It may not seem obvious, but if you really think about it, the holiday season is a lot like getting your period. There’s guaranteed bloating. Headaches. Mood swings. Let us not forget that red theme.
Getting your period on Christmas? A little bit like blowing your brains out and then having to clean up the mess yourself.
Face it, Christmas is for children. By children, I mean anyone young enough to believe that a fat, hairy stranger invading a house in the middle of the night and everything working out fine is actually a possibility. For the rest of us, it’s a tangle of massive proportions, disguised as a good time, cloaked in booze.
By “good time”, I mean agony. By “booze”, I mean “and plenty of it.”
At the risk of disappointing my kind, I hate malls. Therefore, I don’t like to shop. Even worse than being in a mall, is standing in a long line in a mall, sweating because I forgot to leave my coat in the car and being unable to take it off because my arms are filled with stuff nobody really needs, that I am about to spend the next six months paying off.
To be honest, I don’t do very much shopping. I buy for a handful of adults, and I actually put a little thought into what would make them happy before heading out to shop. If I do find myself without a plan, I find a non-mall specialty shop and wander around until something jumps off a shelf and yells, “That’s perfect for (insert name here)!” I buy it and I don’t think twice about whether it’s perfect. I always go with my gut when it comes to gift decisions.
One thing I try never to do is go to a mall without knowing the precise GPS coordinates of the item(s) needed. I’m in, and I’m out. People crossing in front of me abruptly, stopping to read their “lists” in the middle of a walking aisle is not one of my favorite things. In my mind, minimizing the risk of me biting my own tongue in half is what Christmas is all about.
Every Christmas, I also try not to throw-up when talking to grown-ups (and I use the term loosely) who insist that they still “believe” in Santa. These people love to say, “You gotta believe!” as they explain the ridiculous lengths they go to in order to keep their kids, well into their teens, believing in Santa. These are the same people who tell co-workers “Today is my birthday!” when they’re 46.
The day my nine-year old son looked me in the eye and asked me that all-important question was the happiest day of my life.
“Mom, are you Santa?”
“Well, yes, son; I am Santa and I have worked my ASS off for the last nine years trying to make you believe I’m not. I’m also the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and frankly, I am exhausted.”
I mean, whom are we kidding? A jolly man with a bundle of presents flying through the sky with eight tiny reindeer, giving out presents to good children? Totally implausible. Everyone knows there are no good kids (except for mine, of course…).
I haven’t even mentioned family gatherings. I’m not going to start now.
My dog loves Christmas. At this years’ Special Dinner, something just for the six of us, we had grilled t-bones. The kids all had steaks that hung over the sides of their plates, and a steak knife. For every bite that reached their mouths, a hunk of beef careened onto the floor as they taught themselves the finer points of sawing their dinner into bite-sized chunks. Forget Pavlov’s dinner bell. When my dog sees steak knives come out of the drawer, he begins salivating. The same dog also ate an entire plate of homemade cookies given to me by someone who actually knows how to bake, and six pieces of fudge. He couldn’t eat the white chocolate covered pretzel sticks that some nice person without taste buds bestowed upon us; he had to scarf the cookies. If only there had been a little more fudge on that plate…
Gifts. This season, I only received things I really wanted, which means there are a lot of good listeners out there. I got a book I really wanted, wine, gourmet foodstuffs, gift certificates to restaurants I love, a candle, a blender, a bracelet and many lovely gifts from my children.
What else does a girl need? Quite a bit, actually, in the form of the various things I’ve bought for myself: a back support pillow on clearance, a short, hot, black pencil skirt on clearance, a wireless printer on clearance…is there a theme developing? Yes! I spend almost as much time purchasing things for myself each December as I do for others, all because I’m prowling the retail jungles more this month than all the other months of the year combined. It’s a simple matter of percentages, I explained to my husband, knowing he’d understand the numbers game. The more you go to the mall, the more chance there is of finding a screaming deal that technically, would be irresponsible to pass up. The more you spend, the more you save…everybody knows that!
Not to worry, I did pass on some things: people hawking stuff at the kiosks that dot the center of the mall. Valet parking outside Nordstrom. Nordstrom. The food court. Sobriety.
Christmas 2010: That’s a wrap! (Pun intended.)
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Dumb it down, please!
I’m sick of learning things. I’m tired of knowing what’s living between the creases of my mattress (bedbugs) and in the inner recesses of my down pillow (mites). I don’t want to know what the five most dangerous skin moles look like, how to determine if my car’s idling might be telling me something, or which sexual positions burn the most calories (well, maybe this last one is important).
I’m just so tired of the diarrheal stream of extraneous information coming at me with every click, by way of internet articles on a freakishly wide range of topics. From “How-To’s” to “Top Ten” lists, I’m over it.
Oh how I long for the days, circa 1975, when advice came along once in a blue moon, and boy could a person see it coming. In fact, everything I really need to know I learned in the seventies, and it was all summed up with this:
“Eat right, get plenty of rest, and take Geritol every day!”
I honestly don’t know what Geritol is, so I have replaced that with “wine.” I also exercise. That helps me to burn more calories than I take in, another important piece of advice discovered before the Internet “How To” article spawned the Age of Enlightenment Part Deux. I know better than to beat my children, and I refrain from using a blow dryer in the bathtub. All valuable bits of information, and all learned without the use of the Internet. In fact, all learned before the advent of the Internet.
What if people incorporated all the globs of unnecessary web data they’re exposed to into their daily routines – routines that have existed for centuries, without the benefit of knowing exactly how things might turn out. Even better, what if people started getting all the crazy amounts of info out there all mixed up, and turned into paranoid, confused little creatures who can’t keep it all straight? For example, what if I said this to my ten year old daughter:
“Turn off the TV, go outside, and get some vitamin D.”
“What?”
“The sun is a natural source of Vitamin D and 47% of American children do not get enough vitamin D in their diet. The popularity of advanced sunscreens is not helping either. Plus, you’re absorbing gamma rays and probably lead from the TV screen. Is that a melanoma on your earlobe?”
“Whatever, Mom. I’m going outside to ride my scooter.”
“That’s what I said! Go outside and play!”
Wait a second. That’s not what I said. What I said made no sense to her, and exhausted me. What I said (in my imaginary conversation, because I swear I don’t do this) was complete garbage. I told her to go and do something constructive. For ten year olds, that’s garbage. It ruins the journey. I have to admit, I can’t keep everything straight – all that information that jumps off Yahoo! homepage headlines is hard to keep track of! Just last week I mixed up “Five Steps to a Better Complexion” with “How to Find the Male G-Spot” and had a real situation on my hands. Not to mention the fact that I’m pretty sure a little bit of “10 Turkey Recipes You Can’t Live Without” may have slid its way into the mix.
Trust me when I say, it’s all I can do to drop the right kids off at the right schools each day and return home to the right house. On top of that, I have to plug back into the right computer. Now let’s see…was I working on that document on the upstairs PC, the downstairs laptop, or my new vacuum cleaner-word processor hybrid that allows me to work while I’m working?
It’s a lot of pressure, knowing everything. Some people really get off on it. They find out all possible options and explanations and consequences for any and all choices. Then, and only then, do they proceed with caution. I’m a curious person by nature, but I am at the saturation point for stuff I really do not need to know.
Why are we all so afraid to misstep?
Here’s why: We’re being told how dangerous it is to make one false move, whether we’re having our bra sized, buying produce, or making a birthing plan. (Don’t even get me started on the number of birthing options today. My plan was, and still is, until the last little creature is off to college, “Get the hell out!”) Anyway, it’s a simple case of TMI. I understand that articles attract eyeballs, and eyeballs have fingers attached to them that click and buy. I know it’s all about the bottom line. Big sigh.
All I really want to know on any given morning is who likes me enough to have sent me an email. I promise. I just want to know if my best girlfriend has something funny to say. If there’s more I need to know, I’ll Google it.
I’m just so tired of the diarrheal stream of extraneous information coming at me with every click, by way of internet articles on a freakishly wide range of topics. From “How-To’s” to “Top Ten” lists, I’m over it.
Oh how I long for the days, circa 1975, when advice came along once in a blue moon, and boy could a person see it coming. In fact, everything I really need to know I learned in the seventies, and it was all summed up with this:
“Eat right, get plenty of rest, and take Geritol every day!”
I honestly don’t know what Geritol is, so I have replaced that with “wine.” I also exercise. That helps me to burn more calories than I take in, another important piece of advice discovered before the Internet “How To” article spawned the Age of Enlightenment Part Deux. I know better than to beat my children, and I refrain from using a blow dryer in the bathtub. All valuable bits of information, and all learned without the use of the Internet. In fact, all learned before the advent of the Internet.
What if people incorporated all the globs of unnecessary web data they’re exposed to into their daily routines – routines that have existed for centuries, without the benefit of knowing exactly how things might turn out. Even better, what if people started getting all the crazy amounts of info out there all mixed up, and turned into paranoid, confused little creatures who can’t keep it all straight? For example, what if I said this to my ten year old daughter:
“Turn off the TV, go outside, and get some vitamin D.”
“What?”
“The sun is a natural source of Vitamin D and 47% of American children do not get enough vitamin D in their diet. The popularity of advanced sunscreens is not helping either. Plus, you’re absorbing gamma rays and probably lead from the TV screen. Is that a melanoma on your earlobe?”
“Whatever, Mom. I’m going outside to ride my scooter.”
“That’s what I said! Go outside and play!”
Wait a second. That’s not what I said. What I said made no sense to her, and exhausted me. What I said (in my imaginary conversation, because I swear I don’t do this) was complete garbage. I told her to go and do something constructive. For ten year olds, that’s garbage. It ruins the journey. I have to admit, I can’t keep everything straight – all that information that jumps off Yahoo! homepage headlines is hard to keep track of! Just last week I mixed up “Five Steps to a Better Complexion” with “How to Find the Male G-Spot” and had a real situation on my hands. Not to mention the fact that I’m pretty sure a little bit of “10 Turkey Recipes You Can’t Live Without” may have slid its way into the mix.
Trust me when I say, it’s all I can do to drop the right kids off at the right schools each day and return home to the right house. On top of that, I have to plug back into the right computer. Now let’s see…was I working on that document on the upstairs PC, the downstairs laptop, or my new vacuum cleaner-word processor hybrid that allows me to work while I’m working?
It’s a lot of pressure, knowing everything. Some people really get off on it. They find out all possible options and explanations and consequences for any and all choices. Then, and only then, do they proceed with caution. I’m a curious person by nature, but I am at the saturation point for stuff I really do not need to know.
Why are we all so afraid to misstep?
Here’s why: We’re being told how dangerous it is to make one false move, whether we’re having our bra sized, buying produce, or making a birthing plan. (Don’t even get me started on the number of birthing options today. My plan was, and still is, until the last little creature is off to college, “Get the hell out!”) Anyway, it’s a simple case of TMI. I understand that articles attract eyeballs, and eyeballs have fingers attached to them that click and buy. I know it’s all about the bottom line. Big sigh.
All I really want to know on any given morning is who likes me enough to have sent me an email. I promise. I just want to know if my best girlfriend has something funny to say. If there’s more I need to know, I’ll Google it.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Filter this
I can’t wait for my kids to grow up. Actually, that’s not quite true. I can’t wait for my kids to get a bit older so that I am able to say what’s really on my mind. They’re still a little young for TUM: Totally Unfiltered Mom. TUM is the little voice inside my head representing the other mother, the one who longs to tell it like it is.
TUM is tired of watering her shit down.
How old does a child need to be to know what’s actually going through mom’s mind? When do I get to lose the filter?
Allow me to set the stage.
I have four children: two in fifth grade, one in sixth, and one in seventh, a.k.a. “The Fetid Socks Grade.” But that’s another story.
Each day between five and six p.m., a period of time in my house I like to call, The Bitching Hour, I make dinner. Within the same time frame, I am asked at least four times, though it feels like four hundred, “When will dinner be ready?” This is usually accompanied by my other favorite question, “What’s for dinner?”
You may be wondering, especially if you have a penis, and therefore, rarely cook anything other than the occasional grilled cheese sandwich for a party of one, what exactly is so bothersome about a few simple queries concerning dinner. The truth is, I don’t know. If you figure it out, let me know. For now, I’m chalking it up to one of those unexplained forces in the universe: put a woman in charge of a meal, then watch her head splatter against the walls if she happens to be interrupted one too many times while trying to read a recipe.
(If you really must know, options such as driving a whisk straight up my nose, into my brain and wiggling it around, ala a 1950’s-era lobotomy, have occurred to me during The Bitching Hour. So has homicide. I like wine.)
Back to my original assertion: What I’m thinking, and what actually comes out of my mouth, are not one and the same.
Oh how I’d love to Let. It. Rip.
Sometimes, my husband is a few feet away, winking at me as if to say, “I know what you are thinking, and I love you. Please don’t lose your mind and leave me alone with these beasts.”
The situations involving my fantasy replies and the actual responses I give almost always occur in the kitchen. See if you can tell them apart.
“MOM! How long ‘til dinner?”
This, as ten-year old daughter careens through the kitchen just in time to cross in front of me as I am transferring a cutting board with raw chicken juice on it from the island to the sink. I stop short, but the fowl juice keeps going, splattering on both the floor and my bare toes. Before I’m able to form my answer, another child enters My Space.
“What are we having for dinner?”
Now, I’m in two deep. Ten seconds later, in walks thirteen year old boy.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Wine. Wine’s for dinner, and plenty of it. Now go fill mama’s schooner and then make yourself scarce.”
Okay, so I didn’t actually say that.
What actually came out of my mouth was, “Chicken Picatta, mashed potatoes and grilled zucchini.”
“Cool. Sounds good,” he claims, as he strolls out of the room and into the abyss, otherwise known as Fetid Sock Factory.
There are other times when I long to give flight to, yet pluck the tender wings from, the words of a delicate fowl perched on the tip of my tongue:
“Mom, can you fill my water bottle for me?”
“No.”
“Mom, can you help me find my sneakers?”
“Sure. But first, can you help me find my fucking wand?”
“Mom, could we please not have peas again tonight?”
“Sure. Could you please never again ask me a question?
“Mom, I love you.”
“I love you more.”
Wait a second. I do say that last one, which always starts a bedtime debate that I end up losing.
Which, I guess, is why I have a filter.
TUM is tired of watering her shit down.
How old does a child need to be to know what’s actually going through mom’s mind? When do I get to lose the filter?
Allow me to set the stage.
I have four children: two in fifth grade, one in sixth, and one in seventh, a.k.a. “The Fetid Socks Grade.” But that’s another story.
Each day between five and six p.m., a period of time in my house I like to call, The Bitching Hour, I make dinner. Within the same time frame, I am asked at least four times, though it feels like four hundred, “When will dinner be ready?” This is usually accompanied by my other favorite question, “What’s for dinner?”
You may be wondering, especially if you have a penis, and therefore, rarely cook anything other than the occasional grilled cheese sandwich for a party of one, what exactly is so bothersome about a few simple queries concerning dinner. The truth is, I don’t know. If you figure it out, let me know. For now, I’m chalking it up to one of those unexplained forces in the universe: put a woman in charge of a meal, then watch her head splatter against the walls if she happens to be interrupted one too many times while trying to read a recipe.
(If you really must know, options such as driving a whisk straight up my nose, into my brain and wiggling it around, ala a 1950’s-era lobotomy, have occurred to me during The Bitching Hour. So has homicide. I like wine.)
Back to my original assertion: What I’m thinking, and what actually comes out of my mouth, are not one and the same.
Oh how I’d love to Let. It. Rip.
Sometimes, my husband is a few feet away, winking at me as if to say, “I know what you are thinking, and I love you. Please don’t lose your mind and leave me alone with these beasts.”
The situations involving my fantasy replies and the actual responses I give almost always occur in the kitchen. See if you can tell them apart.
“MOM! How long ‘til dinner?”
This, as ten-year old daughter careens through the kitchen just in time to cross in front of me as I am transferring a cutting board with raw chicken juice on it from the island to the sink. I stop short, but the fowl juice keeps going, splattering on both the floor and my bare toes. Before I’m able to form my answer, another child enters My Space.
“What are we having for dinner?”
Now, I’m in two deep. Ten seconds later, in walks thirteen year old boy.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Wine. Wine’s for dinner, and plenty of it. Now go fill mama’s schooner and then make yourself scarce.”
Okay, so I didn’t actually say that.
What actually came out of my mouth was, “Chicken Picatta, mashed potatoes and grilled zucchini.”
“Cool. Sounds good,” he claims, as he strolls out of the room and into the abyss, otherwise known as Fetid Sock Factory.
There are other times when I long to give flight to, yet pluck the tender wings from, the words of a delicate fowl perched on the tip of my tongue:
“Mom, can you fill my water bottle for me?”
“No.”
“Mom, can you help me find my sneakers?”
“Sure. But first, can you help me find my fucking wand?”
“Mom, could we please not have peas again tonight?”
“Sure. Could you please never again ask me a question?
“Mom, I love you.”
“I love you more.”
Wait a second. I do say that last one, which always starts a bedtime debate that I end up losing.
Which, I guess, is why I have a filter.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Length does matter
Ever get treated to a story by a friend or acquaintance, and stand in awe of how well it’s told? I’m talking about the kind of experience in which someone says, “Have I got a story for you!” and gosh darn if they weren’t absolutely right.
I appreciate the telling of a good story not only for the details sprinkled throughout by an adept storyteller, but for a focused storyline and engaging ending that leaves me saying, “Ahhhhh. I shall not soon forget that tale,” as I kick up my feet on a velvet footstool, lean back into my worn leather chair, and take a sip of sherry, mesmerized by what I’ve just heard.
Enough with that crack-pipe dream. I have children. I don’t have friends who drop by for stimulating conversation in the parlor. I have a countertop, with unidentifiable smears that stick to my sleeves, or even more enjoyable, my bare arms. Furthermore, I use that same countertop to speed through the latest People magazine. When my doorbell rings, it isn’t Robert Redford and Meryl Streep showing up with a bottle of fine cognac to “have a story now” as they did in Out of Africa. It’s a girlfriend looking to discuss this week’s episode of Real Housewives of Crazytown.
Where have all the good stories gone? Where is the oral tradition that passed on such epic dramas as Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, or Beowulf, so many centuries ago? As much as I love the written word, I just find it more satisfying to listen in rapt delight and watch the facial expressions of a human being standing before me, weaving action and dialogue, humor and tragedy, into oral gold.
Most of the stories I’m treated to are told by my little people, which means that what they lack in plot, they make up for in incoherence. Endings? Not so much. With my kids’ stories, it’s not a matter of when they end, but if.
My daughter’s stories are so long I’m sure that someday when I’m comparing war stories from a rocking chair with my friend Gladys, the conversation will likely go something like this:
“Say, dearie, when did you go through menopause,” Gladys will ask me, as we sit on the porch of some old folks home, our necks craning and our tongues searching for the bendy straws sticking out of our 32-ouncers.
“Let’s see…what year was it when Landry turned nine? Let me think..."
“Wow, you went through menopause in one year?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gladys; I went through menopause while my daughter told me about her first day of fourth grade.”
(Note: To be totally honest, I have not gone through menopause. That was purely an imaginative attempt at making a point.)
Now that I've covered length, I can spend a little time on delivery.
You know you are talking to my ten-year old daughter when the end of almost every sentence sounds like it should be a question, but it’s not. Think of the tone of one’s voice when picking up the phone and saying, “Hello?” That's how all of the sentences sound when she tells a story. Not only that, short her stories are not.
Unfortunately, my daughter is not completely responsible. Genetics are also working against her. My daughter comes from a long line of women who would no sooner leave a detail, no matter how irrelevant, out of story than they would throw cat shit all over their living room just to see where it landed. Sadly, I’m one of them. I’m working on it.
The compelling orations that come forth multiple times a day from my daughter are also sans verbal punctuation, otherwise known as logical pauses. The question-yet-not-actually-a-question-tone of voice takes the place of periods and commas. In one aspect it’s rhythmic and almost hypnotic, as her voice rises and falls and rises and falls, until…it becomes evident that the sentences just keep coming…and coming…and coming.
Quite honestly, listening to my daughter tell a story sometimes causes me a bit of anxiety. It’s like watching a movie in which some poor lady crashes a car into a river. Water begins to fill the interior. The water is rising. It’s up to her chest. She desperately claws at the door handle and pounds on the window. Then, the water is up to her chin. It covers her mouth as she juts her chin up and tries to keep her nose above water. This is the point where you yell, "Breathe through your eyes! Breathe through your eyes!" Then, the water level is over the top of her head. She’s completely under water, and you're thinking, “She’s got to breathe! Breathe! But she can’t! She can’t take a breath or she’s dead! She struggles, but still, she can’t inhale! You’re watching this and you suddenly realize you’re holding your own breath, and possibly digging your nails into the arm of the person sitting next to you.
I’ll bet you’re just holding your own breath in anticipation of an example. I’ll bold each word that should be said with the same rise to the voice as a person would when picking up the phone and saying “Hello?”
Ready? Here we go? Are you getting the picture? I’m going to begin? Don’t forget to pause slightly at each bolded word, and say it the way you would if you were picking up the telephone and saying Hello?
“Mom, you won’t believe what happened today. Okay, so, today at recess Kaylie M. and Kylie R did that thing to Khloe and Kayla who had their backs turned and Mrs. Gardner told them again not to but they did it anyway and right then Clem Cadiddlehopper caught the ball and threw it up on the roof so that we couldn’t get it and Mr. Souza walked by and looked at us and said, “Hello girls!” and so then, later, at recess, I was on the swings with Keely and Sammy S. and then the bell rang and we lined up for lunch and guess what?
“What.” (I purposely withhold any trace of intonation that would indicate I am asking a question. I am taking a moral stand at this point and refuse to contribute to the shameful overpopulation of question/statements in the world. In fact, I may even start an effort to rid the planet of needless statements, questions and possibly, all communication whatsoever. I may just climb trees all day.
Back to the story?
“Right then, Chloe and Kayla turned around, and oh my gosh.” The look on my daughter's face communicated just one thing to me: I had missed something.
I quickly rewound, only to end up with a mental pile of tangled, black cassette tape encasing my head which I could only hope would result in a swift and painless death as it tightened around my throat. Technically, because I could not detect any exposition, rising action, climax or falling action, what I’d just heard wasn’t a story. I know the little darling tried to tell me something, but what was it?
I fondly recall the days, somewhere in the neighborhood of eight years ago, when my daughter’s stories took this form:
“Mama, I went potty in the potty chair at Nona’s house today!”
Now, that’s a story! A not-so vibrant verb, but who cares! Look at all those setting details: in the potty chair! At grandma’s house! Today! The only thing I was required to do all those years ago was smile, put out my arms and hug. There was no quiz at the end, in the form of, “Mom, did you hear me?” or “Mom, are you listening,” or the occasional, “Mom, why is your head in the oven?”
Now, it’s a little different. What makes it all even more fun is the anxiety I feel as the non-story- story seems oh-so-close to wrapping up, and my almost 13-year old son suddenly becomes aware there are people in the room with him. Like Rip van Winkle, his little head jerks a bit and the glazed-over look disappears from his already wide-open eyes. How he managed to daydream during the last ten minutes is beyond me. The glimmer of hope I had just seconds before of possibly being lucky enough to escape the scene with no more than a slight trickle of blood from my ear, as if I’d been concussed with a blunt object, recedes. My son opens his mouth and speaks:
“Wait. What happened?”
Then, she starts over.
I feel the two halves of my brain slowly detach from one another. A jackhammer sparks to life between my ears. I cannot listen to this again, I think to myself. No matter that I’m in the middle of making custard in the double boiler – I’ve got to get out of here! I try to sell her my departure.
“Well, I just heard the story, so I’ll just go in the other room and…”
“No! Mom. You didn’t hear what happened to them after she did that!”
What the hell is she talking about, I wondered to myself. Why don’t I get it? She basically just told me about every muscle that moved on the playground from 8 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. Why did every sentence sound like the question of the century? Would the falling action ever appear, let alone the conclusion? What is wrong with me?
Back to my original assertion: with kids and their stories, it isn’t about “when” they might end, it’s a matter of “if” you can survive them. Pull up a comfortable chair when you come to my house.
I appreciate the telling of a good story not only for the details sprinkled throughout by an adept storyteller, but for a focused storyline and engaging ending that leaves me saying, “Ahhhhh. I shall not soon forget that tale,” as I kick up my feet on a velvet footstool, lean back into my worn leather chair, and take a sip of sherry, mesmerized by what I’ve just heard.
Enough with that crack-pipe dream. I have children. I don’t have friends who drop by for stimulating conversation in the parlor. I have a countertop, with unidentifiable smears that stick to my sleeves, or even more enjoyable, my bare arms. Furthermore, I use that same countertop to speed through the latest People magazine. When my doorbell rings, it isn’t Robert Redford and Meryl Streep showing up with a bottle of fine cognac to “have a story now” as they did in Out of Africa. It’s a girlfriend looking to discuss this week’s episode of Real Housewives of Crazytown.
Where have all the good stories gone? Where is the oral tradition that passed on such epic dramas as Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, or Beowulf, so many centuries ago? As much as I love the written word, I just find it more satisfying to listen in rapt delight and watch the facial expressions of a human being standing before me, weaving action and dialogue, humor and tragedy, into oral gold.
Most of the stories I’m treated to are told by my little people, which means that what they lack in plot, they make up for in incoherence. Endings? Not so much. With my kids’ stories, it’s not a matter of when they end, but if.
My daughter’s stories are so long I’m sure that someday when I’m comparing war stories from a rocking chair with my friend Gladys, the conversation will likely go something like this:
“Say, dearie, when did you go through menopause,” Gladys will ask me, as we sit on the porch of some old folks home, our necks craning and our tongues searching for the bendy straws sticking out of our 32-ouncers.
“Let’s see…what year was it when Landry turned nine? Let me think..."
“Wow, you went through menopause in one year?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gladys; I went through menopause while my daughter told me about her first day of fourth grade.”
(Note: To be totally honest, I have not gone through menopause. That was purely an imaginative attempt at making a point.)
Now that I've covered length, I can spend a little time on delivery.
You know you are talking to my ten-year old daughter when the end of almost every sentence sounds like it should be a question, but it’s not. Think of the tone of one’s voice when picking up the phone and saying, “Hello?” That's how all of the sentences sound when she tells a story. Not only that, short her stories are not.
Unfortunately, my daughter is not completely responsible. Genetics are also working against her. My daughter comes from a long line of women who would no sooner leave a detail, no matter how irrelevant, out of story than they would throw cat shit all over their living room just to see where it landed. Sadly, I’m one of them. I’m working on it.
The compelling orations that come forth multiple times a day from my daughter are also sans verbal punctuation, otherwise known as logical pauses. The question-yet-not-actually-a-question-tone of voice takes the place of periods and commas. In one aspect it’s rhythmic and almost hypnotic, as her voice rises and falls and rises and falls, until…it becomes evident that the sentences just keep coming…and coming…and coming.
Quite honestly, listening to my daughter tell a story sometimes causes me a bit of anxiety. It’s like watching a movie in which some poor lady crashes a car into a river. Water begins to fill the interior. The water is rising. It’s up to her chest. She desperately claws at the door handle and pounds on the window. Then, the water is up to her chin. It covers her mouth as she juts her chin up and tries to keep her nose above water. This is the point where you yell, "Breathe through your eyes! Breathe through your eyes!" Then, the water level is over the top of her head. She’s completely under water, and you're thinking, “She’s got to breathe! Breathe! But she can’t! She can’t take a breath or she’s dead! She struggles, but still, she can’t inhale! You’re watching this and you suddenly realize you’re holding your own breath, and possibly digging your nails into the arm of the person sitting next to you.
I’ll bet you’re just holding your own breath in anticipation of an example. I’ll bold each word that should be said with the same rise to the voice as a person would when picking up the phone and saying “Hello?”
Ready? Here we go? Are you getting the picture? I’m going to begin? Don’t forget to pause slightly at each bolded word, and say it the way you would if you were picking up the telephone and saying Hello?
“Mom, you won’t believe what happened today. Okay, so, today at recess Kaylie M. and Kylie R did that thing to Khloe and Kayla who had their backs turned and Mrs. Gardner told them again not to but they did it anyway and right then Clem Cadiddlehopper caught the ball and threw it up on the roof so that we couldn’t get it and Mr. Souza walked by and looked at us and said, “Hello girls!” and so then, later, at recess, I was on the swings with Keely and Sammy S. and then the bell rang and we lined up for lunch and guess what?
“What.” (I purposely withhold any trace of intonation that would indicate I am asking a question. I am taking a moral stand at this point and refuse to contribute to the shameful overpopulation of question/statements in the world. In fact, I may even start an effort to rid the planet of needless statements, questions and possibly, all communication whatsoever. I may just climb trees all day.
Back to the story?
“Right then, Chloe and Kayla turned around, and oh my gosh.” The look on my daughter's face communicated just one thing to me: I had missed something.
I quickly rewound, only to end up with a mental pile of tangled, black cassette tape encasing my head which I could only hope would result in a swift and painless death as it tightened around my throat. Technically, because I could not detect any exposition, rising action, climax or falling action, what I’d just heard wasn’t a story. I know the little darling tried to tell me something, but what was it?
I fondly recall the days, somewhere in the neighborhood of eight years ago, when my daughter’s stories took this form:
“Mama, I went potty in the potty chair at Nona’s house today!”
Now, that’s a story! A not-so vibrant verb, but who cares! Look at all those setting details: in the potty chair! At grandma’s house! Today! The only thing I was required to do all those years ago was smile, put out my arms and hug. There was no quiz at the end, in the form of, “Mom, did you hear me?” or “Mom, are you listening,” or the occasional, “Mom, why is your head in the oven?”
Now, it’s a little different. What makes it all even more fun is the anxiety I feel as the non-story- story seems oh-so-close to wrapping up, and my almost 13-year old son suddenly becomes aware there are people in the room with him. Like Rip van Winkle, his little head jerks a bit and the glazed-over look disappears from his already wide-open eyes. How he managed to daydream during the last ten minutes is beyond me. The glimmer of hope I had just seconds before of possibly being lucky enough to escape the scene with no more than a slight trickle of blood from my ear, as if I’d been concussed with a blunt object, recedes. My son opens his mouth and speaks:
“Wait. What happened?”
Then, she starts over.
I feel the two halves of my brain slowly detach from one another. A jackhammer sparks to life between my ears. I cannot listen to this again, I think to myself. No matter that I’m in the middle of making custard in the double boiler – I’ve got to get out of here! I try to sell her my departure.
“Well, I just heard the story, so I’ll just go in the other room and…”
“No! Mom. You didn’t hear what happened to them after she did that!”
What the hell is she talking about, I wondered to myself. Why don’t I get it? She basically just told me about every muscle that moved on the playground from 8 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. Why did every sentence sound like the question of the century? Would the falling action ever appear, let alone the conclusion? What is wrong with me?
Back to my original assertion: with kids and their stories, it isn’t about “when” they might end, it’s a matter of “if” you can survive them. Pull up a comfortable chair when you come to my house.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
The Other Temple Grandin
By now, you’ve probably seen the movie or heard the story of Temple Grandin. Inspiring. Unbelievable. Poignant. The true story of a highly intelligent and autistic woman who craves the feeling of a hug, but can’t endure the human touch. She forges a special bond with cattle and then carves out a career designing systems for them to travel to their death without getting so much as one hive.
Apparently, completely calm, centered and happy cows make happy T-bone steaks. Rile them up, deprive them of the perfect coziness and pressure of Grandin’s specially designed chutes and you’re left with cortisol-riddled beefsteak that both tastes nasty and disrespects the beast. Like Grandin said, “We raise them to eat them so how’s about showing them a little res-PECT!!” Grandin even perfected a “squeeze machine”, as she calls it, which mimics the comforting feeling of a hug, without the unnerving (for her) sensation of two arms wrapped around her.
Somehow, she figured out that all she and the cows need is a little TLC.
I am inclined to agree with Temple, not because I totally understand her reasoning, but because I trust her. I saw the movie. I heard her interviewed on NPR. I’m also a fan because of another, more personal link.
See, there’s another Temple Grandin, one who lives in my world. I trust him, too. My version is a 43-year old math teacher and varsity softball coach who, each morning at precisely 7:20, takes his coffee and Sudoku into his "squeeze machine": the toilet closet. This, immediately after eating one bowl of cereal with sliced bananas both below the pile of cereal and placed on top, which he first slices lengthwise and then across, so each slice is a little half-circle. I guess this reminds him of geometry.
My Temple comes home every day at lunch, eats whatever I have fixed for him and then goes back to school with his afternoon treat in a bag: a yogurt and a banana. He sits at his desk, dipping the banana into the yogurt one bite at a time. His students pretend to be doing calculus problems, while secretly texting each other the following: BYGIAIA! (Banana Yogurt Guy Is At It Again!)
Those mornings when he peers into the fruit basket and sees that we’re out of bananas are dark, dark days. His face immediately droops. His brow furrows. He looks at me.
“You’ll survive, chief,” I say while pouring my coffee and shuffling toward the stove.
Trust me when I say, there is a teensy-weensy kernel in his brain, called the Temple Lobe, that tells him not to believe me. Unless he reads it in the sports page or on weather.com, no piece of data is trustworthy.
There are other things that give him the warmth and security he needs.
“I need my squeeze machine!” my husband yelled the other day when I told him I would not get off the laptop to let him check weather.com before he returned to school after lunch.
“You’ve checked it forty-two times today already. You checked it 10 minutes ago when you got home. What is the point?”
“The point is that if it doesn’t rain I need a plan B for practice. If it rains we’ll discuss situations in my classroom,” he said referring to what he might do if water fell out of the sky after school.
“So, write down an outside practice plan. You already know rain is likely. Why keep checking the weather? You could have had ten practice plans written for the next two weeks with all the time you’ve spent checking the weather!”
“Why can’t I just know?”
“Because you already DO KNOW. It said 80% chance of rain before mid-afternoon. Even if it said ‘150% chance of rain’ you know damn well you’d keep checking because that’s what you do.”
I knew what was coming next. Imagine the little black and white sketches that zoom through Temple’s mind when something does not compute.
“There’s no such thing as 150% chance of rain!! You know that!!” He hates it when I disrespect numbers as much as Temple hates it when cowboys disrespect cows.
“Whatever, Temple,” I said, referring the movie we’d just watched a few nights before, just to see if he was paying attention.
Suddenly, he was smiling. It was time for a scenario. We love scenarios.
“What if you found out that I was a highly functioning autistic?” my husband asked.
“What do you mean, IF?” I snapped, unable to keep the smirk off my face.
“Whaddya mean by that?” he said with that fake sad face he adopts just to get me to laugh.
“You check weather.com in the middle of FRIGGIN' JULY, that’s what! We live in California! It’s going to be hot! You’ve even got the kids doing it!" At this point, I can't even keep a straight face, even though I passionately believe in what I'm saying.
“What if a summer thunderstorm comes along?”
I turned and pointed to the living room window. “There’s my weather.com, all year long,” I said, adding, “Want to know what my ‘Plan B’ is? The sweatshirt in the closet!!”
There’s more. There are the clocks that he is umbilically tied to whether he’s at home, in a hotel or camping under the stars, where he ties his watch to the little pocket hanging on the inside of the tent. This because he is compelled to look at the clock just so that he knows what to feel: relieved (before 2 a.m.) or nervous (after 2 a.m.).
I once presented an alternate plan: my way. My way and my husband’s way are a little different. While he scopes the horizon, I tend to look straight down, careening through life, adjusting on the fly to whatever mishap I’ve recently created and fairly content to be in the moment. Other than important things, like appointments, kids’ practices and happy hour, I tend to take life as it comes. I'm not saying my way is better; like Temple's mother always told her, and anyone else who was tempted to judge, "Not more, just different."
I once suggested he cover up the clock at night, as I do, to ensure he won’t catch a glimpse. Of all the times to get bad news, the middle of the night is my least favorite.
“Why put yourself through the anxiety of seeing it’s 5:15 a.m. and that you only have 45 minutes left to sleep, which basically guarantees you won’t be getting back to sleep at all?”
“I just like to know,” he clipped.
“Well, I hope you are satisfied. You have most of our kids doing it. Way to go, Temple.”
“I need my squeeze machine!”
“Come here, honey. I’m you’re squeeze machine. I’m your Plan B.”
Apparently, completely calm, centered and happy cows make happy T-bone steaks. Rile them up, deprive them of the perfect coziness and pressure of Grandin’s specially designed chutes and you’re left with cortisol-riddled beefsteak that both tastes nasty and disrespects the beast. Like Grandin said, “We raise them to eat them so how’s about showing them a little res-PECT!!” Grandin even perfected a “squeeze machine”, as she calls it, which mimics the comforting feeling of a hug, without the unnerving (for her) sensation of two arms wrapped around her.
Somehow, she figured out that all she and the cows need is a little TLC.
I am inclined to agree with Temple, not because I totally understand her reasoning, but because I trust her. I saw the movie. I heard her interviewed on NPR. I’m also a fan because of another, more personal link.
See, there’s another Temple Grandin, one who lives in my world. I trust him, too. My version is a 43-year old math teacher and varsity softball coach who, each morning at precisely 7:20, takes his coffee and Sudoku into his "squeeze machine": the toilet closet. This, immediately after eating one bowl of cereal with sliced bananas both below the pile of cereal and placed on top, which he first slices lengthwise and then across, so each slice is a little half-circle. I guess this reminds him of geometry.
My Temple comes home every day at lunch, eats whatever I have fixed for him and then goes back to school with his afternoon treat in a bag: a yogurt and a banana. He sits at his desk, dipping the banana into the yogurt one bite at a time. His students pretend to be doing calculus problems, while secretly texting each other the following: BYGIAIA! (Banana Yogurt Guy Is At It Again!)
Those mornings when he peers into the fruit basket and sees that we’re out of bananas are dark, dark days. His face immediately droops. His brow furrows. He looks at me.
“You’ll survive, chief,” I say while pouring my coffee and shuffling toward the stove.
Trust me when I say, there is a teensy-weensy kernel in his brain, called the Temple Lobe, that tells him not to believe me. Unless he reads it in the sports page or on weather.com, no piece of data is trustworthy.
There are other things that give him the warmth and security he needs.
“I need my squeeze machine!” my husband yelled the other day when I told him I would not get off the laptop to let him check weather.com before he returned to school after lunch.
“You’ve checked it forty-two times today already. You checked it 10 minutes ago when you got home. What is the point?”
“The point is that if it doesn’t rain I need a plan B for practice. If it rains we’ll discuss situations in my classroom,” he said referring to what he might do if water fell out of the sky after school.
“So, write down an outside practice plan. You already know rain is likely. Why keep checking the weather? You could have had ten practice plans written for the next two weeks with all the time you’ve spent checking the weather!”
“Why can’t I just know?”
“Because you already DO KNOW. It said 80% chance of rain before mid-afternoon. Even if it said ‘150% chance of rain’ you know damn well you’d keep checking because that’s what you do.”
I knew what was coming next. Imagine the little black and white sketches that zoom through Temple’s mind when something does not compute.
“There’s no such thing as 150% chance of rain!! You know that!!” He hates it when I disrespect numbers as much as Temple hates it when cowboys disrespect cows.
“Whatever, Temple,” I said, referring the movie we’d just watched a few nights before, just to see if he was paying attention.
Suddenly, he was smiling. It was time for a scenario. We love scenarios.
“What if you found out that I was a highly functioning autistic?” my husband asked.
“What do you mean, IF?” I snapped, unable to keep the smirk off my face.
“Whaddya mean by that?” he said with that fake sad face he adopts just to get me to laugh.
“You check weather.com in the middle of FRIGGIN' JULY, that’s what! We live in California! It’s going to be hot! You’ve even got the kids doing it!" At this point, I can't even keep a straight face, even though I passionately believe in what I'm saying.
“What if a summer thunderstorm comes along?”
I turned and pointed to the living room window. “There’s my weather.com, all year long,” I said, adding, “Want to know what my ‘Plan B’ is? The sweatshirt in the closet!!”
There’s more. There are the clocks that he is umbilically tied to whether he’s at home, in a hotel or camping under the stars, where he ties his watch to the little pocket hanging on the inside of the tent. This because he is compelled to look at the clock just so that he knows what to feel: relieved (before 2 a.m.) or nervous (after 2 a.m.).
I once presented an alternate plan: my way. My way and my husband’s way are a little different. While he scopes the horizon, I tend to look straight down, careening through life, adjusting on the fly to whatever mishap I’ve recently created and fairly content to be in the moment. Other than important things, like appointments, kids’ practices and happy hour, I tend to take life as it comes. I'm not saying my way is better; like Temple's mother always told her, and anyone else who was tempted to judge, "Not more, just different."
I once suggested he cover up the clock at night, as I do, to ensure he won’t catch a glimpse. Of all the times to get bad news, the middle of the night is my least favorite.
“Why put yourself through the anxiety of seeing it’s 5:15 a.m. and that you only have 45 minutes left to sleep, which basically guarantees you won’t be getting back to sleep at all?”
“I just like to know,” he clipped.
“Well, I hope you are satisfied. You have most of our kids doing it. Way to go, Temple.”
“I need my squeeze machine!”
“Come here, honey. I’m you’re squeeze machine. I’m your Plan B.”
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