screams.
Your goal: make it through the day without anyone dying and you’ve done your job. Pat yourself on the back on the way to the bubble bath.
Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.
See note above about garbage or recycling greeting.
Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner.
Call for delivery and enjoy the free dessert all by yourself.
Arrange his pillow.
If he is uncomfortable, he can put the pillow BEHIND his head all by himself.
Don’t ask him questions.
That will just start needless conversation that stands between you and your bubble bath.
A good wife always knows her place.
In the tub, with a glass of wine in one hand and People in the other. A pop-culturally literate and sweet smelling, albeit slightly tipsy wife is a happy wife. And one most likely to get up and do it all again tomorrow.
Originally published on When Creatives Go Bad in August 2006, my other and now defunct website.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Paaaaaaartay
As I took Shawn Joaquin downstairs for bed tonight, he had a heartfelt request.
SJ: Mama, don't move my party.
Me: Okay, I won't.
SJ: Don't move my party. It's MY party. Not YOUR party.
Me: Gotcha.
I had no idea what he was talking about; I had been gone all day and sometimes his line between dreams, reality and what happened on Sesame Street are somewhat blurred. Or maybe it was some line from a song he had heard while dancing with Gregg; when I came home on Saturday afternoon, it was to the sounds of Gregg downstairs singing "Lucky Star" with Madonna, broken up by his shouts of "DANCE, SHAWN JOAQUIN, DANCE!" and finger snapping. When he began to sing along with Kylie Minogue, I had to put a stop to it. But there were many hours before that, no doubt filled with the Backstreet Boys, Janet Jackson and Cindi Lauper. And Shawn Joaquin had later said to me "get up now...get on up...GET UP now...GET ON UP!"
As I settled in on the sofa, my foot brushed something on the floor. Kneeling down, I found the party.
I wonder if super heroes drink their coffee black, or with just a splash of bad ass and spoonful of don't-make-me-put-the-hurt-on-you. I'll have to ask the host tomorrow.
SJ: Mama, don't move my party.
Me: Okay, I won't.
SJ: Don't move my party. It's MY party. Not YOUR party.
Me: Gotcha.
I had no idea what he was talking about; I had been gone all day and sometimes his line between dreams, reality and what happened on Sesame Street are somewhat blurred. Or maybe it was some line from a song he had heard while dancing with Gregg; when I came home on Saturday afternoon, it was to the sounds of Gregg downstairs singing "Lucky Star" with Madonna, broken up by his shouts of "DANCE, SHAWN JOAQUIN, DANCE!" and finger snapping. When he began to sing along with Kylie Minogue, I had to put a stop to it. But there were many hours before that, no doubt filled with the Backstreet Boys, Janet Jackson and Cindi Lauper. And Shawn Joaquin had later said to me "get up now...get on up...GET UP now...GET ON UP!"
As I settled in on the sofa, my foot brushed something on the floor. Kneeling down, I found the party.
I wonder if super heroes drink their coffee black, or with just a splash of bad ass and spoonful of don't-make-me-put-the-hurt-on-you. I'll have to ask the host tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Bastard people
I spent much of this morning cursing the bureaucrats in the PGN in Guatemala, and then an equal amount of time swearing at drivers as I headed down the hill to see a notary. PEOPLE with their DRIVING and their BREATHING...IN AND OUT AND IN AND OUT. SO annoying.
Thankfully, the militant notary who once told me he could make a citizen's arrest when I "forged" my birth certificate by making a color copy on his machine was out for the day; probably at either a Dungeons and Dragons conference or possibly at a Notarians for President meeting. The mellow notary was there, and she was able to I.D. me, sign me and get me out of there in just a few minutes. This brightened my day SO much that rather than go back to bed to bemoan our fate and knock back some Nyquil to make the day pass more quickly, I decided to take a trip to my past...by getting a mani pedi at my favorite Vietnamese nail salon.
While there inhaling the toxins, reading my book and having my feet shaved, I had an epiphany: I needed to get all Gandhi on those bureaucrats' asses. Go Zen on those bastard people. I would not have them drive me to egg homicide or to bed while the sun was out. I would be Buddha. Buddha with So Berry Berry Nice pink toenails and shiny fingernails, and the faintest hint of nail polish remover at each wrist.
This meant not trying to do unto to them with a sledgehammer, but only worry about how I let them affect me. This is not new news — the oldest spiritual beliefs include this mantra in many forms. Yet somehow I had forgot it as I churned through paperwork and stared at phone each day willing The Call to come in, hurling us down to Guatemala and our daughter. So how would I do this? What would my Practice be?
1) Nourish: Buy an iced coffee and stare at the cherry blossoms on the Glenview sidewalk, enjoying the warm spring breeze.
2) Befriend: Visit the nails, screws, cheap kitchen goods and helpful, tenacious and palsied 87-year old guy at the hardware store and ask for his advice on something, anything, knowing it will make his one day in the store more than worth it.
3) Release: Eat a fried chicken tender from Safeway. And not consider becoming bulimic immediately afterwards.
4) Destroy*: Go home and clean out my bathroom cabinets, dumping out the nail polish bottles long-sealed, the expired medicines, the clay masque hardened into a small baseball bat-like tube, the lipstick that looks pink in the tube and orange on my lips, making me look like a 70s groupie the day after a gig and possibly suffering from malaria or hepatitis.
5) Accept: Allow my son to put his sweet mucus-covered face next to mine, pretending to be a baby, because the name "Madelena" was said, robbing him of his ability to speak or walk.
And with that I return to normalcy, all without my husband ever knowing I had fallen off the wagon and become more than just a little bit crazy for more than just a few little minutes. Was it an epiphany, or was it the Mucinex DM? Only time (6 hours, according to the label on the Mucinex DM) will tell.
*Destroy is not usually thought of as a Buddhist belief, but HEY, welcome to 2007.
Thankfully, the militant notary who once told me he could make a citizen's arrest when I "forged" my birth certificate by making a color copy on his machine was out for the day; probably at either a Dungeons and Dragons conference or possibly at a Notarians for President meeting. The mellow notary was there, and she was able to I.D. me, sign me and get me out of there in just a few minutes. This brightened my day SO much that rather than go back to bed to bemoan our fate and knock back some Nyquil to make the day pass more quickly, I decided to take a trip to my past...by getting a mani pedi at my favorite Vietnamese nail salon.
While there inhaling the toxins, reading my book and having my feet shaved, I had an epiphany: I needed to get all Gandhi on those bureaucrats' asses. Go Zen on those bastard people. I would not have them drive me to egg homicide or to bed while the sun was out. I would be Buddha. Buddha with So Berry Berry Nice pink toenails and shiny fingernails, and the faintest hint of nail polish remover at each wrist.
This meant not trying to do unto to them with a sledgehammer, but only worry about how I let them affect me. This is not new news — the oldest spiritual beliefs include this mantra in many forms. Yet somehow I had forgot it as I churned through paperwork and stared at phone each day willing The Call to come in, hurling us down to Guatemala and our daughter. So how would I do this? What would my Practice be?
1) Nourish: Buy an iced coffee and stare at the cherry blossoms on the Glenview sidewalk, enjoying the warm spring breeze.
2) Befriend: Visit the nails, screws, cheap kitchen goods and helpful, tenacious and palsied 87-year old guy at the hardware store and ask for his advice on something, anything, knowing it will make his one day in the store more than worth it.
3) Release: Eat a fried chicken tender from Safeway. And not consider becoming bulimic immediately afterwards.
4) Destroy*: Go home and clean out my bathroom cabinets, dumping out the nail polish bottles long-sealed, the expired medicines, the clay masque hardened into a small baseball bat-like tube, the lipstick that looks pink in the tube and orange on my lips, making me look like a 70s groupie the day after a gig and possibly suffering from malaria or hepatitis.
5) Accept: Allow my son to put his sweet mucus-covered face next to mine, pretending to be a baby, because the name "Madelena" was said, robbing him of his ability to speak or walk.
And with that I return to normalcy, all without my husband ever knowing I had fallen off the wagon and become more than just a little bit crazy for more than just a few little minutes. Was it an epiphany, or was it the Mucinex DM? Only time (6 hours, according to the label on the Mucinex DM) will tell.
*Destroy is not usually thought of as a Buddhist belief, but HEY, welcome to 2007.
Boo hiss
Last night we received new pictures of Madelena, and this morning the woeful news that we have been kicked out of the process, yet again, for clerical issues. They feel her fingerprint on her birth certificate is too light, that a DNA document may have been altered from saying that there was a 99.27% chance that her birth mother was indeed her mother to saying that there was a 99.77% chance, and that one other document had not covered off on the possibility that I may have at some time, in some social or business circle, used Fleury as a last name. These are documents that have been in existence since last July and reviewed multiple times in the last 8 months by multiple reviewers.
Because I am sick, I decided not to hammer an egg with a coffee cup or dump the contents of my yet-again-filled-and-not-unpacked suitcase on the floor in a fit of pique. Instead, I'm going back to bed.
In bed, I can dream of the day when this beautiful little girl comes home, seeing her blow out her birthday candles, being kissed by her brother, sleeping on my chest in the soft glow of her retro Hawaiian girl nightlight, hearing her first words in any language. After these sweet dreams, I will rise rested and ready to face my next task: I will redo the affadavit and get it notarized in Oakland, drive to Sacramento to get it apostilled by the Secretary of State, and then take it to the Guatemalan Consulate in San Francisco, only open 3 hours a day and with a line of hundreds upon opening, FedEx it to Washington state so it can be checked by the agency and then FedExed to Guatemala City where it will be checked by our attorney and then he can wait in line at the PGN and start this crazy process all over again.
More fun and laughter when the Nyquil has worn off and the Guatemalans have blessed our paperwork.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Overheard...
...at a business meeting this morning in a room full of MBAs:
"My knee was bothering me so I got a chromosome shot."
"Let's get down to the brass task now."
"When the [advertising] agency puts a blue ad in front of me, it makes me want to puke."
"I can do basic math, but I'm no magician."
"The comeration of our efforts would lead to a great ROI."
George W. would be so proud.
"My knee was bothering me so I got a chromosome shot."
"Let's get down to the brass task now."
"When the [advertising] agency puts a blue ad in front of me, it makes me want to puke."
"I can do basic math, but I'm no magician."
"The comeration of our efforts would lead to a great ROI."
George W. would be so proud.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Poop Dog and her posse
We were all sitting at the table this morning enjoying breakfast, Gregg in his jammy pants, me in his shirt, Shawn Joaquin kickin' it in a pull up and t-shirt. We enjoyed the scent of the freesias, the pancakes, the Peet's coffee...birds came down and tied ribbons in my hair while I sang a happy tune...it was spring and all was good and right with the world.
After announcing loudly I FINISHED, Shawn Joaquin needed help down from his booster seat. After getting him to the floor, I sat down to enjoy my coffee.
G: What's that on your sleeve?
Me: I don't know...chewed up pancake...or...
G: It's POO! OH MY GOD IT'S POO! I'M NEVER WEARING THAT SHIRT AGAIN!
After realizing that yes, it was indeed poo and that I had rubbed it and almost put it in my mouth to determine if it was pancake or peanut butter, I scrubbed my hands and went down to the laundry with my arm extended to avoid further contamination. I came back up to find Gregg changing Shawn Joaquin with a jacket tied over his face. Looking at me, Gregg made an announcement.
G: For the rest of the day, YOU SHALL BE KNOWN AS POOPY SLEEVE.
SJ: POOPY SLEEVE! POOPY SLEEVE!
G: And in public, we shall call you PS.
SJ: POOPY SLEEVE! POOPY SLEEVE!
G: Look how the dog is more interested in you now. Wait! That's it. You shall now be called Poop Dog and her Posse. POOP DOG AND HER POSSE.
SJ: POOP DOG! POOP DOG!
And with that they went downstairs to get dressed, with Gregg humming to the tune of Hotel California, "poop on her sleeve, poop near her face...we pretended not to notice...Poop Dog's poopy waste.....wel-come to the Poop House California..."
Now I understand how Rodney Dangerfield felt.
After announcing loudly I FINISHED, Shawn Joaquin needed help down from his booster seat. After getting him to the floor, I sat down to enjoy my coffee.
G: What's that on your sleeve?
Me: I don't know...chewed up pancake...or...
G: It's POO! OH MY GOD IT'S POO! I'M NEVER WEARING THAT SHIRT AGAIN!
After realizing that yes, it was indeed poo and that I had rubbed it and almost put it in my mouth to determine if it was pancake or peanut butter, I scrubbed my hands and went down to the laundry with my arm extended to avoid further contamination. I came back up to find Gregg changing Shawn Joaquin with a jacket tied over his face. Looking at me, Gregg made an announcement.
G: For the rest of the day, YOU SHALL BE KNOWN AS POOPY SLEEVE.
SJ: POOPY SLEEVE! POOPY SLEEVE!
G: And in public, we shall call you PS.
SJ: POOPY SLEEVE! POOPY SLEEVE!
G: Look how the dog is more interested in you now. Wait! That's it. You shall now be called Poop Dog and her Posse. POOP DOG AND HER POSSE.
SJ: POOP DOG! POOP DOG!
And with that they went downstairs to get dressed, with Gregg humming to the tune of Hotel California, "poop on her sleeve, poop near her face...we pretended not to notice...Poop Dog's poopy waste.....wel-come to the Poop House California..."
Now I understand how Rodney Dangerfield felt.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Things you don't know
I'm an avid reader of Esquire — it's exceptionally well-written, with great pop culture and political articles, and fiction by writers like David Sedaris. But the first thing I always turn to is "Ten Things You Don't Know About Women", a monthly feature written by (okay, probably ghost-written for) a series of beautiful and opinionated grown up women — Courtney Cox, Sela Ward and Maria Bello, to name a few.
An excerpt:
"Yes, we drink until you're cute, too."
"Sometimes we think we really understand men. Then we regain consciousness."
"We don't ever want to see the inside of an Olive Garden."
I find this section so interesting because 99% of it is true, and most men probably think it's a comedy essay. We can tell men our secrets because they have no idea it's true, or they're just not listening. Kind of like preschoolers, who never pay attention when you want them to but always pay attention when it's an opportunity to later brightly ask your neighbor "how did you get a stick up your bottom? does it hurt?" or "daddy is going to love mommy all night long."
Knowing that Shawn Joaquin can not read and this blog will be as defunct as 8-tracks by the time he does, I give you this:
1. When we tell you that you won't like that thing you want to eat, it's because we want to eat it and will as soon as you look away.
2. After you go to bed, we watch all the shows you'll never, ever be able to watch, including Pants Off Dance Off.
3. Poo smells really bad and makes us want to vomit, even if it's yours.
4. Sometimes you're seconds away from being sold to the gypsies but never are because we can never FIND the damn gypsies when we need them.
5. Yes, we'd like to have ice cream for breakfast too. And sometimes when you're not here...we do.
6. The Backyardigans are fun for us. You're just an enabler.
7. Every day we fear that you will in some moment look at US with the same disgust WE once had for our own mothers. And imagining that moment, we want to cry.
8. We know that as long as you are in this world and not within eyesight and we are alive, we will never get a full night's sleep.
9. We do all the things we tell you not to do — eat with our mouths full, forget to wash our hands, drink from the milk carton and run with scissors.
10. When we confuse your name with the dog's/cat's/sibling's/favorite TV character, it's not because we don't know your name. We just love you all equally.
An excerpt:
"Yes, we drink until you're cute, too."
"Sometimes we think we really understand men. Then we regain consciousness."
"We don't ever want to see the inside of an Olive Garden."
I find this section so interesting because 99% of it is true, and most men probably think it's a comedy essay. We can tell men our secrets because they have no idea it's true, or they're just not listening. Kind of like preschoolers, who never pay attention when you want them to but always pay attention when it's an opportunity to later brightly ask your neighbor "how did you get a stick up your bottom? does it hurt?" or "daddy is going to love mommy all night long."
Knowing that Shawn Joaquin can not read and this blog will be as defunct as 8-tracks by the time he does, I give you this:
10 Things You Don't Know About Mothers
1. When we tell you that you won't like that thing you want to eat, it's because we want to eat it and will as soon as you look away.
2. After you go to bed, we watch all the shows you'll never, ever be able to watch, including Pants Off Dance Off.
3. Poo smells really bad and makes us want to vomit, even if it's yours.
4. Sometimes you're seconds away from being sold to the gypsies but never are because we can never FIND the damn gypsies when we need them.
5. Yes, we'd like to have ice cream for breakfast too. And sometimes when you're not here...we do.
6. The Backyardigans are fun for us. You're just an enabler.
7. Every day we fear that you will in some moment look at US with the same disgust WE once had for our own mothers. And imagining that moment, we want to cry.
8. We know that as long as you are in this world and not within eyesight and we are alive, we will never get a full night's sleep.
9. We do all the things we tell you not to do — eat with our mouths full, forget to wash our hands, drink from the milk carton and run with scissors.
10. When we confuse your name with the dog's/cat's/sibling's/favorite TV character, it's not because we don't know your name. We just love you all equally.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
The short bus and other fun
When I was about eight, I began to take special classes that allowed me to incubate eggs, learn how to develop film and print photos, learn a foreign language, study fine art and do a whole host of extracurricular activities. At some point I had taken some IQ test at school, and the result was that after I had whipped through my regular 4th grade work and had started poking holes in my apple or a nearby head with a sharp pencil to alleviate the boredom, I could go off to these bungalows on the far side of the playground and do 'xperiments. Once the other kids caught wind of it, one of my classmates began to throw snails at my head every morning while we waited at the bus stop, calling me names and saying, "you ride the SHORT BUS!!! You're a tard!" Since we rode the same bus to school and in my sheltered world I had no idea what "tard" meant, I initially found this really confusing and nonsensical and the snails just plain icky. In later years when I understood the comment I just felt sorry for her parents, who were clearly raising a potato.
Today I received an email with the compelling subject line: IS YOUR CHILD GIFTED? Normally I would immediately discard emails like this, sure it would be like that time when Shawn Joaquin was 14 months old and some parenting newsletter was trying to tell me that he should be drawing straight lines with crayons by now and possible doing small drafting projects on a freelance basis. But just in case my son was worthy of snails being thrown at his head, I had to check it out.
Among the signs of giftedness are unusual abilities, reaching developmental milestones early, advanced language development, inquisitiveness and unending questions, vivid imagination and imaginary friends, ability to memorize information and recall arcane facts from books, television shows and movies not present. A few more questions led me to believe that he's either gifted or an alcoholic, so I had to write down my answers to see which one was more likely.
Unusual abilities: Can smell sunshine, make a tamale and glass of milk last an entire hour, knows how to wake EXACTLY at sunrise on any night that we've stayed up past midnight, can recognize both Jack Johnson and Kings of Leon within three bars and can navigate to Peet's from anywhere in Oakland with the clarity of a little peanut-butter smeared GPS. Add 50 points.
Developmental milestones: Walked at 22 months (subtract 17), said his first word at 5 months according to a sleep-deprived grandmother (add 17 points), and could throw a ball overhand and with deadly accuracy at his father's crotch at 15 months. 20 bonus points.
Unending questions: What that store about? Who works there? Where they go? Who turned the lights off? What they doing at home? What they eating? Why they eat that? Who with them? Why they do that? What they talking about? Where does the rain go? Add a billion points.
Vivid imagination: In his dreams goes into a hole in the wall every night and at about 2 1/2 had a friend named Jack he often called on the cell phone while kickin' it in his car seat after play dates. 100 points, minus 50 for long distance charges.
Information and arcane facts: Can recite the entire plot of Chicken Run (viewed once a year ago) if sufficiently hyped on sugar, knows JAMBO means hello, recalls the time a diver in a tank at museum freaked him out, but good [NO DIVERS! NO DIVERS!] a year ago, can pick out the smallest detail on a detail-laden illustration and will talk about it ad nauseam. Add 100 points. Can't remember if snow is red or white. Subtract 50 points.
In the end I don't know if he's gifted or drunk a lot, but either way he's not going anywhere. I would usually make a joke like "yeah, I think we'll keep him" but that's just not so funny when you're an adoptive family. And in Berkeley may be a hanging offense.
I will say this: I think that a boy who wakes up calling "who is it?", hugs me with a depth of emotion and love that makes me gasp, pushes my bangs out of my eyes and says "I love you" while gazing soulfully at me with big black eyes and has been known to want to be with no one but mama for hours at a time is, if not gifted, a gift.
Today I received an email with the compelling subject line: IS YOUR CHILD GIFTED? Normally I would immediately discard emails like this, sure it would be like that time when Shawn Joaquin was 14 months old and some parenting newsletter was trying to tell me that he should be drawing straight lines with crayons by now and possible doing small drafting projects on a freelance basis. But just in case my son was worthy of snails being thrown at his head, I had to check it out.
Among the signs of giftedness are unusual abilities, reaching developmental milestones early, advanced language development, inquisitiveness and unending questions, vivid imagination and imaginary friends, ability to memorize information and recall arcane facts from books, television shows and movies not present. A few more questions led me to believe that he's either gifted or an alcoholic, so I had to write down my answers to see which one was more likely.
Unusual abilities: Can smell sunshine, make a tamale and glass of milk last an entire hour, knows how to wake EXACTLY at sunrise on any night that we've stayed up past midnight, can recognize both Jack Johnson and Kings of Leon within three bars and can navigate to Peet's from anywhere in Oakland with the clarity of a little peanut-butter smeared GPS. Add 50 points.
Developmental milestones: Walked at 22 months (subtract 17), said his first word at 5 months according to a sleep-deprived grandmother (add 17 points), and could throw a ball overhand and with deadly accuracy at his father's crotch at 15 months. 20 bonus points.
Unending questions: What that store about? Who works there? Where they go? Who turned the lights off? What they doing at home? What they eating? Why they eat that? Who with them? Why they do that? What they talking about? Where does the rain go? Add a billion points.
Vivid imagination: In his dreams goes into a hole in the wall every night and at about 2 1/2 had a friend named Jack he often called on the cell phone while kickin' it in his car seat after play dates. 100 points, minus 50 for long distance charges.
Information and arcane facts: Can recite the entire plot of Chicken Run (viewed once a year ago) if sufficiently hyped on sugar, knows JAMBO means hello, recalls the time a diver in a tank at museum freaked him out, but good [NO DIVERS! NO DIVERS!] a year ago, can pick out the smallest detail on a detail-laden illustration and will talk about it ad nauseam. Add 100 points. Can't remember if snow is red or white. Subtract 50 points.
In the end I don't know if he's gifted or drunk a lot, but either way he's not going anywhere. I would usually make a joke like "yeah, I think we'll keep him" but that's just not so funny when you're an adoptive family. And in Berkeley may be a hanging offense.
I will say this: I think that a boy who wakes up calling "who is it?", hugs me with a depth of emotion and love that makes me gasp, pushes my bangs out of my eyes and says "I love you" while gazing soulfully at me with big black eyes and has been known to want to be with no one but mama for hours at a time is, if not gifted, a gift.
Monday, March 12, 2007
A conversation overheard
SJ: I wanna eat your burrito.
Wafa: But that's MY lunch.
SJ: I wanna eat it.
Wafa: If you eat it, what am I going to do?
SJ: You gonna cry.
[Maniacal laughter follows.]
Wafa: But that's MY lunch.
SJ: I wanna eat it.
Wafa: If you eat it, what am I going to do?
SJ: You gonna cry.
[Maniacal laughter follows.]
Grandparents: the great enablers
Why I love my father-in-law: When Lou is here, he is willing to read Mother Goose at least 15 times before asking for another book. He has no problem making his own coffee. He enjoys tea parties on small chairs. He will share a single-serve sweet potato pie made by Charles' House of Pies with me and not complain that 1) it's sweet potato or 2) that his half is smaller. He is happy to do whatever we'd like to do, even if that's just going to Rite Aid to see how the renovation went and if the creepy check out guy is still there or if a large tower of protein shakes fell on him and crushed his greasy head. He likes my animals and tells Shawn Joaquin that he loves him. He thinks that watching Gregg wash his car serves as entertainment. He makes his own bed. He is pleased to have any meal, regardless of content or presentation.I would like to clone him and bring him out of the closet on any day when I want someone else to read to Shawn Joaquin, to call me "sweetheart", to appreciate the decisions we make for Shawn Joaquin, or to just watch Law and Order with us on the sofa...falling asleep just after the crime and waking up for the confession, and still glad to just be here with us.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
The cranky pants are back from the cleaners
Watch out, people. I'm wearing cranky pants and they're giving me a wedgie.
This is my weekend. This is My Weekend. This is MY WEEKEND. Yet I have a client, whom I have nicknamed Demando, who insists that weekends are workdays and work hours are all hours. Listen, buddy. I don't worship at that church. Yet my weekend began with a 6am email on Saturday, and has continued through Sunday with 11 emails, 17 attachments, 6 phone calls and multiple utterings of "oh, I was hoping to catch you" on my voicemail today.
When you work from home, people often disrespect the boundaries of work and home — especially the person working from home. Work/life consultants, therapists and three-year olds will all tell you that when the work day ends, close the door to your office and don't go back in until the next work day. Yet like a siren upon the rocks, my email and voicemail call to me and ultimately kill my family time. Otherwise, how would I know that Demando was laying siege upon my home?
So here I am tonight, sure that even as I sleep I will hear Demando's voice, that his continued requests and directives will creep stealthily under my closed lids and into my dreams that should be filled with ponies and clouds and and rainbows and large glasses of Diet Coke with crushed ice and the scent of coconut oil. Now that I have worked myself into a fury I am ready to launch on him, Ann Coulter, the early-morning tree cutters next door, the makers of processed cheese foods, the continuously barking dog down the hill, George Bush, the man who created size 0, perfume sprayers in department stores, homophobes, Will Durst, close talkers, cell-phone-talking-check-out-people, men who eschew deodorant for political reasons and work outdoors but come indoors, dirty cops, spammers, the creators of The Pussycat Dolls Present: The Search for the Next Doll, Pat Robertson, Britney Spear's dad, Howard K. Stern, Howard Stern and countless others who have ruined even a second of my weekend by talking, singing, writing, offending or just existing during that 48 hour period in which I should be eating pancakes with my son, drinking Peet's coffee or walking Inspiration Point at sunset with my family.
And with that I take off my cranky pants, don my cozy robe stolen from a never-to-be-named luxury hotel, and swear upon my latest Niall William's book not to ever, ever walk back into my office after I have decided that yes, put a fork in my head, I'm done.
This is my weekend. This is My Weekend. This is MY WEEKEND. Yet I have a client, whom I have nicknamed Demando, who insists that weekends are workdays and work hours are all hours. Listen, buddy. I don't worship at that church. Yet my weekend began with a 6am email on Saturday, and has continued through Sunday with 11 emails, 17 attachments, 6 phone calls and multiple utterings of "oh, I was hoping to catch you" on my voicemail today.
When you work from home, people often disrespect the boundaries of work and home — especially the person working from home. Work/life consultants, therapists and three-year olds will all tell you that when the work day ends, close the door to your office and don't go back in until the next work day. Yet like a siren upon the rocks, my email and voicemail call to me and ultimately kill my family time. Otherwise, how would I know that Demando was laying siege upon my home?
So here I am tonight, sure that even as I sleep I will hear Demando's voice, that his continued requests and directives will creep stealthily under my closed lids and into my dreams that should be filled with ponies and clouds and and rainbows and large glasses of Diet Coke with crushed ice and the scent of coconut oil. Now that I have worked myself into a fury I am ready to launch on him, Ann Coulter, the early-morning tree cutters next door, the makers of processed cheese foods, the continuously barking dog down the hill, George Bush, the man who created size 0, perfume sprayers in department stores, homophobes, Will Durst, close talkers, cell-phone-talking-check-out-people, men who eschew deodorant for political reasons and work outdoors but come indoors, dirty cops, spammers, the creators of The Pussycat Dolls Present: The Search for the Next Doll, Pat Robertson, Britney Spear's dad, Howard K. Stern, Howard Stern and countless others who have ruined even a second of my weekend by talking, singing, writing, offending or just existing during that 48 hour period in which I should be eating pancakes with my son, drinking Peet's coffee or walking Inspiration Point at sunset with my family.
And with that I take off my cranky pants, don my cozy robe stolen from a never-to-be-named luxury hotel, and swear upon my latest Niall William's book not to ever, ever walk back into my office after I have decided that yes, put a fork in my head, I'm done.
Who's your momma?
In the past few weeks, Shawn Joaquin has become very interested in other people's lives and what they might be doing at any given moment. "What Lucas doing? What BlueJay doing? Why they do that? Where they live?" These questions are part of our everyday existence, every hour, and I have learned to answer all of them by rote — everyone is always home, they live in Oakland, and they are always, amazingly enough, doing JUST WHAT WE'RE DOING.
Today, Shawn Joaquin wanted to know the name of Dani's mommy. Then he asked me "what her other mommy's name?" Since I am jet-lagged and easily confused, I answered "Jeff." A moment passed before he asked about yet another classmate...and another...and another. And each time he first asked his or her mommy's name, and then what's his or her OTHER mommy's name, even those whom I knew had daddies. And I realized that one of the very wonderful parts of living in the Bay Area is the flexibility of family definitions, and that perhaps we may need a few more straight friends.
Yet I appreciate that Shawn Joaquin will probably never angst about why his friend has two mommies, why he is dark and I am light, why his cousin is being raised by his grandparents, why our neighbors Tom and Tom live together, or why he was present at Mama and Daddy's wedding. He will not question recycling, higher education, the value of a nice hike on a sunny day, the love of a good dog, the need to say "I love you" to someone every day, family hugs, the practice of catch-and-release, and why one should never be a Raiders fan. It's these values that I hope to pass on to him and that keep us in the Bay Area.
Some in my family have asked why it's important to me that my son be in school with children of gay or lesbian parents, why he needs to see children of all colors around him, that he learn Spanish and keep that tie to his birth family. Why do I, a straight, married and very Caucasian woman care? Can't someone else be worried about that? Can't someone else walk for AIDS, be saddened and angered by the treatment of immigrants or the lack of opportunity for so many children of color? It's hard to explain to someone who doesn't live here, who wasn't drawn here by meeting neighbors and fellow school parents thinking "ah, it's you!” I am easily dismissed by my family as a radical liberal, though many Berkeley-centrists would see me as far too conservative and establishment.
Perhaps the easiest explanation is this: my son will never be the "white person" that I am, with all the automatic privileges that silently come with that. Assumptions will be made about him every time he walks out the front door and into any other environment. I hope that by teaching him — by surrounding him at home and at school by those who might be considered "different" in Nebraska — that everyone has value and that their value is not derived from their skin color, their sexual orientation, their affluence or their family. And in doing so, I have taught him to value himself. What better gift — other than a fully-loaded Hybrid at 16 — can I give him?
Today, Shawn Joaquin wanted to know the name of Dani's mommy. Then he asked me "what her other mommy's name?" Since I am jet-lagged and easily confused, I answered "Jeff." A moment passed before he asked about yet another classmate...and another...and another. And each time he first asked his or her mommy's name, and then what's his or her OTHER mommy's name, even those whom I knew had daddies. And I realized that one of the very wonderful parts of living in the Bay Area is the flexibility of family definitions, and that perhaps we may need a few more straight friends.
Yet I appreciate that Shawn Joaquin will probably never angst about why his friend has two mommies, why he is dark and I am light, why his cousin is being raised by his grandparents, why our neighbors Tom and Tom live together, or why he was present at Mama and Daddy's wedding. He will not question recycling, higher education, the value of a nice hike on a sunny day, the love of a good dog, the need to say "I love you" to someone every day, family hugs, the practice of catch-and-release, and why one should never be a Raiders fan. It's these values that I hope to pass on to him and that keep us in the Bay Area.
Some in my family have asked why it's important to me that my son be in school with children of gay or lesbian parents, why he needs to see children of all colors around him, that he learn Spanish and keep that tie to his birth family. Why do I, a straight, married and very Caucasian woman care? Can't someone else be worried about that? Can't someone else walk for AIDS, be saddened and angered by the treatment of immigrants or the lack of opportunity for so many children of color? It's hard to explain to someone who doesn't live here, who wasn't drawn here by meeting neighbors and fellow school parents thinking "ah, it's you!” I am easily dismissed by my family as a radical liberal, though many Berkeley-centrists would see me as far too conservative and establishment.
Perhaps the easiest explanation is this: my son will never be the "white person" that I am, with all the automatic privileges that silently come with that. Assumptions will be made about him every time he walks out the front door and into any other environment. I hope that by teaching him — by surrounding him at home and at school by those who might be considered "different" in Nebraska — that everyone has value and that their value is not derived from their skin color, their sexual orientation, their affluence or their family. And in doing so, I have taught him to value himself. What better gift — other than a fully-loaded Hybrid at 16 — can I give him?
Friday, March 9, 2007
Tiny dancer
I called home last night to talk to Shawn Joaquin, an always recalcitrant phone talker with anyone other than my mom. Last night he was happy to hear from me and make an announcement.
"Mama, I'm a flamingo dancer."
"Wow - where did you see a flamenco dancer?"
"I not SEE a flamingo dancer, I AM a flamingo dancer. Like this."
[sound of shuffling follows]
Who says that sharing So You Think You Can Dance with a three-year old is a bad idea. At least it's not ice dancing.
"Mama, I'm a flamingo dancer."
"Wow - where did you see a flamenco dancer?"
"I not SEE a flamingo dancer, I AM a flamingo dancer. Like this."
[sound of shuffling follows]
Who says that sharing So You Think You Can Dance with a three-year old is a bad idea. At least it's not ice dancing.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Caveat eater
Today I'm in Albany, New York. For lunch, I walked in the 12-degree weather to the local grocery store to get sushi made by a Chinese woman who had never heard the word "tekka" or "maki" and needed me to point to what I wanted. Secretly, inside, I laughed at her sushi ignorance.
After eating six pieces of spicy tuna roll and tekka maki, I am now almost doubled over in pain and nausea.
I believe I win the Sushi Ignorance Sweepstakes, and will stick to pizza, buffalo wings and the fried zucchini for which Albany is known — the gross consumption of which is shown in every pink track-suited ass in the grocery store. They may be on to something.
After eating six pieces of spicy tuna roll and tekka maki, I am now almost doubled over in pain and nausea.
I believe I win the Sushi Ignorance Sweepstakes, and will stick to pizza, buffalo wings and the fried zucchini for which Albany is known — the gross consumption of which is shown in every pink track-suited ass in the grocery store. They may be on to something.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Rashoman
According to Shawn Joaquin's teacher, he painted and sang and did a lot of jumping today.
His story, however, is slightly different.
"What did you do at school today?"
"I push and bite childrens.
I had a GOOOOOOD day."
I'm going to trust his teacher on this one.
His story, however, is slightly different.
"What did you do at school today?"
"I push and bite childrens.
I had a GOOOOOOD day."
I'm going to trust his teacher on this one.
Monday, March 5, 2007
Love and sweat
We went to a birthday party this weekend, and I was prepared for the worst: Shawn Joaquin hiding between my legs, or using my coat as a mask, truly believing that he's invisible when that edge of corduroy is over his face; panicked shouts of "PICK ME UP! PICK ME UP!" when a stranger looks at him, and the all-time favorite -- the t-shirt bottom pulled up over his head, belly bare but head hidden, while he stands rigid and stiff, frozen like the player in Freeze The Statue most determined to win, even if it means adults coming out after dark, hours after all the normal children have returned home, to force his arms down and his body back into a lifelike state.
All three hiding behaviors occurred within seconds, with the added bonus of pulling my coat over his head with hands sticky with peanut butter. But then a miracle occurred: the ball pit. Shawn Joaquin saw Amalie, love of his life, jump in feet first and he was off like a shot.
While I needed to remain in sight, he was still so filled with the joy of the moment and the insane FREEDOM! FREEDOM! provided by the birthday party play space that I became no more than a visual touchstone. From there he ran to put on a Snow White costume, danced in the mirror, cooked in the little kitchen, colored in Elmo pictures, did the spin-around-and-fall-down dance, threw dozens of balls back into the pit, ran in circles with his arms pumping in a completely spastic and unintegrated way, finally eating copious amounts of chocolate birthday cake and ice cream until he sank into an overwhelming sugar stupor that could only broken by Amalie's new dash for the jump house.
Now, we have a history with jump houses. A jump house has been present at multiple birthday parties in the last year. The first time Shawn Joaquin saw it, he shouted "NOT IN THERE! I NOT GO IN THERE! I SHOULDN'T GO IN THERE!!!!" This was repeated at each event with an accompanying cry of terror, sure that I would somehow shove his head under the net door and run off to the nearest cafe to enjoy 30 minutes of pure silence, the blessed quiet broken only by the sounds of the cappuccino machine and my own little moans of pleasure as I enjoyed a lemon bar -- ALL BY MYSELF, no one demanding a bite -- as his little body flailed around the rubber mat in the jump house.
Today, showing the power of love over fear, he scrambled up the rubber steps into the jump house after Amalie. I stayed inches away, on the other side of the netting, waiting for that cry of "GET ME OUT! I SHOULDN'T BE IN HERE!" but it never came. Instead, as all the other children entered and exited multiple times, he jumped. And jumped. And jumped.
His head became a sweaty mess, with rivulets of perspiration running down the sides of his head and his cheeks so pink they began to form a rash. He jumped for nearly an hour, occasionally flopping on his back, arched up by the pumped up channel beneath him, eyes glazed and chest heaving. "Are you ready to get out?" "NO, I WANNA JUMP," he'd cry, and stumble to his shaky legs to begin again. It was only when he was completely unable to stand that I made any headway, and even then it was only with the sweetener of Sesame Street at home.
He conked out on the short ride home, and was more than a little peeved that I had the audacity to insist on removing him from the car. As we walked in, Gregg was there to greet us. I couldn't wait to tell him about all the activities Shawn Joaquin had participated in, how little time he had spent under my coat.
G: "Hey, how was the party?"
SJ: "I went to the gym. I jumped a lot. Now I'm going to watch Sesame Street. Get me some milk."
G: "But, I —"
SJ: "NO MORE TALKING. I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THE GYM."
With that he climbed up on the sofa and stared expectantly at the dark TV, with a hand extended to the side, waiting to be filled with a cup of milk. And in that moment, the silent little prince was back.
All three hiding behaviors occurred within seconds, with the added bonus of pulling my coat over his head with hands sticky with peanut butter. But then a miracle occurred: the ball pit. Shawn Joaquin saw Amalie, love of his life, jump in feet first and he was off like a shot.
While I needed to remain in sight, he was still so filled with the joy of the moment and the insane FREEDOM! FREEDOM! provided by the birthday party play space that I became no more than a visual touchstone. From there he ran to put on a Snow White costume, danced in the mirror, cooked in the little kitchen, colored in Elmo pictures, did the spin-around-and-fall-down dance, threw dozens of balls back into the pit, ran in circles with his arms pumping in a completely spastic and unintegrated way, finally eating copious amounts of chocolate birthday cake and ice cream until he sank into an overwhelming sugar stupor that could only broken by Amalie's new dash for the jump house.Now, we have a history with jump houses. A jump house has been present at multiple birthday parties in the last year. The first time Shawn Joaquin saw it, he shouted "NOT IN THERE! I NOT GO IN THERE! I SHOULDN'T GO IN THERE!!!!" This was repeated at each event with an accompanying cry of terror, sure that I would somehow shove his head under the net door and run off to the nearest cafe to enjoy 30 minutes of pure silence, the blessed quiet broken only by the sounds of the cappuccino machine and my own little moans of pleasure as I enjoyed a lemon bar -- ALL BY MYSELF, no one demanding a bite -- as his little body flailed around the rubber mat in the jump house.
Today, showing the power of love over fear, he scrambled up the rubber steps into the jump house after Amalie. I stayed inches away, on the other side of the netting, waiting for that cry of "GET ME OUT! I SHOULDN'T BE IN HERE!" but it never came. Instead, as all the other children entered and exited multiple times, he jumped. And jumped. And jumped.
His head became a sweaty mess, with rivulets of perspiration running down the sides of his head and his cheeks so pink they began to form a rash. He jumped for nearly an hour, occasionally flopping on his back, arched up by the pumped up channel beneath him, eyes glazed and chest heaving. "Are you ready to get out?" "NO, I WANNA JUMP," he'd cry, and stumble to his shaky legs to begin again. It was only when he was completely unable to stand that I made any headway, and even then it was only with the sweetener of Sesame Street at home.He conked out on the short ride home, and was more than a little peeved that I had the audacity to insist on removing him from the car. As we walked in, Gregg was there to greet us. I couldn't wait to tell him about all the activities Shawn Joaquin had participated in, how little time he had spent under my coat.
G: "Hey, how was the party?"
SJ: "I went to the gym. I jumped a lot. Now I'm going to watch Sesame Street. Get me some milk."
G: "But, I —"
SJ: "NO MORE TALKING. I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THE GYM."
With that he climbed up on the sofa and stared expectantly at the dark TV, with a hand extended to the side, waiting to be filled with a cup of milk. And in that moment, the silent little prince was back.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Not that there's anything wrong with that
My husband is a guy's guy. A man's man. Someone capable of completely ignoring the existence of adverbs and carelessly dropping the "g" in "ing" words when in the company of other manly men. He only reads the sports page in morning, likes Bud Light and Coor's long necks in the evening and is not a fan of salads, greens or hard-to-pronounce foods or cheese. He eschews blazers, button-downs and anything that could have at one time been seen in Esquire or GQ or was worn by Clinton on What Not To Wear. In short, give him a baseball cap and a Bud and a remote and he's in his own little heaven.
Which is why his secret gayness is so very, very appealing to me. Gay in the most wonderful and non-sexually-oriented way. When his manly men are far away and his only audience is me, he fulfills the role once played by my Gay Team.
I miss my Gay Team. When I worked in the city I always worked for big agencies with a posse of gay men who I could count on for pop cultural literacy, fashion critiques, meaningful conversations about relationships and just general good times. I had one colleague who could look me up and down and say "Unh unh. I don't think so" or "Forget about workin' it. You OWN it, baby" and let me know where I stood on the fashion scale. My team was funny, smart and energetic, and with one exception, great sources for music, books and film reviews. (One of my close gay friends has a broken gay gene, so he is only able to listen to Baroque music, isn't into fashion, doesn't watch television, is a self-proclaimed slob, doesn't drink and can not be bribed, coerced or otherwise shamed into dancing anytime, anywhere.)
When I began working at home, I lost my Gay Team. We still IM and share the best of YouTube and tmz.com gossip, but it's not the same. I'm not sure if Gregg sensed my loss or sensed an opportunity for him to share a side of himself he was unable to show elsewhere, but he stepped in.
When People Magazine arrives, I have to wait for Gregg to come home so we can look through the StyleWatch section together. He can point out which of the four women wearing a particular style are workin' it, ownin' it, or losin' it. He likes to go through the Johnny Boden catalog and tell me what would work for me and why, and why he hates rail thin models and loves my more bootylicious self. When I go to meetings and have an opportunity to wear Real Clothes and Accessories, he's there to help me pick out just the right ensemble and the shoes that will best highlight my legs or skirt or overall look. We watch The Housewives of Orange County with the shades drawn, as he comments on why that outfit on Jo is just WRONG, WRONG I tell you, what was she thinking with that HAIR, and he can even be persuaded to put a Bioré strip on his nose while doing it. It's like having the best of my Gay Team with the added benefit of chest hair and being someone I really like to sleep with and wake up with. And who will, unlike the others, never leave me for another man. Unless that man has tickets to a Kings game. Then all bets are off.
Which is why his secret gayness is so very, very appealing to me. Gay in the most wonderful and non-sexually-oriented way. When his manly men are far away and his only audience is me, he fulfills the role once played by my Gay Team.
I miss my Gay Team. When I worked in the city I always worked for big agencies with a posse of gay men who I could count on for pop cultural literacy, fashion critiques, meaningful conversations about relationships and just general good times. I had one colleague who could look me up and down and say "Unh unh. I don't think so" or "Forget about workin' it. You OWN it, baby" and let me know where I stood on the fashion scale. My team was funny, smart and energetic, and with one exception, great sources for music, books and film reviews. (One of my close gay friends has a broken gay gene, so he is only able to listen to Baroque music, isn't into fashion, doesn't watch television, is a self-proclaimed slob, doesn't drink and can not be bribed, coerced or otherwise shamed into dancing anytime, anywhere.)
When I began working at home, I lost my Gay Team. We still IM and share the best of YouTube and tmz.com gossip, but it's not the same. I'm not sure if Gregg sensed my loss or sensed an opportunity for him to share a side of himself he was unable to show elsewhere, but he stepped in.
When People Magazine arrives, I have to wait for Gregg to come home so we can look through the StyleWatch section together. He can point out which of the four women wearing a particular style are workin' it, ownin' it, or losin' it. He likes to go through the Johnny Boden catalog and tell me what would work for me and why, and why he hates rail thin models and loves my more bootylicious self. When I go to meetings and have an opportunity to wear Real Clothes and Accessories, he's there to help me pick out just the right ensemble and the shoes that will best highlight my legs or skirt or overall look. We watch The Housewives of Orange County with the shades drawn, as he comments on why that outfit on Jo is just WRONG, WRONG I tell you, what was she thinking with that HAIR, and he can even be persuaded to put a Bioré strip on his nose while doing it. It's like having the best of my Gay Team with the added benefit of chest hair and being someone I really like to sleep with and wake up with. And who will, unlike the others, never leave me for another man. Unless that man has tickets to a Kings game. Then all bets are off.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
