Archive for July, 2006

The game

July 24, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“Parenthood is a lot easier to get into than out of.” ~Bruce Lansky

Peg and I like to play a game where I visit Albany or Martha’s Vineyard and in the mere hours that I am there, it is my player’s job to seek and her job to eventually retrieve. Whereas I seek out things that I want and/or am too cheap to purchase myself and she then spends weeks wondering where she put her new Burberry shirt.

During the most recent 72 hour jaunt to Albany, I sought after a Swiffer, a thing of Comet, Swiffer wet and dry cloths, nine dollars – which I used to purchase BK breakfast for myself and El Padre, latex gloves, a package of toilet paper, an orange adidas shirt, a button down shirt from BR, some hair product of some sort, her hooker shoes, and my personal favorite, a strand of pearls. My best showing yet I would say.

Her assessment of her bedroom when she returned home led to immediate retrieval via threat of the BR shirt. That shit was totally not worth the $309 check that she would have cashed. I wormed my way back into her good graces by sending her back the shirt and a can of Glory collard greens. Nothing says “Thanks for birthing me and allowing me to continuously mooch off of you”, like a two dollar can of greens. She figured out the adidas shirt when she called demanding its whereabouts and the whereabouts of her hooker shoes. “Covering up my boobies and my sweaty back and the shoes, those ugly shoes?? They’re for hookers!” The shoes are currently collecting dust underneath my desk at work.
I read about this once in the New York Times. That young recent college grads go on a rampage when they visit their parents. They know no bounds and feel that if it’s in their parent’s possession then it is communal property. To be honest, I’ve only recently began saying things like “My mother’s house in Albany”. And even then it is as if someone else is saying those words for me; though I did learn very early on that my mother’s money is not my money and that maybe I should make my own or risk being homeless. Or maybe make my own and buy my own damn cleaning supplies instead of pilfering off of the hardworking. In my defense G had just taken all of the dishes so I am at least entitled to a fucking swiffer.

Remember this now because at some point she will realize that she’s missing a strand of pearls. When this time comes, think of me fondly as I’m sure that the punishment will be swift and severe: Possibly death by evil Peg stare that can easily turn the warm blooded ice cold. Either way I am quite sure it will not be remedied by the simple act of a can of collards. I might even have to man up to the $12 Whole Foods variety, she’ll be that pissed.

Hey baby

July 23, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“The more I see of men, the more I like dogs.” ~Madame de Staël

I was “Hey baby”-ed on my way into Home Depot. While wearing my man catching outfit of a pink old navy tank top, jeans, flip flops and a look of ‘How the fuck am I suppose do find an Alan wrench in this behemoth?’ In a word; hot.

Oh wait, while I’m at it, I should tally up the number of ‘Hey baby’s and once overs from the day:

The 40+ year old man who hollered “Hey girl” as I was merging onto a parkway. Then decided to yell at me again while sitting at a stop light, to remind me that I just saw him less than a tenth of a mile back. Just in case I would forget about all the men yelling at me from their car windows while I’m trying to merge. Hey buddy, you look as old as my dad but thanks for the reminder!

The aforementioned man outside Home Depot.

The two gentlemen at the cash register staring at me while I looked for batteries.

The wholly unhelpful sales associate who first stared and 450 minutes later said “Hey girl what you looking for” while I stared with furrowed brow at the display of wrenches.

The man who yelled ‘hey baby’ at me while I was driving out of the Home Depot parking lot.

And finally the gentlemen who deemed it appropriate to give me my final Hey baby of the day, while stopped under an underpass and shoving Cajun fries into my pie hole. Apparently some men find grease and spicy seasoning covering one’s lips attractive.

I was afraid to leave my house for the remainder of the day. Because my God, all of that? In less than two hours? On a Sunday? The Lord’s Day? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Add that to the various truck driving men who feel it completely acceptable to yell at me at 5:45 in the AM while I’m walking to the gym. Also included are the lovely gentlemen who drive the Budweiser truck and the man who does parking enforcement. Note to you two self wanking fuckheads, unless you are giving me free beer and allowing me to park on my street without fear of getting booted respectively. If and only then, are you permitted to ‘Hey baby’ me all you damn well please.

My face is contorted in a look of dismay, embarrassment (for both myself and these men) and sheer confusion. Nothing about me gives off a vibe of “Oh please, do me. I want you” and yet there are these men who seem to think it is their God given right to yell at me while I’m going about my business. The same men who then have the audacity to get angry when I don’t respond. Especially while driving! Merging nonetheless. My apologies, next time I will perk up and drop everything that I am doing to respond to your ever clever summons. It’s not flattering, it’s horrifying and only makes me question exactly how many times you were dropped on your head as a child. Note to self: Invest in a canine post-haste.

The bane of my existence

July 21, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“The young always have the same problem - how to rebel and conform at the same time. They have now solved this by defying their parents and copying one another.” ~Quentin Crisp

I was a hard ass. Or at least I thought I was one. I wore brown wet & wild lip liner with cherry flavored gloss. I slicked back my hair with ungodly amounts of gel. It was an in after years of out. The only way for me to be ‘in’ was to swear and get detention, said ‘triflin’ and the “n word” and apparently use gel that wasn’t made from all natural Aveda products. Obviously, times were hard.

At some point, via my new found friendship with the rest of the black kids at my middle school, I became friends with a girl named Amanda – whose last name escapes me now. For years she had been friends with a girl named Teresa. Teresa’s father owned a landscaping company and happened to be our landscaper. There’s nothing particularly interesting about Teresa or Amanda except that they had the proper connections to the people that I wanted to be friends with. I had gone with wistfully thinking of camaraderie with the kids who wore Abercrombie every mother fucking day, to the kids who drank Smirnoff ice in Altamont and taught me how to inhale my first cigarette.

A moment to pause; because What the fuck was I thinking?

Anyway one day while doing the landscaping duties, Amanda happened to join them on the duty of mowing our crap ass lawn which I took as a sign to become BFFE with her and we were going to braid each other’s hair in cornrows and hang out at Crossgates until 10 PM(!) After becoming better acquainted with her, we began passing notes in Social Studies.

Our Social Studies teacher was Mr. Zahurak. Mr. Zahurak, like every other one of my teachers, happened to know my mother. Mr. Zahurak also knew of my penchant for skipping class, getting detention and not doing my work via the other teachers in my 8^th grade team. He was a tall fat man. OK, he was ‘rotund’. With a giant stomach, that reminded me of an upside down tympani. So one day, Amanda and I were passing notes – because that was the cool thing to do – and for some reason I thought it brilliant to write out:

“Mr. Zahurak is such a jerk and has a really fat stomach”

Amanda thought it was funny. I thought it was funny. Mr. Zahurak didn’t think it was funny. Especially when he came up to us demanding to have the note and I ripped it in half. Thinking Aha! That’ll keep him from reading my super secret message! Alas it did not. And instead it landed me in my dean’s office for roughly the 15^th time that year. Now, given past experience as a bona fide ass kisser whose first detention came by way of a mix up, I figured that I would get off scot-free. Oh. Oh no. I did not. Instead I received super extended detention until 5:30 PM (this to make up for the note, my general lack of school work, and my underdeveloped vocabulary. Because really ‘fat stomach’? Surely I can think of something far better than that).

As was customary for things that arrived from Farnsworth Middle School, things that landed in the mailbox, were quickly retrieved and destroyed. If only I had an incinerator. But this time, despite my stealthy recovery and subsequent burial in the backyard where the tomatoes used to grow, Peg found out about my transgression. Mr. Zahurak actually called my mother. He called her! To tell her that she had raised a heathen who used the phrase ‘fat stomach’ as an actual insult. And my god! Why couldn’t she have raised a child with a more expansive cache of insults? Peg had the same sense of humor as Mr. Zahurak and her quick response was to ground me and force me to sit at home during the 8^th Grade Moving Up Day Dance. I was heart broken, because my chances at popularity had been squashed. My mother even questioned why and how I had become friends with this Amanda girl.

Years later the letter resurfaced again. No, it did not spring forth fruit from the ground, but Peg called and asked whether or not I could remember exactly what I had written. Which, yes I recalled. She asked if I could write it down for her. Because the details of my note would be used during a Roast for Mr. Zahurak to end his 129 years of abuse at the hands of pretentious teenagers i.e. retirement. What I recall most about that conversation is how thoroughly entertaining my mother found the entire situation to be. She thought it was funny. Mr. Zahurak and all of his teacher buddies thought it was funny. I was only mildly amused given the fact that I had to miss out on the 8^th grade dance and the fact that that could have been the greatest night of my life. Because in 8^th grade, everything is imperative and everything that happens in the 8^th grade will predetermine one’s entire life. Duh.

Don’t write shit that you wouldn’t want your mother/teachers to read. Don’t think that you can bury shit in the back yard. Don’t think that just because the popular kids are popular that you have to be exactly like them. Don’t think that your teachers are unable to use the phone. And for the love of God, do develop an insult repository beyond ‘fat stomach’. Lesson learned.

Participant’s Choice

July 20, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“There are thousands of thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up the pen and writes.” ~William Makepeace Thackeray

So, boys and girls, what would you like to hear about today? Errrr, tomorrow? (ish)

How about the gay man that I was hopelessly in love with? So much so that I even started writing my name with his last name on my notebook and drawing hearts around it.

Or! How about the time I went test driving and got the crazy gawky test driver man who hit on my friend and the woe and phone banking that followed?

Maybe the time I called my 8^th grade Social Studies teacher a fat ass – or something very close and equally as naughty – and then wasn’t allowed to attend the 8^th Grade moving up day dance?

Hell, pick a topic and I will write you a lengthy discourse on why exactly the sky is blue and how Angels get their wings.

Hate. Ed.: An ode to random thought

July 19, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“Never be afraid to sit awhile and think.” ~Lorraine Hansberry, A Raisin in the Sun

You know what I strongly despise? People who call me ma’am. Or people who assume that I have actual real life children that live with me and that I take care of on a day to day basis. Because trust me, I am not old enough to have a child.

I also hate my eagerness to participate in a jury reading type thing for Elle*, based solely on the fact that I like to read and write so A ha! Of course I’d love to read 150 books by August 19th. Why thank you!

While we’re at it, I dislike, puppies, rainbows, kittens, hyperbolic whiny little bitches and how shitty my hair as been lately.

Anything else?


*as in the publication.