We're going to walk and talk here, people.
It's just that M is watching The Newsroom and I feel compelled to write a lot of words in a rapid fire pace and to seek out my finest ten dollar vocabulary and forge a Sorkin-esque monologue.
But, we're not going to do that because it's exhausting.
Instead, I'm going to tell you about this thing that my older kid, E did this weekend. This isn't a fancy story to be told with big words. This is not that kind of story at all. This is a tale. A tale that is told because at some level, it's too hard to believe. And because it's the kind of tale that moves from one parent to another and becomes more of a legend than a story. Because it has a ring of truth to it that only a parent can hear. The kind of ending that every parent hears and thinks, of course, OF COURSE that is the only way that tale could end.
So, Saturday, M went out to Beerfest with his friends. I told the boys I would take them out to dinner--just a special date night. S refused to get burgers and fries. E refused to eat at a locally owned (and very tasty, my personal fave) chicken nuggets place because he HAAAAAAATES chicken so much.
Chicken makes him ill.
Chicken makes his mouth dry.
Chicken makes him waaaant to diiiiie.
You may notice that E has a certain taste for melodrama.
We can address that joyful part of my life at a later date.
For now, we are just going to focus on how my older son absolutely lost his shit because we threatened him with a very tasty, very authentic Southern style, locally owned company's very delicious food.
I mean LOST. As in, he's yelling at his brother because his brother ALWAYS gets what he wants. He's yelling at me because he NEVER gets what he wants. He's yelling because chicken is disgusting. DISGUSTING.
That's it. I quit. This is the kind of appreciation I get for offering to take my boys out to dinner? The ingratitude. The petty fighting. The arguing. The bickering. The inability to compromise. The total refusal to contribute to the overall happiness of the family.
I fought this stalemate as long as I could because I really wanted to eat out. Going out to dinner is sanctioned diet breaking. The dinner gods decreed that I didn't need to make dinner and, therefore, whatever alternative to a home cooked meal I am forced to eat has zero calories.
Right? I thought so. This is like universally known stuff.
In the end, however, they couldn't come to an agreement.
In frustration, I pulled into Wendy's.
Not locally owned deliciousness.
Not the place I wanted to go.
Not worth the calories.
Bummer.
S is disappointed, but I hear in his voice that he's starting to perk up when he orders a frosty. A frosty makes up for a great many wrongs.
E orders a frosty, too.
To go with his six piece chicken nugget order.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Thursday, August 22, 2013
On why I didn't sleep very well last night
An Open Letter to the Hypothetical Burglar who theoretically tried to break into my father-in-law's house last night.
Dear Hypothetical Burglar,
What the fuck? That is all.
No, seriously. It seems that you have theoretically chosen a life of crime. Bad for you. But, I also see that you have chosen a life of non-violent crime, so way to go. Is it Meth? Do you need money for Meth? That stuff will kill you, man. Rehab will help you. No one's life turns out well on Meth. Please consider my concern for your well being and reassess the life choices that may have brought you to this point.
It seems as though the alarm system contacted the police three separate times last night.
You were being very naughty.
You may not be aware that the alarm company also contacts other phone numbers besides 911 when you theoretically trigger the burglar alarm.
One of those numbers is my cell. Another is M's cell. A third is my house phone. And yet a fourth is my father in law's phone.
You're right. That IS a lot of phone numbers.
Funny thing about the alarm company. They call ALL those numbers until they get a response. And once they call my father in law, HE calls until he gets a response. I am sure you can understand that both the homeowner and the company whose job it is to protect the homeowner are very invested in making sure that you (or one of your colleagues) does not successfully enter the house. I am sure you can also understand that they see the situation with some urgency. So, they tend to call in a pattern that represents that urgency: often and on various lines.
So, with your *three* theoretical break in attempts. And the four numbers that are contacted with each attempt. And the assorted follow up calls that come with each of the four numbers, you can imagine (even if, like me, you're not very good at math) that my phones were ringing off the hook (that's an old timey term for all the fuckin' time) last night.
Also, I understand that your line of work is largely nocturnal. Clearly, some hazards come into play if you try to work during the broad daylight.
However, could you please consider (hypothetically) that my line of work is largely done during the day. As is the work of my children and husband. So, when you attempt (allegedly) to break into the house at the eleven o'clock hour, the twelve o'clock hour, and the weeeeee one o'clock hour, YOU ARE WAKING US UP.
Yesterday, and I concede that you have no way of knowing this, was a pretty crappy day. Perhaps it was the full moon that made our household members a little out of sorts. Perhaps this same full moon prompted you to undertake your night time adventure. It was difficult for all of us to get to sleep last night, and to facilitate it, we allowed the kids to sleep in our room. Which means, you guessed it, that your shenanigans (theoretical, of course) were disturbing to all of us.
Just to let you know--for future reference--in case your motives were only curiosity, there are no drugs, jewels, electronics, or expensive goods in that house. There are two big-ass TVs, but those are difficult to transport. So, really, you might want to go (theoretically) and burgle some folks who actually have some worthwhile, pawn-able stuff.
Also, if you are very determined to break the law and enter this residence, we respectfully ask that you do it either during the daylight hours, or at least the pre-bedtime hours of elementary aged children and their parents. We go to bed, again, for future reference, at about 9:30. So any attempted B&Es should be before that hour.
Thank you for your consideration,
Julie
PS. Alarm company--if the alarm goes off three times within three hours, there's probably a malfunction. Turn everything off remotely, turn it back on, and handle this problem on your own.
Thank you for your service.
Dear Hypothetical Burglar,
What the fuck? That is all.
No, seriously. It seems that you have theoretically chosen a life of crime. Bad for you. But, I also see that you have chosen a life of non-violent crime, so way to go. Is it Meth? Do you need money for Meth? That stuff will kill you, man. Rehab will help you. No one's life turns out well on Meth. Please consider my concern for your well being and reassess the life choices that may have brought you to this point.
It seems as though the alarm system contacted the police three separate times last night.
You were being very naughty.
You may not be aware that the alarm company also contacts other phone numbers besides 911 when you theoretically trigger the burglar alarm.
One of those numbers is my cell. Another is M's cell. A third is my house phone. And yet a fourth is my father in law's phone.
You're right. That IS a lot of phone numbers.
Funny thing about the alarm company. They call ALL those numbers until they get a response. And once they call my father in law, HE calls until he gets a response. I am sure you can understand that both the homeowner and the company whose job it is to protect the homeowner are very invested in making sure that you (or one of your colleagues) does not successfully enter the house. I am sure you can also understand that they see the situation with some urgency. So, they tend to call in a pattern that represents that urgency: often and on various lines.
So, with your *three* theoretical break in attempts. And the four numbers that are contacted with each attempt. And the assorted follow up calls that come with each of the four numbers, you can imagine (even if, like me, you're not very good at math) that my phones were ringing off the hook (that's an old timey term for all the fuckin' time) last night.
Also, I understand that your line of work is largely nocturnal. Clearly, some hazards come into play if you try to work during the broad daylight.
However, could you please consider (hypothetically) that my line of work is largely done during the day. As is the work of my children and husband. So, when you attempt (allegedly) to break into the house at the eleven o'clock hour, the twelve o'clock hour, and the weeeeee one o'clock hour, YOU ARE WAKING US UP.
Yesterday, and I concede that you have no way of knowing this, was a pretty crappy day. Perhaps it was the full moon that made our household members a little out of sorts. Perhaps this same full moon prompted you to undertake your night time adventure. It was difficult for all of us to get to sleep last night, and to facilitate it, we allowed the kids to sleep in our room. Which means, you guessed it, that your shenanigans (theoretical, of course) were disturbing to all of us.
Just to let you know--for future reference--in case your motives were only curiosity, there are no drugs, jewels, electronics, or expensive goods in that house. There are two big-ass TVs, but those are difficult to transport. So, really, you might want to go (theoretically) and burgle some folks who actually have some worthwhile, pawn-able stuff.
Also, if you are very determined to break the law and enter this residence, we respectfully ask that you do it either during the daylight hours, or at least the pre-bedtime hours of elementary aged children and their parents. We go to bed, again, for future reference, at about 9:30. So any attempted B&Es should be before that hour.
Thank you for your consideration,
Julie
PS. Alarm company--if the alarm goes off three times within three hours, there's probably a malfunction. Turn everything off remotely, turn it back on, and handle this problem on your own.
Thank you for your service.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
The Other Beasts of the Southern Wild
Do you ever watch documentaries on animals in Africa?
I used to, before all the animals became endangered and every documentary had to end with the 10 minute Morgan Freeman narration, "These glorious animals you have been privileged to see for the last 50 minutes exist only in a single city block preserve in Africa and are the last 6 specimens on Earth. They are killed at the rate of a billion per day and hunted only for their left testicle. Moreover, their territory is shrinking at the rates of four football fields per minute, and they're all dying and IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT."
So, before that, I used to watch documentaries on animals in Africa. There was always a segment on these gorgeous prides of lionesses. The male lions fight over who gets to claim the pride, the victor eats all the loser's cubs, impregnates all the lionesses and then leaves until the next mating season.
(Forgive me, biologists for any generalizations and over simplifications.)
So, this pack of lionesses is left with all these crazy cubs. First, they're all cute and nursing and falling over each other. Then, the cubs have to be trained to hunt, fight off rivals, and survive without the pride of females to care for them.
The cubs spend the next seven minutes of the movie growling at one another, pouncing on one another, gnawing on one anothers' ears, pretending the weakest one is a gazelle. It's chaos, and the mother lionesses just sit there, flies in their eyes, big tails lazily swatting at the bugs, while cubs fight and spar and tussle all around them.
The lioness, equipped to provide for her offspring and for those of her peers, takes her responsibility stoically. She's waiting until night, when after enduring a whole day of being her cubs' playground, she has to go out into the wilderness, find dinner, fend off scavengers and bring it back to those babies who then strut around like they brought down that gnu on their own.
Cubs these days.
Living in a house full of boys is a lot like an African Animal Documentary, except for a few things:
1. Morgan Freeman is not narrating my life. My life doesn't lend itself to linear narration, but would be more like perpetual surprise for the voice over..."and now, the Mother Human moves to...wait, what the hell is she doing?"
2. My cubs draw blood. Cubs learning to hunt and play spar until one dominates the other, but do not draw blood. That would draw predators. So, another point in favor of the wild animals being smarter than boy-cubs.
3. I don't live in a pack of lionesses. Though sometimes I wish I did.
If we lioness moms lived in a pack, many things would be very different. If we could all sit there together, swatting our tails, making sure no one came and ate our babies, and all we had to ensure was that our cubs could fend off a weaker male and catch the occasional wildebeest, our lives would be a snap.
But no. Instead, moms of boys live in the reverse situation. We exist in a pack ruled by testosterone. Motherly instincts to "stop climbing on the furniture" and "stop hitting your brother" and "whoever left footprints on the wall, please stop doing so," are regular, repeated directions. Nobody has to tell the girl-cubs that falling into a glass coffee table would be painful.
Moms of boys live in a world where a bra in the laundry pile is not just another piece of wash, but readily becomes a hat, ear warmers, or Mickey Mouse ears.
Moms of boys live in a house where each person actually has a favorite body part. And those boys feel compelled to mention, extol the virtues of, give names to, praise, and exhibit that favorite body part on a regular schedule. (Hint: it's not an elbow)
Moms of boys live where any words can be fightin' words.
The pride is flipped on its head. Estrogen is rare and precious.The female is not the norm, she is the oddity, the novelty, the one who mysteriously gets giant pimples on her chin every 28 days. The cubs, needing the dummy wildebeest, jump on, roughhouse and spar with her as though she is as spry and resilient and tough as they are (which she most definitely is not, in large part because she GAVE BIRTH to two cubs!)
Moms of boys live in a demographically gerrymandered world. There is no sympathy in the house of boys. There is no commiseration. There's barely cooperation. Boys live in a world without cootie-awareness or personal hygiene guidelines at all. Like that lioness licking those babies' fur, a boy-mom has to double check fingernails and ears in ways girl-moms never do. We tend to our camouflaged colors as our cubs grow patchy manes or fantastic plumage and flaunt it in pre-adolescent absurdity. Little miniatures of noble sires, awkward, comically imitating what they hope to become. Flexing their wee might as though they were the king of the jungle.
Moms of boys live in a world of heightened bluster and competition. Of sparring only to see who is dominant in one particular moment, at one particular skill. Moms of boys live in a zoo-like reproduction of the African wild animals. The population balance is off, the pairings of moms and cubs much less like a commune, and much more like a habitat surrounded by a moat. Moms of boys are trying to raise these unruly mini-men into the model of their virile lineage but they're doing it without the community of the lionesses. There is no check of the rival alpha male. These cubs aren't aware of forces selecting against them, of males stronger and more dominant. Or females who close rank to protect. These boy-cubs are being raised in the habitat where both of them could be king of the jungle, where neither of them will be the all-watching, all-nourishing lioness. And there is only that duality.
Moms of boys live in an every-man-for-himself world. And it's all fun and gazelle games til somebody skins a knee.
I used to, before all the animals became endangered and every documentary had to end with the 10 minute Morgan Freeman narration, "These glorious animals you have been privileged to see for the last 50 minutes exist only in a single city block preserve in Africa and are the last 6 specimens on Earth. They are killed at the rate of a billion per day and hunted only for their left testicle. Moreover, their territory is shrinking at the rates of four football fields per minute, and they're all dying and IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT."
So, before that, I used to watch documentaries on animals in Africa. There was always a segment on these gorgeous prides of lionesses. The male lions fight over who gets to claim the pride, the victor eats all the loser's cubs, impregnates all the lionesses and then leaves until the next mating season.
(Forgive me, biologists for any generalizations and over simplifications.)
So, this pack of lionesses is left with all these crazy cubs. First, they're all cute and nursing and falling over each other. Then, the cubs have to be trained to hunt, fight off rivals, and survive without the pride of females to care for them.
The cubs spend the next seven minutes of the movie growling at one another, pouncing on one another, gnawing on one anothers' ears, pretending the weakest one is a gazelle. It's chaos, and the mother lionesses just sit there, flies in their eyes, big tails lazily swatting at the bugs, while cubs fight and spar and tussle all around them.
The lioness, equipped to provide for her offspring and for those of her peers, takes her responsibility stoically. She's waiting until night, when after enduring a whole day of being her cubs' playground, she has to go out into the wilderness, find dinner, fend off scavengers and bring it back to those babies who then strut around like they brought down that gnu on their own.
Cubs these days.
Living in a house full of boys is a lot like an African Animal Documentary, except for a few things:
1. Morgan Freeman is not narrating my life. My life doesn't lend itself to linear narration, but would be more like perpetual surprise for the voice over..."and now, the Mother Human moves to...wait, what the hell is she doing?"
2. My cubs draw blood. Cubs learning to hunt and play spar until one dominates the other, but do not draw blood. That would draw predators. So, another point in favor of the wild animals being smarter than boy-cubs.
3. I don't live in a pack of lionesses. Though sometimes I wish I did.
If we lioness moms lived in a pack, many things would be very different. If we could all sit there together, swatting our tails, making sure no one came and ate our babies, and all we had to ensure was that our cubs could fend off a weaker male and catch the occasional wildebeest, our lives would be a snap.
But no. Instead, moms of boys live in the reverse situation. We exist in a pack ruled by testosterone. Motherly instincts to "stop climbing on the furniture" and "stop hitting your brother" and "whoever left footprints on the wall, please stop doing so," are regular, repeated directions. Nobody has to tell the girl-cubs that falling into a glass coffee table would be painful.
Moms of boys live in a world where a bra in the laundry pile is not just another piece of wash, but readily becomes a hat, ear warmers, or Mickey Mouse ears.
Moms of boys live in a house where each person actually has a favorite body part. And those boys feel compelled to mention, extol the virtues of, give names to, praise, and exhibit that favorite body part on a regular schedule. (Hint: it's not an elbow)
Moms of boys live where any words can be fightin' words.
The pride is flipped on its head. Estrogen is rare and precious.The female is not the norm, she is the oddity, the novelty, the one who mysteriously gets giant pimples on her chin every 28 days. The cubs, needing the dummy wildebeest, jump on, roughhouse and spar with her as though she is as spry and resilient and tough as they are (which she most definitely is not, in large part because she GAVE BIRTH to two cubs!)
Moms of boys live in a demographically gerrymandered world. There is no sympathy in the house of boys. There is no commiseration. There's barely cooperation. Boys live in a world without cootie-awareness or personal hygiene guidelines at all. Like that lioness licking those babies' fur, a boy-mom has to double check fingernails and ears in ways girl-moms never do. We tend to our camouflaged colors as our cubs grow patchy manes or fantastic plumage and flaunt it in pre-adolescent absurdity. Little miniatures of noble sires, awkward, comically imitating what they hope to become. Flexing their wee might as though they were the king of the jungle.
Moms of boys live in a world of heightened bluster and competition. Of sparring only to see who is dominant in one particular moment, at one particular skill. Moms of boys live in a zoo-like reproduction of the African wild animals. The population balance is off, the pairings of moms and cubs much less like a commune, and much more like a habitat surrounded by a moat. Moms of boys are trying to raise these unruly mini-men into the model of their virile lineage but they're doing it without the community of the lionesses. There is no check of the rival alpha male. These cubs aren't aware of forces selecting against them, of males stronger and more dominant. Or females who close rank to protect. These boy-cubs are being raised in the habitat where both of them could be king of the jungle, where neither of them will be the all-watching, all-nourishing lioness. And there is only that duality.
Moms of boys live in an every-man-for-himself world. And it's all fun and gazelle games til somebody skins a knee.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Son, I'm so proud?
So, we're in the car, driving to swim. Because, if nothing else, parents are underpaid chauffeurs.
The non-commercial self promotion on the Sirius Radio screams:
WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO TO NEW YORK CITY TO SEE ONE DIRECTION'S NEW MOVIE, FOLLOWED BY THE CONCERT AND BACKSTAGE PASSES FOR THE AFTERPARTY?!?!?!?
Then the radio fine print ninjas start saying that you can download an app, drink Pepsi, watch the new video and scan the code. Apparently doing these activities in some consistent order will generate an opportunity for you to be entered into a contest to maybe win a chance to go to New York City to see One Direction's new movie followed by the concert, and backstage passes for the afterparty.
Doing all of those things sounds a lot like losing a contest to me, but nobody asked.
Kids, who are obviously the target demographic for this promotion, are unfailingly able to tune the fine print ninjas out. S, like every other child of this ADD generation, listens to the radio while reading a book, looking out the window, playing a video game, and beating the crap out of his brother (despite that seatbelt?) immediately keys into the idea of a contest:
S:"Hey, Mom. We should totally do that."
(Why do my kids always start a conversation with "Hey, Mom?" I'm right there, why do they need the "hey?")
Me: "You hate One Direction."
S: "But I like New York City."
Me: "We were just there. You were okay with it. Not like desperate to go back or anything."
S: "Yeah, but this would be free."
Me: "We don't really need a free trip to New York to see a movie about a boy band. We won't even cross town to see this movie."
S: "A valid point. But there's also a concert."
(Is there an elementary debate club that I don't know of? What 8 year old concedes a 'valid point?')
Me: "I'm glad you appreciate my logic. But if you don't like the band and don't want to see the movie, why would you want to go to the concert?"
(Silence)
S: "True. BUT, there's an afterparty. Everybody knows the afterparty's happenin'."
Me: "What do you know about afterparties?"
S: "The afterparty's always where the fun is."
Me: "I got that. Where did you hear about afterparties?"
S: "Um. I dunno."
My kid is in school for one day. He didn't come home with spelling words or math homework or PTA sign up forms.
He came home with the afterparty's rocking.
Kids these days.
The non-commercial self promotion on the Sirius Radio screams:
WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO TO NEW YORK CITY TO SEE ONE DIRECTION'S NEW MOVIE, FOLLOWED BY THE CONCERT AND BACKSTAGE PASSES FOR THE AFTERPARTY?!?!?!?
Then the radio fine print ninjas start saying that you can download an app, drink Pepsi, watch the new video and scan the code. Apparently doing these activities in some consistent order will generate an opportunity for you to be entered into a contest to maybe win a chance to go to New York City to see One Direction's new movie followed by the concert, and backstage passes for the afterparty.
Doing all of those things sounds a lot like losing a contest to me, but nobody asked.
Kids, who are obviously the target demographic for this promotion, are unfailingly able to tune the fine print ninjas out. S, like every other child of this ADD generation, listens to the radio while reading a book, looking out the window, playing a video game, and beating the crap out of his brother (despite that seatbelt?) immediately keys into the idea of a contest:
S:"Hey, Mom. We should totally do that."
(Why do my kids always start a conversation with "Hey, Mom?" I'm right there, why do they need the "hey?")
Me: "You hate One Direction."
S: "But I like New York City."
Me: "We were just there. You were okay with it. Not like desperate to go back or anything."
S: "Yeah, but this would be free."
Me: "We don't really need a free trip to New York to see a movie about a boy band. We won't even cross town to see this movie."
S: "A valid point. But there's also a concert."
(Is there an elementary debate club that I don't know of? What 8 year old concedes a 'valid point?')
Me: "I'm glad you appreciate my logic. But if you don't like the band and don't want to see the movie, why would you want to go to the concert?"
(Silence)
S: "True. BUT, there's an afterparty. Everybody knows the afterparty's happenin'."
Me: "What do you know about afterparties?"
S: "The afterparty's always where the fun is."
Me: "I got that. Where did you hear about afterparties?"
S: "Um. I dunno."
My kid is in school for one day. He didn't come home with spelling words or math homework or PTA sign up forms.
He came home with the afterparty's rocking.
Kids these days.
Monday, August 19, 2013
The first day
Right now, the house is nearly silent. There is the rhythmic turning of the dryer, the swishing of the dishwasher, but that is all.
There is no overly loud laugh track from the TV, no beeping and clicking from the computers, no squeals of delight from the pool.
There is only me, and the daily tasks of running a home.
Those tasks continue on, made easier by the emptiness. There is no one here to dirty the dishes I've washed, to use the beach towels I've laundered. There is no one putting feet on the table, or leaving wrappers on the floor.
There is nobody here.
Nobody is fighting. No one is yelling. No one is whining. No one is asking me to referee.
Nobody is asking for a snack. Nobody is reading Harry Potter. Nobody wants to roller skate.
No one is here to swim. No one is here to play chase with the dog. Nobody to make the empty beds.
Nobody has Legos all over the floor. No one is bored. No one wants his brother to play. No one is playing alone in his room.
No one is complaining about the rainy day. No one is making vulgar jokes. No one is the Mad Pantster.
It is not a tragedy. It's just growing up. I keep telling myself. It doesn't matter at all that I forgot to take a photo. As if a digital imprint of this day will make it last, or bring it back to me when I look back to it in the future.
It is not a tragedy. Everyone is ok. Smart and sweet and handsome and healthy. Everyone has goals and success and achievements yet to be had. Everyone has a potentially beautiful life ahead of them. Everyone will be back, of course.
But for now, it's just me and Nobody. Sitting in this house. On this first/last day. This last first day of elementary school. This first day of reclaiming my house from the wild beasts of summer. This first day of the real world.
Nobody and I will get along fine in a couple of weeks. I'll grow to cherish this time to myself. By the end of the school, I'll be apprehensive about the prospect of three whole months with Everybody back.
But I know that this is my practice. This couple of weeks with Nobody is instructive to my future. Every year, a little less of Everybody and a little more time with Nobody. Until that time in the not-too distant years ahead, when it will be not just the boy who leaves the house, but his things as well. It will be the things he cherishes then, I don't even know what those things will be.
Then, too, Nobody and I will be here in the house. With Legos and Harry Potter and Percy Jackson and Nobody will play or read those things. They will be the left behind tokens of childhood.
Everyone will come back in whirling holiday trips and long weekends, bringing laundry and shopping lists and friends and girlfriends and wives and children. Nobody and I will be ready, like the graying dog in the Iams commercial, eager to have our Everyone home.
These first few days with Nobody remind me about that near future. Nobody and I aren't ready, nor is Everyone else. We're not supposed to be ready yet. That's why we have this practice, and yet.
M gave me Harry Potter to cite here. The last page of the last chapter of the last book. An appropriate disconnect with this, the first day. But, of course, this citation makes me even more keenly aware of Nobody. Everybody read or reread this book this summer. Everyone got to see the movies. Everyone was sad that this would be the end of Harry Potter. There will be no more Potter surprises. No more suspense. No more Hogwarts.
Fifteen years ago, the first book was released. I read the series then, before kids, when the pages still smelled of ink, and I've reread the series with my kids. And, fifteen years from now, perhaps I'll reread them again. The books' pages are all feathered and fingerprinted. The covers are tattered and a bit greasy. They books are well-loved. And that makes them even better. I reread them now, knowing my kids' favorite parts, their most beloved characters, the parts that gave them nightmares and the parts that made them cry. The books are dearer yet for being shared.
As the famed Hogwarts Express pulled out from Charing Cross Station, Harry walked alongside it, watching his son's thin face, already ablaze with excitement. Harry kept smiling and waving even though it was like a little bereavement, watching his son glide away from him. The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. The train rounded a corner. Harry's hand was still raised in farewell.
There is no overly loud laugh track from the TV, no beeping and clicking from the computers, no squeals of delight from the pool.
There is only me, and the daily tasks of running a home.
Those tasks continue on, made easier by the emptiness. There is no one here to dirty the dishes I've washed, to use the beach towels I've laundered. There is no one putting feet on the table, or leaving wrappers on the floor.
There is nobody here.
Nobody is fighting. No one is yelling. No one is whining. No one is asking me to referee.
Nobody is asking for a snack. Nobody is reading Harry Potter. Nobody wants to roller skate.
No one is here to swim. No one is here to play chase with the dog. Nobody to make the empty beds.
Nobody has Legos all over the floor. No one is bored. No one wants his brother to play. No one is playing alone in his room.
No one is complaining about the rainy day. No one is making vulgar jokes. No one is the Mad Pantster.
It is not a tragedy. It's just growing up. I keep telling myself. It doesn't matter at all that I forgot to take a photo. As if a digital imprint of this day will make it last, or bring it back to me when I look back to it in the future.
It is not a tragedy. Everyone is ok. Smart and sweet and handsome and healthy. Everyone has goals and success and achievements yet to be had. Everyone has a potentially beautiful life ahead of them. Everyone will be back, of course.
But for now, it's just me and Nobody. Sitting in this house. On this first/last day. This last first day of elementary school. This first day of reclaiming my house from the wild beasts of summer. This first day of the real world.
Nobody and I will get along fine in a couple of weeks. I'll grow to cherish this time to myself. By the end of the school, I'll be apprehensive about the prospect of three whole months with Everybody back.
But I know that this is my practice. This couple of weeks with Nobody is instructive to my future. Every year, a little less of Everybody and a little more time with Nobody. Until that time in the not-too distant years ahead, when it will be not just the boy who leaves the house, but his things as well. It will be the things he cherishes then, I don't even know what those things will be.
Then, too, Nobody and I will be here in the house. With Legos and Harry Potter and Percy Jackson and Nobody will play or read those things. They will be the left behind tokens of childhood.
Everyone will come back in whirling holiday trips and long weekends, bringing laundry and shopping lists and friends and girlfriends and wives and children. Nobody and I will be ready, like the graying dog in the Iams commercial, eager to have our Everyone home.
These first few days with Nobody remind me about that near future. Nobody and I aren't ready, nor is Everyone else. We're not supposed to be ready yet. That's why we have this practice, and yet.
M gave me Harry Potter to cite here. The last page of the last chapter of the last book. An appropriate disconnect with this, the first day. But, of course, this citation makes me even more keenly aware of Nobody. Everybody read or reread this book this summer. Everyone got to see the movies. Everyone was sad that this would be the end of Harry Potter. There will be no more Potter surprises. No more suspense. No more Hogwarts.
Fifteen years ago, the first book was released. I read the series then, before kids, when the pages still smelled of ink, and I've reread the series with my kids. And, fifteen years from now, perhaps I'll reread them again. The books' pages are all feathered and fingerprinted. The covers are tattered and a bit greasy. They books are well-loved. And that makes them even better. I reread them now, knowing my kids' favorite parts, their most beloved characters, the parts that gave them nightmares and the parts that made them cry. The books are dearer yet for being shared.
As the famed Hogwarts Express pulled out from Charing Cross Station, Harry walked alongside it, watching his son's thin face, already ablaze with excitement. Harry kept smiling and waving even though it was like a little bereavement, watching his son glide away from him. The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. The train rounded a corner. Harry's hand was still raised in farewell.
Friday, August 16, 2013
I think I can
I try to be a sympathetic person.
That's not entirely true.
I try to be a sympathetic spouse, parent and friend.
I'm not very good at it.
So, when in the course of daily events, my kids do crazy shit, I am not very tolerant.
Did they break something? They shouldn't have been horsing around. Did they hurt each other? Then they shouldn't have been horsing around. Did one hurt himself? Then he shouldn't have been horsing around.
You know how I know that horsing around is the culprit? Because grown ups 1. Hardly ever hurt themselves while doing something appropriate. 2. Don't horse around inappropriately. And when they do, bad things happen. How many weekend warriors sport knee braces on a Monday? How many dares end up in the ER?
So, right. When my kids misbehave and the consequences are negative, I usually have no hesitation in meting out punishment.
Horseplay=loss of stuff you like to do.
There are exceptions, of course. And mostly they involve misbehavior of another sort. The mouthy, limit-pushing variety. The type of misbehavior that is followed by the kids' wide-eyed stare. They've thrown down the gauntlet, they're curious to see how you respond. This is a test. It is only a test.
Your response must be both instant and thoughtful. It must show strength, consistency, control, and compassion. It must exact justice rather than revenge.
In short, the perfect response is unattainable. It's an oasis-like shimmering of possibility that dries up the moment you need to execute. It's theoretical, academic, Ivory Tower parenting. It's the measured, but completely unhelpful response from a parenting magazine. It's not the response that boils up to your lips in a singularly infuriating moment that reveals your child's deepest, darkest inner-workings. It's a fight or flight instinct that must be reined in by willpower, civility and the horrible judgy stares of the community.
It's the moment when you see how your family functions at their most dysfunctional.
Predictably, there are two times every year where my family are at their worst (including me.) These are the moments when I thank the dignity gods that I am not on a reality show, or under the purview of Children's Services, or in any way worse of a human than I already am.
The last week (or two) of school in May and the last week (or two) of summer in August, are consistently disastrous around here.
The primary reason, and what I was thinking about when I started this entry, is that usually my kid makes a bad choice and receives an appropriate punishment and everything is straight-forward. But for those two (or four) weeks a year, the "bad" initial behavior stems from my S's total inability to handle change.
S spent the last two weeks of school this year rudely criticizing my cooking, picking fights with his brother, provoking his dad. And the last two weeks have been a re-run of that miserable show.
I know the behavior is coming, I want to be able to yield a cushion for him. I want to be able to give him leeway that I usually wouldn't offer. And, when necessary, I'd like to exhibit leniency I wouldn't usually extend.
But then it comes. The mouthiness, the foul language, the total disregard for instructions and responsibility. The hair trigger.
And in my moment? In these moments when I can behave like a cultured human who reaches out to her child with patience instead of wrath?
Almost got it. Sort of. Not quite.
I've been lenient. I have avoided restricting the last few days of summer. But, boy, have I been tested.
I throw up my hands thinking, those boys haven't lifted a finger all summer. They haven't helped, they've complained about every bit of work we've asked them to do. They've put up their feet and been waited upon like kings. And NOW they're yelling at me over the smallest of domestic chores.
Three more days. Three more days. Three more days.
That's not entirely true.
I try to be a sympathetic spouse, parent and friend.
I'm not very good at it.
So, when in the course of daily events, my kids do crazy shit, I am not very tolerant.
Did they break something? They shouldn't have been horsing around. Did they hurt each other? Then they shouldn't have been horsing around. Did one hurt himself? Then he shouldn't have been horsing around.
You know how I know that horsing around is the culprit? Because grown ups 1. Hardly ever hurt themselves while doing something appropriate. 2. Don't horse around inappropriately. And when they do, bad things happen. How many weekend warriors sport knee braces on a Monday? How many dares end up in the ER?
So, right. When my kids misbehave and the consequences are negative, I usually have no hesitation in meting out punishment.
Horseplay=loss of stuff you like to do.
There are exceptions, of course. And mostly they involve misbehavior of another sort. The mouthy, limit-pushing variety. The type of misbehavior that is followed by the kids' wide-eyed stare. They've thrown down the gauntlet, they're curious to see how you respond. This is a test. It is only a test.
Your response must be both instant and thoughtful. It must show strength, consistency, control, and compassion. It must exact justice rather than revenge.
In short, the perfect response is unattainable. It's an oasis-like shimmering of possibility that dries up the moment you need to execute. It's theoretical, academic, Ivory Tower parenting. It's the measured, but completely unhelpful response from a parenting magazine. It's not the response that boils up to your lips in a singularly infuriating moment that reveals your child's deepest, darkest inner-workings. It's a fight or flight instinct that must be reined in by willpower, civility and the horrible judgy stares of the community.
It's the moment when you see how your family functions at their most dysfunctional.
Predictably, there are two times every year where my family are at their worst (including me.) These are the moments when I thank the dignity gods that I am not on a reality show, or under the purview of Children's Services, or in any way worse of a human than I already am.
The last week (or two) of school in May and the last week (or two) of summer in August, are consistently disastrous around here.
The primary reason, and what I was thinking about when I started this entry, is that usually my kid makes a bad choice and receives an appropriate punishment and everything is straight-forward. But for those two (or four) weeks a year, the "bad" initial behavior stems from my S's total inability to handle change.
S spent the last two weeks of school this year rudely criticizing my cooking, picking fights with his brother, provoking his dad. And the last two weeks have been a re-run of that miserable show.
I know the behavior is coming, I want to be able to yield a cushion for him. I want to be able to give him leeway that I usually wouldn't offer. And, when necessary, I'd like to exhibit leniency I wouldn't usually extend.
But then it comes. The mouthiness, the foul language, the total disregard for instructions and responsibility. The hair trigger.
And in my moment? In these moments when I can behave like a cultured human who reaches out to her child with patience instead of wrath?
Almost got it. Sort of. Not quite.
I've been lenient. I have avoided restricting the last few days of summer. But, boy, have I been tested.
I throw up my hands thinking, those boys haven't lifted a finger all summer. They haven't helped, they've complained about every bit of work we've asked them to do. They've put up their feet and been waited upon like kings. And NOW they're yelling at me over the smallest of domestic chores.
Three more days. Three more days. Three more days.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Brace for it
E got braces this week.
You know what this means, right?
It means
I'm old.
I know this because it is a proven fact that young people do not pay for orthodontics. Why do young people not pay for orthodontics?
Why would young people pay for something like orthodontics? Why would anyone?
Young people are not planners, naturally. Investing in something as intangible as "a smile" is not high on a young person's list. Two, no young people have enough money to even come close to paying for braces. I mean it's like a life-long cellphone plan. Three, it's way too sensible. Young people are busy paying for life-long cellphone contracts.
Moreover, I know I am old because I sat in an orthodontist's lounge for two hours, and was caught off guard when I was called back to watch the hygiene video and I'm bumbling and fumbling a giant coffee, a wet umbrella and an overly sensible purse that I travel with but haven't unpacked since New York, and I thought,
Holy shit.
I'm the embarrassing mom.
Sensible purse, non-Starbucks coffee cup, completely disheveled.
Who watches videos on oral hygiene.
Lame-o.
While I'm rehashing all the things about E's braces that make me feel old (because it's all about me) I should mention that I am the biological mother of a child with all adult teeth. Young people are not usually parents of tweens.
How can it be that I have a child old enough to have braces?
I STILL REMEMBER HAVING BRACES!
It doesn't seem that long ago. I can remember going to the orthodontist's office in my hometown. They always played KOST easy rock through the office speakers. For some reason, it was always Patti Labelle "On My Own." I remember one of the tech's names, for pity's sake, how can it be that long ago?
And already now, it's me sitting in the lobby rockin' the easy listening tunes. It's me pulling out my (ancient) paper calendar and making a date for 5 weeks from now. It's me signing that big fat check that for a benefit that seems a bit intangible, even for an old person. It's me railing against the damage caused by soda and don't even get me started on the Armageddon that is taffy.
So, what I'm saying is, while I am proactively fostering good oral health and an attractive smile in my son, I'm not doing it without mental anguish.
You know what this means, right?
It means
I'm old.
I know this because it is a proven fact that young people do not pay for orthodontics. Why do young people not pay for orthodontics?
Why would young people pay for something like orthodontics? Why would anyone?
Young people are not planners, naturally. Investing in something as intangible as "a smile" is not high on a young person's list. Two, no young people have enough money to even come close to paying for braces. I mean it's like a life-long cellphone plan. Three, it's way too sensible. Young people are busy paying for life-long cellphone contracts.
Moreover, I know I am old because I sat in an orthodontist's lounge for two hours, and was caught off guard when I was called back to watch the hygiene video and I'm bumbling and fumbling a giant coffee, a wet umbrella and an overly sensible purse that I travel with but haven't unpacked since New York, and I thought,
Holy shit.
I'm the embarrassing mom.
Sensible purse, non-Starbucks coffee cup, completely disheveled.
Who watches videos on oral hygiene.
Lame-o.
While I'm rehashing all the things about E's braces that make me feel old (because it's all about me) I should mention that I am the biological mother of a child with all adult teeth. Young people are not usually parents of tweens.
How can it be that I have a child old enough to have braces?
I STILL REMEMBER HAVING BRACES!
It doesn't seem that long ago. I can remember going to the orthodontist's office in my hometown. They always played KOST easy rock through the office speakers. For some reason, it was always Patti Labelle "On My Own." I remember one of the tech's names, for pity's sake, how can it be that long ago?
And already now, it's me sitting in the lobby rockin' the easy listening tunes. It's me pulling out my (ancient) paper calendar and making a date for 5 weeks from now. It's me signing that big fat check that for a benefit that seems a bit intangible, even for an old person. It's me railing against the damage caused by soda and don't even get me started on the Armageddon that is taffy.
So, what I'm saying is, while I am proactively fostering good oral health and an attractive smile in my son, I'm not doing it without mental anguish.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Shawshank Museum
S is funny. Not funny for a kid. Genuinely funny. As in, he's some one who is fun to spend time with.
He's funny unintentionally--he has a crush on Giada de Laurentiis. He has only one giant, cartoonish tooth right now. He has freckles and mischievous twinkles in his eye. He looks a little like a modern day Howdy Doody.
Despite his humor, he has some strange obsessions--currently, he's into the sinking of the Titanic and the Holocaust. Thank God Anne Frank's diary was out from the library. Maybe truly funny people are also capable of horrible sadness. I don't know what goes on it that crazy, curly head, but I love it.
Michael continued what awesome Traveling Mom calls the Museum Death March in New York. Not satisfied with seeing every art museum in every city we visited overseas, M found some more in NYC. And not just kid-friendly museums like the Natural History, but brain-numbing boring to any child under 70 museums like the Met and the Guggenheim.
(Another thing--S constantly refers to the Guggenheim as the Googleheim. He then absolutely broke down when we found this insanely Googly-eyed guard in the museum.)
The Googleheim is a relatively small museum, exhibit-wise, and S really likes Van Gogh so that was a relatively painless trip. When S wants you to know he's had enough, there's no ambiguity. You, and 30 of the closest passers-by will be well aware that he is finished.
Immediately after Googleheim, M decided to push his luck. I mean REALLY push it, when he led us across 5th Avenue to the Met. The Met offered us some negotiating (bribery) room. If the kids gave us one hour in the museum, I would sit with them for 30 minutes in the cafe and then we would go to Armor and Weapons and the Egypt section. Hold out the stuff they're interested in until the end. Cross your fingers.
S, who never stopped mocking me for my cane, soon became a big fan. He sat on my lap (really taking us dangerously close to the cane-seat's 200 pound limit) all through Medieval art (who doesn't need to sit through Medieval art?) We looked at a jillion gilded triptychs and macabre recreations of the Bible's goriest scenes. He was quite the trouper.
If you're wondering, E never complains about museums. Whether he is genuinely interested (I doubt) or just likes to stuff with his dad (which I think is more likely) he just walks on and on. He loves New York and walks along with us.
Medieval art gave way to 17th and 18th century portraiture. Yawnsville. Portraits?
S and I shared commentary on various dead rich white guys. He pointed out that angels have small penises. I suggested that maybe Rembrandt was a Hobbit. We made fun of poofy pants and Elizabethan collars. Even still, time oozed through molasses.
An hour and a half in, I swooped in and rescued the little men (Ethan, admittedly, did not complain about my liberation) and we went off in search of overpriced refreshments at the museum cafe. Restored after a three and a half dollar root beer and some smuggled-in protein bars, the boys were soon making jokes about escaping the second half of the museum trip.
S, straight faced as he can be says, "I have a plan. We tell Dad we need to go to the bathroom." With perfect timing he holds up a plastic cafe spoon, "and then, we dig."
He's funny unintentionally--he has a crush on Giada de Laurentiis. He has only one giant, cartoonish tooth right now. He has freckles and mischievous twinkles in his eye. He looks a little like a modern day Howdy Doody.
Despite his humor, he has some strange obsessions--currently, he's into the sinking of the Titanic and the Holocaust. Thank God Anne Frank's diary was out from the library. Maybe truly funny people are also capable of horrible sadness. I don't know what goes on it that crazy, curly head, but I love it.
Michael continued what awesome Traveling Mom calls the Museum Death March in New York. Not satisfied with seeing every art museum in every city we visited overseas, M found some more in NYC. And not just kid-friendly museums like the Natural History, but brain-numbing boring to any child under 70 museums like the Met and the Guggenheim.
(Another thing--S constantly refers to the Guggenheim as the Googleheim. He then absolutely broke down when we found this insanely Googly-eyed guard in the museum.)
The Googleheim is a relatively small museum, exhibit-wise, and S really likes Van Gogh so that was a relatively painless trip. When S wants you to know he's had enough, there's no ambiguity. You, and 30 of the closest passers-by will be well aware that he is finished.
Immediately after Googleheim, M decided to push his luck. I mean REALLY push it, when he led us across 5th Avenue to the Met. The Met offered us some negotiating (bribery) room. If the kids gave us one hour in the museum, I would sit with them for 30 minutes in the cafe and then we would go to Armor and Weapons and the Egypt section. Hold out the stuff they're interested in until the end. Cross your fingers.
S, who never stopped mocking me for my cane, soon became a big fan. He sat on my lap (really taking us dangerously close to the cane-seat's 200 pound limit) all through Medieval art (who doesn't need to sit through Medieval art?) We looked at a jillion gilded triptychs and macabre recreations of the Bible's goriest scenes. He was quite the trouper.
If you're wondering, E never complains about museums. Whether he is genuinely interested (I doubt) or just likes to stuff with his dad (which I think is more likely) he just walks on and on. He loves New York and walks along with us.
Medieval art gave way to 17th and 18th century portraiture. Yawnsville. Portraits?
S and I shared commentary on various dead rich white guys. He pointed out that angels have small penises. I suggested that maybe Rembrandt was a Hobbit. We made fun of poofy pants and Elizabethan collars. Even still, time oozed through molasses.
An hour and a half in, I swooped in and rescued the little men (Ethan, admittedly, did not complain about my liberation) and we went off in search of overpriced refreshments at the museum cafe. Restored after a three and a half dollar root beer and some smuggled-in protein bars, the boys were soon making jokes about escaping the second half of the museum trip.
S, straight faced as he can be says, "I have a plan. We tell Dad we need to go to the bathroom." With perfect timing he holds up a plastic cafe spoon, "and then, we dig."
Friday, August 9, 2013
An unintentional love letter to California
This will surprise you not at all: I am not a southerner.
Here, in the self-proclaimed heart of Dixie, I am easily identifiable as "not from around here." How many times have I heard that? The total confusion on anyone's face when they encounter my last name (not that they would have an easier time with my maiden name), the reluctance to change and modernize, the continued identity as the self-proclaimed heart of Dixie--all of this I struggle with.
I have a hard time with ravenous mosquitoes and humidity that makes the air physically heavy. Southerners' love of gardening and traditional home style are alien to me. The old-timey elitism and entitlement. The homogeneity of it all grates.
On the other hand, I can fully get behind the ancient spanish-moss draped oaks and the gracious hospitality. I can readily "set" myself in a rocker on a porch with a "patch." (Bourbon and Coke, y'all). I enjoy the smile and conversation I get from nearly everyone in the service industry. I savor the warm nights filled with crickets and frogs and other things that chirp and hum. I love fried shrimp, gumbo and white sausage gravy. I may not be a southerner, but I have adapted to southern life.
The thing that I haven't adapted to is being considered a Yankee. I am not a Yankee. I am not about big cities and expensive clothes and cars. I am not about high-falutin' art and opera. I don't live for the electricity of the urban life. Bright lights and skyscrapers? The Yanks can keep 'em.
I, as I tried to explain to my boys, am from another country altogether: Southern California.
I have in my heart the ethos of nouveau culture. I hug my trees, munch my granola, wear my Birkenstocks, and sport a toe ring. There is no "culture" out there, as Woody Allen observed in Annie Hall--the only cultural advantage is being able to turn right on a red light.
California invented the word lifestyle--for better or worse. Don Delillo argued that this fact alone warrants their doom. On the other hand, can you imagine a place so abundant, so accessible that life is not a struggle or competition for survival, but rather a process to be done with elan? While Yankees are eking out an existence attached to their ipods, ferried to their tiny offices on underground trains from their closet sized homes, face down to the ground, isolated from one another and yet physically crammed together like a hive of ants, Californians are driving on expansive, clean roadways into freestanding homes, stopping to surf, exercise, and coif their designer dogs.
The Yanks are hard working, there is no question. Everyone you see in New York is industrious. From the lowliest garbage collector to the uber rich pillars of Wall Street, New Yorkers are working hard. The city grinds like a grain mill constantly--generating wealth, setting the global economy, running subway trains, painting, delivering, working in a way unlike any place else in the country, perhaps the world. The men and women of New York have a toughness and resilience like the calloused hands of men and women who work. They put their pretty shoes in their big totes, put on their sensible shoes and walk to jobs that keep the world as we know it spinning. They make money.
Unfortunately, money in New York is money for money's sake. It's impossible to have enough money in Manhattan. When 400 square feet of living space rents for five grand a month, money must be carefully counted and only thriftiness stands between a man and homelessness.
Money where I'm from? Money is a means. Money buys lifestyle. There's land, there's room. Five grand a month could put you ocean-front with an endless view of the Pacific that represents the limitlessness of your existence. California doesn't enslave its workers to the chains of money making--it says take your money and change everything. The sun will still shine on you, the beach will still welcome you--dare and you will be rewarded. You are not a slave to your money--your money buys you a limo so that you can step out in your sky-high heels without sensible flats in your totebag.
Saul Bellow, as Yankee as anyone, once said that in Los Angeles, all the loose objects in the country had been collected as if America had been tilted and everything that wasn't tightly screwed down had slid into Southern California. That's the way we like it out there. There's room for everyone.
Anything goes out there. The Midwest shakes its head in disapproval of the lack of moral center and the opulence of it all. The Midwest was built on the hard shoulders of farmers and businessmen. Chicago, central, distributing all the goods and food and necessities of life to all points east and west. The south falls to its knees and prays for the lost souls of California. The heathens, the hippies, the unchristian souls leading wayward lives. The south barricades itself against the openness to change that California epitomizes. New Yorkers chuckle to themselves as though they were the wise parents to California's vexing teen. The indulgence, the casual work ethic, the plasticine waiters and waitresses waiting for their big break in Hollywood.
But Cali, precariously and boldly sitting on the San Andreas continues its adolescent zest for life, its sense of invulnerability, its unwillingness to be reined in. California, to whom all chemicals are known to cause cancer (and thereby warning everyone else on labels everywhere), California where pot is a cash crop, California where French wines are looked down upon, California where the bottle blonds wear sunglasses as large as dinner plates and drive cars the price of houses. Where surfers can ply the waves, skaters navigate the boardwalks and snowboarders carve the mountains with the same easy gait. It truly is the land of fruit and nuts and granola. Where we can see what we all will be doing in 10 years--recycling EVERYTHING, driving plug-in cars, and eating organic whole wheat, gluten-free, hormone-free, sustainable foods.
The Yankees will keep the world spinning, for sure. Californians keep it tilted on its axis.
Here, in the self-proclaimed heart of Dixie, I am easily identifiable as "not from around here." How many times have I heard that? The total confusion on anyone's face when they encounter my last name (not that they would have an easier time with my maiden name), the reluctance to change and modernize, the continued identity as the self-proclaimed heart of Dixie--all of this I struggle with.
I have a hard time with ravenous mosquitoes and humidity that makes the air physically heavy. Southerners' love of gardening and traditional home style are alien to me. The old-timey elitism and entitlement. The homogeneity of it all grates.
On the other hand, I can fully get behind the ancient spanish-moss draped oaks and the gracious hospitality. I can readily "set" myself in a rocker on a porch with a "patch." (Bourbon and Coke, y'all). I enjoy the smile and conversation I get from nearly everyone in the service industry. I savor the warm nights filled with crickets and frogs and other things that chirp and hum. I love fried shrimp, gumbo and white sausage gravy. I may not be a southerner, but I have adapted to southern life.
The thing that I haven't adapted to is being considered a Yankee. I am not a Yankee. I am not about big cities and expensive clothes and cars. I am not about high-falutin' art and opera. I don't live for the electricity of the urban life. Bright lights and skyscrapers? The Yanks can keep 'em.
I, as I tried to explain to my boys, am from another country altogether: Southern California.
I have in my heart the ethos of nouveau culture. I hug my trees, munch my granola, wear my Birkenstocks, and sport a toe ring. There is no "culture" out there, as Woody Allen observed in Annie Hall--the only cultural advantage is being able to turn right on a red light.
California invented the word lifestyle--for better or worse. Don Delillo argued that this fact alone warrants their doom. On the other hand, can you imagine a place so abundant, so accessible that life is not a struggle or competition for survival, but rather a process to be done with elan? While Yankees are eking out an existence attached to their ipods, ferried to their tiny offices on underground trains from their closet sized homes, face down to the ground, isolated from one another and yet physically crammed together like a hive of ants, Californians are driving on expansive, clean roadways into freestanding homes, stopping to surf, exercise, and coif their designer dogs.
The Yanks are hard working, there is no question. Everyone you see in New York is industrious. From the lowliest garbage collector to the uber rich pillars of Wall Street, New Yorkers are working hard. The city grinds like a grain mill constantly--generating wealth, setting the global economy, running subway trains, painting, delivering, working in a way unlike any place else in the country, perhaps the world. The men and women of New York have a toughness and resilience like the calloused hands of men and women who work. They put their pretty shoes in their big totes, put on their sensible shoes and walk to jobs that keep the world as we know it spinning. They make money.
Unfortunately, money in New York is money for money's sake. It's impossible to have enough money in Manhattan. When 400 square feet of living space rents for five grand a month, money must be carefully counted and only thriftiness stands between a man and homelessness.
Money where I'm from? Money is a means. Money buys lifestyle. There's land, there's room. Five grand a month could put you ocean-front with an endless view of the Pacific that represents the limitlessness of your existence. California doesn't enslave its workers to the chains of money making--it says take your money and change everything. The sun will still shine on you, the beach will still welcome you--dare and you will be rewarded. You are not a slave to your money--your money buys you a limo so that you can step out in your sky-high heels without sensible flats in your totebag.
Saul Bellow, as Yankee as anyone, once said that in Los Angeles, all the loose objects in the country had been collected as if America had been tilted and everything that wasn't tightly screwed down had slid into Southern California. That's the way we like it out there. There's room for everyone.
Anything goes out there. The Midwest shakes its head in disapproval of the lack of moral center and the opulence of it all. The Midwest was built on the hard shoulders of farmers and businessmen. Chicago, central, distributing all the goods and food and necessities of life to all points east and west. The south falls to its knees and prays for the lost souls of California. The heathens, the hippies, the unchristian souls leading wayward lives. The south barricades itself against the openness to change that California epitomizes. New Yorkers chuckle to themselves as though they were the wise parents to California's vexing teen. The indulgence, the casual work ethic, the plasticine waiters and waitresses waiting for their big break in Hollywood.
But Cali, precariously and boldly sitting on the San Andreas continues its adolescent zest for life, its sense of invulnerability, its unwillingness to be reined in. California, to whom all chemicals are known to cause cancer (and thereby warning everyone else on labels everywhere), California where pot is a cash crop, California where French wines are looked down upon, California where the bottle blonds wear sunglasses as large as dinner plates and drive cars the price of houses. Where surfers can ply the waves, skaters navigate the boardwalks and snowboarders carve the mountains with the same easy gait. It truly is the land of fruit and nuts and granola. Where we can see what we all will be doing in 10 years--recycling EVERYTHING, driving plug-in cars, and eating organic whole wheat, gluten-free, hormone-free, sustainable foods.
The Yankees will keep the world spinning, for sure. Californians keep it tilted on its axis.
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