Click here for my short essay on the Huffington Post on why my mom loves Donald Trump and what’s wrong with John Kaisich’s mouth.
4/11/20
It strikes me that the patch of blue sky I see through the window in my bedroom looks oddly small when my eyes open at 8:30 AM. I’m huddled under the crumpled and twisted white sheets in the rental house we’ve been staying in. I wish I had some art or photos to look at but we’ve been ‘close to moving out’ for over a year now so what would be the point? Maybe I wouldn’t be so negative if I wasn’t recovering from a popcorn hangover. My family is watching the entire Marvel comic book series and every time there’s a tense action scene, I consume an entire bag of microwave popcorn despite the fact that I’m pretty positive the sharp-edged kernels are giving me leaky gut. Priorities have definitely shifted during ‘shelter at home’.
I drag myself out of bed. Luckily, I don’t have to change as I slept in sweats.
It takes more energy than it should to make it to the bathroom. When I look in the mirror, I don’t like what I see and truthfully I’m surprised. I’ve been in bed for at least ten straight hours, as I have been almost every night for the past 11 weeks. This hasn’t happened since I was a baby and I hold my pee in better now so theoretically I’m waking less. Shouldn’t my undereye circles have lightened up from the asphalt speedbumps they were prior to getting more shuteye? This pisses me off because I thought I looked tired because I was tired. Apparently not. In addition, I haven’t had a drink in 11 weeks. (My husband stopped drinking because of his sleep apnea and the idea of drinking alone in front of my kids, my face red and glowing like a Christmas tree bulb with Asiatic alcohol intolerance doesn’t appeal to me. Not to mention the fact that I’d get sloshed off half a glass of wine (Jewish genes? Asian genes? Basically no Catholic genes is my point) Anyhow, drinking alone while my older daughter informs that me that she will never, ever drink after studying addiction in fourth grade health class, just isn’t fun.
“I’m proud of you,” I say.
But “Just wait till you have kids,” is what I’m thinking.
Am I depressed? Or lazy? Or time efficient in not bothering to wash my face or lift a hairbrush.
I decided to text my friend Janice, an ex-finance maven from New York turned housewife in Los Angeles. We met in a baby group. She’s always had the chiseled features and smooth pore-free complexion of an upper east side socialite with a taste for Hermes despite being over 50.
“Do you still brush your hair every day?” I texted.
“No, I don’t even shower daily anymore. Why would I brush my hair?”
“Sometimes I feel bad that I look like a homeless person,” I said walking back to my bedroom passing a full length mirror. I didn’t realize my sweatshirt was stained with last night’s curry, or chocolate, or something brown.
“Why? Who’s seeing you?” she asked.
“Absolutely no one,” I said trying to scratch out the chunky stain as my husband walked in the room and motioned for me to come downstairs.
“I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” Rick said, “Serena’s got a Zoom in fifteen minutes. Can you come down?”
“Sure,” I said, feeling jealousy creep in.
Going to the bathroom for my husband meant a full hour of adult privacy. For me it meant reading Berenstain Bears books to at least one child in between bearing down and explaining my ‘funny expression’.
Janice’s texting continued…
“More importantly, should I get veneers?” she asked.
“No,” I texted back as I headed downstairs.
“Zac Effron has them and Demi Moore,” she texted.
“Oh then, yes you should,” I texted, hoping she would vibe my sarcasm.
“Yeah, I think they would make me look younger. I’m getting Botox on Saturday,” she wrote.
“I thought you didn’t care about what you looked like now,” I said.
“I don’t. I care about getting older,” wrote Janice.
“I see,” I texted, but I didn’t.
“I’ve got to go,” she texted, “I’m online shopping right now on Farfetch and I don’t want my size to go. Is it dumb buying clothes that are final sale?”
“Probably, but it’s really fun opening the boxes,” I wrote.
She sent me a thumbs up followed by eight photos of outfits she was buying; among them a hot pink silk jumper, a black purse, fancy silk pajamas and a flowy floral dress. Discussing Janice’s purchases was a welcome respite from perusing the Apple news app I’d become addicted to.
In the kitchen, my six-year old, Serena was pouring Elmers Glue out from a gallon sized container into a tiny plastic Elsa (from Frozen) bowl on the floor. She even managed to get some in. My older daughter, Elyse (10) was making Tic-Tocs in her school space, aka dining table which meant she was torquing in her short shorts and oversized black hoodie. I considered reminding her she was supposed to be doing math, but I really needed coffee.
“You guys good?” I asked rhetorically and went straight to my espresso machine to start grinding beans.
A text from my dad came in.
“Your Mom is hot on Abbot,” is all it read.
My facetime beeped a moment later. I put it on speaker while I grabbed some almond milk from the fridge.
Mom’s face showed up on my phone. She was smiling her wide, I’m much smarter than you smile.
“What you think about Abbot stock?”
“I don’t know anything about stocks,” I said.
“Our president use their test for virus every day. Get result in five minute. Everybody at White House test every day. That why they don’t need mask. This going to change everything,” she said.
“If that’s the case didn’t the stock already go up?” I asked content to start brewing my double shot.
“Gonna go up more, gonna be like Amazon. I never wrong.”
I took a breath and weighed my words carefully, “Sounds exciting,” I said. sat down at my kitchen table and t
“I going to buy 100 share make lots money. This how I gonna pay off my credit card debt.”
Mom always had at least 20k in credit card debt, no matter how often it got paid off.
“That would be great,” I said, figuring Abbot must be trading around ten dollars a share. I turned on my iPad and started scrolling through today’s news. Nothing cheerful. I googled Abbot. It was currently trading at about 92 dollars a share.
“Um, Mom? You don’t have 10 thousand dollars.”
Mom chuckled her guttural patronizing laugh, “I have ten thousand dollar. Already in bank.”
I took a deep breath,“Who gave you ten grand?”
“What you mean who? Visa.”
I got up abruptly in search of my Gaba supplements. They were supposed to calm me down.
“Mom, credit cards can charge like 30% interest,” I said, crunching on a two chewable tablets and wishing they were they were something stronger.
Mom shook her head like I was crazy, “It free. Completely free until next year. You think I don’t know what I doing? I know how credit card work.”
“They gave you ten thousand dollars in cash and charged nothing?” I repeated.
“You no hear me? FREE. Only cost four hundred dollar,” Mom said starting to get frustrated, “Monee, sometime I think you got your daddy small brain.”
“Thanks Mom,” I said.
“You know what I mean. You got to think big, or you gonna be small person forever,” she said.
This bugged me. I turned on the steamer to my espresso machine and let it sputter.
Paralysis from fear was my nemesis. The cutting voice of my ego was what woke me up most nights at 2 AM. Why didn’t you put yourself out more? Why didn’t you invest in that stock? Why didn’t you finish more projects and submit more work when you were young and had time?
“Maybe I’ll buy some too,” I said, already knowing I never would.
4/12
8:30 AM. I woke up to a buzzing sound along with my mom’s face flashing on the iPad next to me. I really needed to remember to turn that thing off at night. I sat up in bed and clicked accept. Her lips were pursed as tight as a cat’s butt and she was shaking her head.
“Your daddy such a jerk!” was her greeting.
My Dad stuck his shiny bald head into the frame. “All I said was to wait for the jobs report to come out Friday before she invests.”
Mom pushed his head out of the screen, then looked at her hand as if his head contaminated it.
“I never lose money in stock before. Always right,”
“What the hell are you talking about? You’ve never bought a stock before,” said my Dad off screen.
Mom rolled her eyes. Dad pulled a chair up to share the screen with her. Mom shifted her screen so I could only see half my dad’s face.
“Anyhow, your mother can set up her own e-trade account” said Dad, “I’m done with her.”
“Why I no can use his?” mom said desperately. “He my husband, already got account.”
“I’ll tell you why,” my dad said shifting the iPad back to him, “She calls my broker and first thing she says to him is how stupid I am and how we’d be millionaires if I only listened to her.”
I could practically feel the drops of his spittle hitting the iPad screen he was so angry.
Mom stifled a giggle, “Is true. I only tell true. I tell your daddy buy Tesla, I tell him Amazon. I tell him Google. So stupid your daddy,”
My dad got up, “I’m not helping her ass,”
Mom’s giggle was replaced by sudden anger, “See what I married to? You don’t understand how bad he is,”
“Mom, why would you say that to Dad ‘s broker?” I asked.
“I talk to him like friend. This how you make-a-relations,” said Mom. She turned to my Dad, “I think he already know you dumb anyway,” Mom started to laugh again.
Dad sat back down, “Do you see what I have to deal with? Who says things like that?”
“Fine I do myself”. Mom got up and got some paperwork from the desk.
“Dad, please help Mom set up an account. It can’t be that hard on E-trade,” I said.
Mom walked over holding out the papers from e-trade and started shaking it with both hands. “What this mean?” Mom squinted her eyes reading the paperwork, “Do you have a bank account?”
“It means do you have bank account, genius,” said Dad to Mom while looking at me all cheeky.
Mom kept reading. I could see her jaw tightening and brow knitting as her head darted around. She looked like an over caffeinated Shar Pei. “They want to know how much money I have. I can’t tell them only social security. Seven thousand dollar a year. I got to lie. They gonna check?”
My dad turned back to her, “That’s exactly what you do tell them. If they know you’re poor they won’t bother your ass!”
“That too poor,” said Mom.
“She might be right. Isn’t might be some morality clause where brokers can’t let you spend all your money?” I asked.
My Dad’s face screwed up into his signature are you an idiot? “They’re brokers.”
“While I’d love to help you guys sort out this out, I have children to care for,” I said, “Dad, please help mom set up an account.”
I got a text later in the day from my mom.
“I buy Abbot lab stock and Pfizer fifty-fifty. I know these good stock. Now can you tell me how to cook funnel? Every week your dad get box from farmers market with weird vegetable”
Perks of Quarantine
1)Do not have to get up in the morning
2)More time spent with kids.
3)Biggest FOMO is not being able to watch Tiger King
4)Not feeling as much stress about not getting writing done.
Downfalls of Quarantine
1)Not getting up in the morning
2)More time spent with kids
3)Caring far too much about missing Tiger King
4)Not getting any writing done.
April 27th, 2020…
Today, I don’t know if it was because I read something that said to prepare to social distance this summer, but I really felt kicked in the chest. I couldn’t face another day of cooking three meals and cleaning after said three meals in between trying to entertain a six-year old with home schooling. My free time being spent vying for fleeting delivery spots on Amazon Fresh.
I feel bad complaining. I’m not sick. I’m not starving. I’m not alone, although, if I was I’d be able to drink tequila and binge-watch Netflix.
But today felt hard. Today has been one of those days I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to move or function or help or clean or anything. I just want to leave my house. I’ve never been a homebody. I miss the company of strangers. I miss making small talk with the barrista at Pete’s Coffee and hearing about the dating life of Elle, the divorcee next to me in dance class.
My dad is like me, or I am like him except his motivations are different.
My dad does the marketing for my parents several times a week. He doesn’t go because he has to (I have offered more than once). He goes because he cannot handle being home alone in the condo with my mom. Well, that and he has coupons that could expire.
Dad called while I lay in motionless in bed.
“Hey, what do you think about eye drops?” he asked.
“They’re great if you have dry eye? I’m not sure what you mean,” I said. “Do you have an eye condition?”
“Sort of. I’ve got this coupon…forty percent off eye drops. But it’s a pack of ten. Forty percent off though is pretty good though. I thought maybe you’d buy one off me too. I could pass on some of the discount,”
“How generous of you,” I started before thinking this through, “Wait, let me get this straight, you want to leave your condo, a 77 year old man, who lives with his 87 year old asthmatic wife to go to CVS pharmacy…probably the most high risk place of all ..to get eye drops you don’t need because you have a coupon?”
“It’s 40% off,” repeated my Dad.
“I’ve got to go,” I said.
That night we had zoom call scheduled for a friend’s b-day. This is a woman who’s managed to stay upbeat through cancer, one kid with anorexia and another with possible schizophrenia and suicidal tendencies. In short, she’s a hero.
When I’m feeling self-pitying, nothing makes me feel worse than a hero, except perhaps a modest hero…whom she was, ON HER BIRTHDAY. Seriously, friend? She actually said her problems were…and I quote “relatively speaking, not worse than anyone else’s”. Really? Because while I get what you’re saying and yeah, I was pretty upset when Forma ran out of Branzino when we called for delivery (I was really looking forward to that fish…because how much fish can one get when quarantined?) And yes, I may have cried about it…and yes, if someone who didn’t know me happened to be casing my house and saw me crying, they might have thought someone close to me died…when in reality I had to choose between calamari and chicken. But in fairness I’d had a lot of chicken lately so was there really a choice? I’d have to say yes, dear birthday friend, yes you are a better person than I. But that’s good. That’s okay. It gives me something to strive for..and feel guilty about…it basically fills up a lot of brain space during quarantine which could be a good thing (or bad…depending)
4/28/2020
I woke up lethargic. I never knew malaise weighed so much. (Or perhaps it was the nightly Haagan Daz I was eating because of the malaise) either way, getting out bed was hard. Walking to the kitchen was hard. Even making Top Ramen was hard, and really anyone can make Top Ramen.
Last night I decided I’m done with cooking and cleaning after. The family can choose…either I cook or I clean, not both. I don’t mean to be a prima donna, but the truth is…I am a prima donna… That and I’m old, not super old, but my joints are like Forever 21 clothing…they fall apart after very little use. The arthritis in my hands is flaring up badly from scrubbing so much. (My OCD tends to veer it’s productive head when my cast iron pan’s been charred) I’ve burned and cut myself in enough places that my biggest fear about catching the virus is going out without ball length gloves on to my armpits lest Corona creep into one of the rips in my flesh. But more than the pain, what’s getting to me is how my physical deterioration puts my aging right in my face. And who wants to feel like they are passing their prime (er..the tail end of prime) right in the middle of quarantine? I’d always thought I’d be able to prolong what little prime I had left in me…hold out till for another year or two. Now I’ve hastened my demise into that nebulous age where women are no longer considered attractive by anyone except perhaps their children (when they want something) and the older demographic of Bernie supporters.
Everything I’m experiencing seems to magnify the inescapability that I am becoming my mother, whose fingers are permanently misshapen and gnarled with arthritis, whose arms are peppered with scars and splotches both from age and years of wok frying with hot oil. My mom, who cannot bear to walk on stone floors without shoes because the foot pads are now borderline non-existent? My mom or should I say #me, the frizzy haired Asian elder with two inches of grey roots wearing stained flood length sweat pants.
I had to stop cooking.
I decided to text my Dad to take my mind off my mother, me, Mom-Me. (so that’s where it comes from…foreboding)
“Did you go to CVS?” I asked jokingly (via text so most likely the tinge of sarcasm didn’t translate)
“Yes, to get discount. Was 36 paid 15,” responded Dad.
“Did you get the eyedrops?” I asked.
“How did you know I went to CVS?” texted Dad.
“Seriously?” I texted back. (My dad while 77, is still teaching all grades at Los Angeles Unified School district)
“Who is this???” my dad texted.
I had to give my phone a look. I’ve been texting my dad from the same number for 24 years. Yet, I could feel the paranoia in his three question marks. He probably feared I was some stalker, following my dad around Ralphs and CVS where perhaps a government snitch was checking off the number of times he undoubtedly shifted his mask to scratch his nose.
At the same time, my mom started texting from her phone.
“How you know Daddy go to CVS?”
Mom, a passionate Trump supporter, is always up for good conspiracy.
I called to avoid a snowball of stress. After explaining how he had called me and we had a conversation about it yesterday morning, he was able to relax and gloat.
“Yeah, these eyedrops are supposed to be just as good as the prescription ones, but man are they expensive. Unless you have a coupon that is,” said Dad.
I have to say this whole interaction cheered me up immensely. Though I’m not exactly sure why.
4/29/20
I got another text from my dad.
For those of you that have been wondering if the Lysol comment Trump made has affected the feelings of his base…I got word from his front line today…
No.
“Your mom’s been calling the White House,” my dad texted me.
I decided to Facetime Mom.
Mom answered Facetime the same way she always did, in her acrylic red sweater, her thin grey hair, flatter from no washing. She held her iPad tilted upward in the most unflattering position possible. Behind her, a stone statuette of Quan Yin, Chinese Goddess of Mercy stood gazing benevolently down from her Chinese red wood shrine.
“Hi, I so ugly. So old. So depress. How you?” said mom in a chipper voice smiling her wide, tea stained tooth smile.
“Dad said you needed to get in touch with the white house. What’s going on that’s so urgent?” I asked.
Mom’s smile fell, “I got to help President. People so mean. So stupid. I call, but no one pick up so I write a letter.”
“That sounds productive,” I said, excited for potential entertainment, “Can I hear it?”
“I just say,‘Dear President, Please do not let press ask you the stupid question. They always make the hostile comment next day. Is not necessary to let people ask question.”
I laughed, but quickly covered my mouth and added a cough.
“You okay?” asked Mom.
“Just a cough, but not a corona cough, a pepper cough. Please continue.”
Mom looked at me suspiciously but continued reading.
“Those question not important. No need let them ask. Then I tell him he the best president. They (the press) should not be hostile. They have nothing talk about but how bad he is. That not fair. I not stupid person. I know how hard is to deal supply for big country. He (Trump) cannot control.
Mom shook her head, frustrated.
“That was short”, I said. Mom generally liked to draw out her letters.
“Of course I tell him I love him too…but not like-a-you know. I love him like a president. Not just because he handsome. He work so hard for this country. Then I tell him I immigrant from Taiwan.”
My dad walked in sans toupee. Long grey sideburns sticking out giving his thin face some width.
“Yeah, he works so hard tweeting his bullshit all day,” said Dad gritting his teeth.
“Your daddy so stupid,” said Mom, “I even tell him, if he stop watch CNN, CNBC maybe I can love him. Maybe even let him hug me,”
“Maybe you both should stop watching the news,” I said to them, “and love each other instead.”
They both laughed.
“I hardly watch news. He the one with problem,” said Mom.
“Yeah, she hardly watches. That’s where she gets all her wrong information,” said Dad.
“I even tell him I have sex with him he give up CNN”. She turned slightly to see if my dad reacted.
I looked behind myself in the kitchen. My kids and Rick were feet away.
“Grandma has S-E-X?” asked my 10 year old tween, Elyse
“I’ve got to go, Mom,” I said.
I turned back to Elyse.
“So, what are we cooking today?”
Sunday May 3, 2020
It was 10 PM and I was walking Serena upstairs to bed. She was skipping as usual, her butt length hair swishing back and forth over her bare tushy.
“Mommy, our family is different than other families,” said Serena.
“Because we love each other so much?” I asked rhetorically, squeezing her plump little six-year old hand in mine.
“No, mommy. Every family loves each other,” Serena giggled, “But we watch grown up movies every day. We stay up waaay too late. We like to keep our house messy. We always have deserts. And a lot of the time we don’t wear clothes,”
We don’t wear clothes? We like the house messy? And Avengers Age of Ultron was Serena’s choice…(her number one choice after the Shaun the Sheep show and we’d seen quite a bit of Shaun the Sheep). Was it our fault Marvel movies run 2 hours and fifteen minutes long? Or 3 hours fifteen after 4 bathroom breaks, 2 desert breaks, and pausing to explain several scenes?
“That’s an interesting observation, sweety,” I said, “Let’s not tell our teachers about it.”
So I went to my dance class this past Sunday in Culver Cty. It’s in a mostly industrial area that is empty on the weekends and thus the only place I go where parking is not an issue. That day it was. Several cars were turning down Hayden Place this past Sunday, and mostly SUV’s filled with husbands and kids too
Oh shit, I thought to myself. My dance class is so awesome, it’s gone viral (not as in Corona, as in popular).
Cursing myself for touting it my friends, I grabbed the first yellow loading zone I could (legal on Sundays) and sprinted to class carrying my hat, my purse, a towel and a large water bottle. I jogged down the street, passing a couple families as I went by. It was then that I realized they were all heading to some nameless coffee shop looking place across the street.
Sure enough, I entered my studio to see only two other women there.
“Omg,” I said winded from running, “Why is there no parking? Where are all those people going at 10:00 am on a Sunday?”
“Oh” said Lori, a beautiful friend of mine in dance class as she pushed up her edgy Celine glasses with a smile, “There’s a swinging event on Sundays across the street,”
“Really?” I asked picturing an acrobatic set up, “What kind of swings? My kids love swings too. I wonder if I could drop them off there.”
“Swinging. Not swings. Or at least none that I know of,” said Lori.
“Lori”, I said all self-righteous, “These were families with little kids I saw walking,”
“Monique,” said Lori, “These are families of swingers. I went over there to get a cup of coffee and I asked.”
I looked at Lori, like, No Way.
She nodded, completely sincere.
“Swinging is super popular right now,” she said.
I did not know what to say. I guess it made sense, the kids play together and the parents play together? And I had heard it was popular. I heard it was happening at an elementary school in the chichi town that neighbored mine. But I didn’t really believe it. I figured it was blown out of proportion because some Mom-Wives (the term housewife seems outdated…and also insinuates cleaning or taking care of a house, which most stay at home moms I know do not do. They have help for the house, and instead focus primarily on helicoptering over their kids) anyhow, these mom-wives needed something to gossip about, or so I thought.
“But at 10:00 AM? They can’t be hooking up there?” I asked Lori.
“It’s pretty socially acceptable now,” Lori told me. “I doubt they’re hooking up there, maybe they’re just meeting people they want to hook up later with.”
Again, all I could thing was, how is having their kids there not tainting the experience? I mean, say you see this really hot couple and theoretically want to hook up with them but then their kid steals your kids Goldfish crackers? Then what?
The final thing I cannot seem to get straight in my head is how swinging is a big thing for people my age… and I’m not talking about the complex emotional components or the potential to get Corona virus from sticky surfaces (skin and other) I cannot get over how people my age are totally cool with stripping down in front of absolute strangers and trusting that stripping down will actually turn them on (as opposed to, well laughing?)
Just who are these 40 – 50 year olds with hot bodies?
I like to think I am in decent shape, i.e. Not yet part of the government’s obesity statistic. But there is no helping or hiding the ravages of time and children. Let’s be real, here. My nipples sag, a lot. In fact, after months of pumping milk from a 1960’s Medela ‘Cow’ model breast pump, they literally curl under like an elephant’s trunk. And while my stomach is not huge, it’s lost every bit of elasticity so that if I bend in any capacity it falls, loose and almost liquid like into a crepey sheet of sorts. Plus, it is a little fat.
And if people just do their swinging thing in the dark, well, explain how anyone can see or find anything? I can barely make it to the bathroom in my own house at night, my vision has gotten so bad. I can’t imagine trying to find some strangers privates. These family swingers probably need extra homeowners insurance just in case someone breaks a hip trying to find which room their husband went into when the babysitter calls.
Swinging…I just don’t get it.
I’m at that age where I’m beginning to accept that no matter what I do, (perhaps with the exception of extensive plastic surgery) men aren’t looking at me when I’m out, unless perhaps they are fascinated by the sight of a woman consuming an entire basket of bread while sipping tequila on the rocks before ordering a three-course dinner.
I’ve kind of stopped trying. Don’t get me wrong. I bathe, my pants aren’t all elastic waisted (unless I’m at home), I put mascara on when I go out. But I don’t try as hard. There was a time not too long ago when I did get fillers and facials and regular Botox, I abstained from carbs, (unless said tequila was involved). And I looked better, not great in a perky 30-year old way, but better. But then sometime after I turned 48 Elyse, my 10-year old, was looking at a photo of me holding her as a baby. She looked from me to the photo and back again.
“Wow mom, you look so much older,” said Elyse.
“I am older, honey,” I chuckled, “That photo was taken 10 years ago,”
“But dad doesn’t look older,” said Elyse, “He looks exactly the same.”
Burn…her dad doesn’t even wash his face, he eats like crap and doesn’t exercise. Plus he’s five years older than me. Did this mean I looked older than him now?
Around the same time friend of a friend got blinded in one eye by filler, and well, I just really missed pasta. I also resented spending the little free time I had doing work outs I hated, (read burpees) or else abstaining from doing something I enjoyed (like dancing) because I had to get a needle jammed into some part of my face that would quite likely bruise.
I started to question the time and money I was putting into appearances and was it really paying off? Literally speaking, I only cared what I looked like when I looked in the mirror. It’s not like I looked in the mirror all the time. To add insult to injury, my eyesight was getting so bad, it was tiring just focusing on my face long enough to take in all the brown spots and lines. So what if I just cut back on looking in the mirror instead of carbs? What was my motivation to look good anyhow? Why did I care? I was married, and while my husband might care (a very little, he is an engineer who orders his clothes from Amazon), I felt pretty confident he would never leave me because we have two fabulous young children whom he would never dream of traumatizing. Also, he’s pretty lazy vis a vis going out so I doubt he’d be trolling bars, he’s a bit of a germ-phobe (read that any way you want vis a vis sex) and finally, his complete lack of any social media presence along with his fear of giving personal information online wouldn’t leave him many options in the dating world or ‘chillin with Netflix’ as I hear people do now.
Plus, since we had our kids on the later side, my thinking is that by the time they are old enough not to be impacted by a traumatic divorce, we will be too old and exhausted to motivate to have an affair or deal with a divorce lawyer (read The Marriage Story movie).
If my husband still cares after the kids leave for college or more accurately if he can still see, I can always improve my upkeep then. I figure by then there will be some pill or cream that will fix everything instantaneously anyhow. In fact, since he was in technology, I’ll tell him the onus is on him to improve me.
Btw if you’re feeling bad for my husband, don’t. First of all, he doesn’t care about looks, he wears acid wash denim pants because they’re ‘comfortable’. Not only do they hang on him like long culottes, but from the backside they give him ‘Mom butt’ (more disturbing on a man than woman). He actually enjoys shaming me in public by wearing these (okay, so maybe I do still care about looks a little) Secondly, he farts A LOT (not exactly sure what this has to do with anything except that it annoys me).
Anyhow, I’m fairly sure he didn’t marry me for looks but perhaps for my razer sharp intellect. Although I fear that too has declined.
Maybe it’s age, maybe it’s the huge dropper of THC I take at night to help me sleep. But I’m not always so sharp. Honestly my brain is more butter than butcher knife of late.
Last weekend we went to the movies. I figured we should see Parasite. I heard it was great and it’s a Korean production. While I’m not Korean. I’m half Chinese and have been mistaken for Korean so thus feel a certain comradery to my fellow Asiatic countrymen.
Landmark Theatre for those of you who don’t know, is primarily an art house theatre. It’s the type of theatre Woody Allen would go to if he could stomach LA (or wouldn’t be hassled about the Soon Yi thing). We took our seats in the crowded theatre. I looked back see a row of the well over 70 crowd. I was relieved. These did not look like the people who would pull out a cell phone mid-movie, a real peeve of mine.
But as soon as the previews ended and Parasite began, an alarm started going off, some cheerful Iphone tune I didn’t recognize. I looked around, surrounded by a sea of seniors and assumed it was someone’s medication alarm. Rick’s mom has her phone set like every two hours. I was sure this alarm was telling some old person to take his or her pills. I got annoyed as the movie started, so annoyed that I couldn’t focus on reading the subtitles. The alarm tune did not stop going off.
I looked behind me to see two couples, both in their 80’s. Yellowed from age white button up shirts tucked into brown high waisted slacks. One guy wore a wool beret. One guy wore a hearing aid. Both wore thick glasses. The woman with them seemed a bit more alert, read younger, with full make up and styled hair, but then maybe they had dragged these guys to the movie, as I had Rick. They were the type of couple I would under normal circumstances have said, “Awwwww, so cute,” But tonight, they were my nemesis. They were ruining this academy award winning foreign movie that was surely riddled with meaning that required complete concentration to fully comprehend.
I turned around and glared.
“Someone needs to turn their alarm off,” I said accusingly.
One of the guys glanced at me, so I assumed he was the perp. The other guy didn’t hear me so either he was ignoring me or didn’t have his hearing aid turned up since we were in a subtitled movie. No one moved.
“Uugh, old people,” I snarled to Rick.
“Give it a minute, I’m sure it will go off,” he assured me.
“But I could miss something important. Already I don’t know what’s going on,” I said.
“The movie only started two minutes ago. You didn’t miss anything,” he assured me.
I highly doubted that. I saw two Ushers standing in the corner of the theatre. I stood up in my seat and waved my arms, “Hello! Help!”
Half the theatre turned to look at me at me.
“Rick,” I said, “See how annoyed everyone is at the phone?”
“I think they might be annoyed with you, honey” he said.
“Ha, ha,” I said.
Two Ushers rushed over, one twenty something large dark-haired kid with a smattering of acne who’s shirt was half tucked in. He was accompanied by an intense looking red headed girl, hair pulled back neatly into a ponytail with a part so straight you just knew she put effort into it. I decided to focus on her.
“Okay, someone’s alarm is going off.” I began giving a few quick head jerks to indicate I suspected the old men behind me.
“Yes, I can hear it,” she agreed.
I smiled, vindicated.
She stood up and looked around. The theatre was dark and the movie was going but she turned on her tiny flashlight like a cop and proceeded to walk the length of the entire row behind me shining the light around everyone and saying, “phone. There’s a phone going off,”
I turned back just to see her flashlight reflect off a pair of the glasses of one of the old guys behind me as she stood over them accusingly.
Thank goodness we weren’t in Jojo Rabbit I thought to myself but then the evil voice in my head said, hey, if someone can’t hear their own alarm go off, they shouldn’t be seeing movies in theatres,”
I shrugged, self-righteous, maybe that voice was right.
The type A usher girl came back and leaned over to me.
“I couldn’t find it,” she said, genuinely frustrated.
“What?! But I can hear it,” I said.
“I can hear it too,” she agreed, “it’s right near you,”
“Yes,” I agreed, “it’s got to be someone behind me.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to do,” she said.
“It’s okay, I’ll handle it,” I said.
I turned around, “Look,”I said loudly,”There’s a phone going off. It’s ruining the film for all of us. Can you all check your bags? Somone needs to shut it off,”
The movie had been running almost ten minutes by now. People were pretty annoyed. This time, possibly at me.
Ricky turned to me, “Can’t you just tune it out? It’s not like you can’t hear what’s going on. It’s subtitled,” he pointed out.
“Fine,” I said.
As if on cue, someone from another row started snoring so loudly it tuned out the sound of any phone going off.
The movie ended. After the credits stopped, I turned to Rick.
“That alarm is still going off. Can you believe it?” I said getting up. I picked up my purse and noticed the sound had gotten markedly louder. It was coming from my purse. I guess I didn’t remember programming that ring.
“Yes, actually I can,” said Rick.
“Oops,” I said.
I’d like to say I skipped my THC that night, but I didn’t.
The next day Elyse came up to me. I was kind of sad that I was feeling like I was losing my mind and my looks.
“By the way mom, when I said you looked a lot older and dad didn’t, I didn’t mean to insult you,” Elyse said.
“It’s okay, honey. Maybe I haven’t aged as well and that’s okay,” I said.
“That wasn’t what I meant, mom. It’s just that dad already looked really old in the picture from ten years ago so he didn’t change as much,” Elyse said, “Dad looks way older than you, way.”
Suddenly I didn’t care that I couldn’t even tell when my own phone ringer was going off.
Hmm, It felt good to look good again. Maybe it was time to get a facial too.
LAMBY LOVEY
I’m not that great of a mom. I pretty much hate parks, playing pretend makes me want to shoot myself and I’d rather wipe my daughter’s poopy butt a hundred times over before watching Nickelodeon (at least there is a sense of accomplishment in knowing my child won’t be itchy later)
But that said I’m obsessed with my children. Also, I had a fairly crappy childhood which I am determined to overcompensate for, and most all my decisions are based on guilt. So, if one of my 50 or 78 pound daughters ask me to piggy back her upstairs even though I have 3 bulging discs, my answer is hop on! If my older daughter Elyse wants to practice applying eye-shadow by dragging Maybelline pencils over my crepey lids, stretching them as she goes, I acquiesce. And when my six-year old daughter asks me to be the voice of ‘Lamby Lovey’, I do it, even if it’s in a public place.
Just to be clear, Lamby Lovey is lovey, that tiny soft blanket topped with a decapitated animal head babies sleep with to comfort themselves. Lamby Lovey is pink, Lamby Lovey is lamb. Those are her only defining characteristics.
Because I’ve had a lot of acid problems, not only in my stomach but in my personality, when I do Lamby’s voice, it sounds a lot like a Archie Bunker if he was Jewish and had smoker’s rasp. Lamby Lovey btw is a girl, not just any girl according to my daughter, she is queen of our house, even though she is zero years old. In Lamby Lovey world, I am known as ‘The Lady,’(and not in a polite tone of voice). My husband Rick is known as “Grey-Haired Man” and my older daughter Elyse is called ‘The’ because Elyse was too much a pain for her to pronounce. My family’s purpose, in Lamby Lovey land, is to serve her, because she is the queen. So when Lamby wants to wear my prized flower shaped gold earrings, Lamby does. When Lamby wants to wear Serena’s best dress to picnic on the dirt, she can.
This is what brings an adorable smile to my little angel’s face every morning after she drops Lamby Lovey in my lap before I’ve even had coffee.
“Make Lamby talk Mommy,” coos Serena.
“Hey Lady…why are you just lying around? Where are my pancakes? Where is my crown? How have you not been fired?” I say, trying to sound as demanding as possible.
Basically, Lamby is the bitchy self-deprecating voice of my ego for whom nothing is good enough. As an adult I usually only hear it screaming internally, but with Lamby, there are no holds barred.
“Hey, Lady…why haven’t you finished your book yet? You’ve been working on it for years,” Lamby screeched to me after Serena asked Lamby why I wasn’t done.
“It’s hard to finish a book when you fly into my face and demand I make you yet another new castle with one of the hundred Amazon boxes in the garage,” I say.
Serena giggles, “Lamby is so funny.”
“Isn’t she though?” I say sardonically to Serena.
This is followed by an “I heard that, Lady!” in Lamby’s rueful rasp.
LAMBY AT THE MART
This past x-mas break was challenging to me for numerous reasons,
- I have not been working much which for me equals feeling like a loser
- We were not going out of town, which meant I would be home with my two kids constantly as my kids never want to leave the house. They are the biggest homebodies, (aside from my husband) I’ve ever met. Seriously they would stay home for days and never change out of their pajamas or bathe if we let them. For me, wanting to stay home for days, unbathed would mean it was time to whip out the Lexapro. But to them it’s heaven.
- We are in a rental house with bad lighting and no playroom space.
So, on the third day of not leaving the house (after I had dressed up 50 stuffed animals in human clothes and baked at least three disturbingly bright neon colored cakes with my kids) Elyse was on a playdate and I had to put my foot down to my younger daughter, Serena.
“We’re going to Country Mart for lunch” I told her forcibly. I couldn’t take being home anymore and frankly did not want to clean up another kale and cracker covered carpet and chocolate smeared couch cushion.
“No,” she said, “Please mommy, I don’t want to go.”
“But you can ride the Merry-Go-Round,” I offered. Mind you the Merry-Go-Round at the Country Mart is one of those small eat your quarters rides that is broken 90 percent of the time and only lasts 20 seconds when it is working.
“I really want to stay home and play Calico Critters,” pled Serena.
I felt the hairs on my arms raise. Calico Critters not only meant playing pretend with thumb sized often mouth-less animals for what would feel like an eternity, but also having to dress their tiny bodies in button up dresses with my large pre-maturely arthritic fingers. I had to get out of this.
“Come on, you can get chicken nuggets,” I pled.
For the record, I don’t even like eating at the Country Mart. I only chose it because they are one of the two places with food my 6 year-old likes. Rosti, for their white bean soup, and the country mart for their overpriced hormone filled chicken nuggets.
(this is a massive digression but I only say hormone filled because I asked the guy at the take out counter and thinking this was an upscale sort of outdoor mall, assumed the popular chicken stand, let’s call it Rooti-chick, would be hormone free…I mean, Rooti-chick is literally next door to the GOOP, and I was pretty sure Gwyneth would have screened every place of consumption for at least a square mile around her flagship for anything remotely un-Erewhon friendly….. Anyhow, I asked the guy working there, and he was like “Yes, of course our chicken has hormones. How do you think they’re all completely identical?” He then showed me plastic tubes of whole chickens, sure enough they were totally identical. Then off my horrified expression added, “What’s wrong with hormones? I think a few hormones are good for you.”)
Back to the story….
“It’s not your choice,” I said taking back some of my self-respect and power, “….And mommy will buy you a toy,”
“Okay,” conceded Serena, “but Lamby has to come”
“Fine,” I said, not really thinking through what I had just agreed to.
We went to the Country Mart and got our nuggets. (don’t scoff…I already explained I wasn’t the best mom) before taking a seat facing the circular fire pit as we usually do. This affords us a certain amount of privacy and I was grateful.
“Mommy, I’m bored. Make Lamby talk,” said Serena.
“Mommy’s eating right now honey,” I said jamming a fried estrogen ball into my eager mouth. They were tasty.
“Please, mommy, please?” said Serena holding Lamby Lovey right up to my face. Did I mention Serena was cute? She’s super cute.
I looked around. No one was next to us and the fire pit was huge enclosed feature with a wood roof so no one could see us from the front.
I took Lamby Lovey, cursing myself for not picking a lunch place that served wine.
“Hey, lady,” shrieked Lamby in her low cranky old man’s smokers voice.
I felt the heat of someone looking and turned back to see a table of Moms looking at me with amused smiles. I don’t know that they were being judgy, but they were much younger than me and much better dressed. And their kindergarten aged children were dressed in day clothes and had combed hair. Serena was still in her stained reindeer nightgown…from two days prior. As I said, we’d been home a lot.
“Let’s go to the candy store,” I/Lamby whispered.
“Good idea, Lamby!” giggled Serena and hopped off her seat.
Saved. My plan was to buy her that milk chocolate lady-bug she liked then hustle her home where I could embarrass myself in private.
There was one person ahead of us at the candy store. A couple other kids came in after. No problem. How long could that take? This was very much a local store and generally people knew what they wanted. Or else I’d never seen a situation otherwise. But something didn’t feel right about this guy. Maybe it was the way he didn’t acknowledge Serena and the two other wiggly kids in there with their parents waiting to buy their one piece of gum or whatever. Maybe it was the way his button up shirt was tucked into his jeans and he had a very straight part in his conservative hair that implied he cared about such things. Whatever, how long could buying candy take?
“Hmm. What do you think of the chocolate almond cluster?” hair part man asked the sweet faced twenty-year old counter girl who I doubted had ever tried it.
“It’s good,” she said unconvincingly.
“I guess I’ll take one of those,” he said thoughtfully then began slowly stalking the candy case with his arms folded behind his back surveying every delicacy.
“Is that all?” the counter girl asked.
“No. No I’ll be getting a box,” said the hair-part man.
And then they methodically started to inquire about every piece of candy in that case and picking and choosing one of each. Serena’s ladybug chocolate started to melt in her palm, but other than that, she was waiting patiently.
“Mommy, please make Lamby talk,” she asked.
“There’s a lot of people in here honey,” I said looking from the two seven-year old boys who were trying to reach the candy corn on the second shelf, their handsome west side father who appeared to have no belly fat beneath his white James Purse tee-shirt shifted impatiently from foot to foot. Next to him, stood an attractive woman in dark Celine sunglasses covering what I imagined to be her rolling eyes. Meanwhile, hair part man was pondering the extensive dried fruit section.
I took Lamby out of Serenas hands and in full smoker voice volume said, “Hey Lady! What the heck? What’s taking so long in here?”
Serena giggled, “Lamby is funny, Mommy,”
The hair-part guy glanced at me, then as if I were a crazy street person that was safer to ignore, kept on with his questions. “Would you recommend dark or milk chocolate with the apricot,” he queried to the counter girl who watched as the other family walked out.
“Serena,” I said in my raspy lamb voice as I held Lamby up to her face, “Maybe we should blow this pop stand and get some ice cream,”
“Did Lamby say that or you, mommy?” she asked.
“Um, Lamby?”
“Make Lamby say we’re staying,” Serena said adamantly.
Seriously? I thought to myself.
“What’s the deal?”croaked Lamby,“How hard is it to decide which blob of chocolate to get? Even I know it’s all tastes good and I’m a stuffy. I’m going to be a full-grown sheep by the time we get out of here.”
I could see hair part guy’s shoulders tighten.
“It’s so nice to come here once a year when I visit Los Angeles to get my favorite chocolate,” hair part guys said tightly to the counter girl who was oblivious to any tension.
And then I felt bad. Here this guy was on his special trip, maybe a vacation he took once a year perhaps specifically to get his favorite chocolate.
“Hey, Serena,” I said in my regular voice, “Choosing chocolate is a big deal. Let’s give this guy some time.”
“I know, Mommy,” said Serena, “I can wait…” and then Serena motioned for me to bend down so she could whisper in my ear, “but you know how Lamby can be, not very patient.”
“Oh, right,” I said to Serena and then turned Lamby to me and spoke to Lamby.
“You need to chill, Lamby,” I said.
“Don’t tell me to chill, Lady?” I/Lamby shrieked to myself, “Just who do you think’s the boss here?”
I was quiet.
“Lamby is,” Serena said with a smile then licked the now melted chocolate ladybug off her sweaty palm.
Last night I went to my 30 year reunion. Originally, I wasn’t planning on going. I was basically a loser in high school (of the partying- skip-school-as-much-as-possible variety because I didn’t fit in) I didn’t want to see most people when I was in high school. Why would I go out of my way to see them now?
A few reasons. First of all, an old friend texted me as asked if I was going. That’s basically all it took. I had reconnected with Carina a year ago and she was as cool as I remembered her to be from when we were tight…back in 5th grade.
(Carina sawed a hair knot the sized of a softball off the back of my head with a butcher knife when were were 10 because we couldn’t find a scissors. I hadn’t quite figured out that while I may not see the back of my head-hair, other people did. I should have brushed it. Anyhow, she didn’t pierce my skull with that knife, so in my heart, I knew she liked me)
Secondly, I was curious. How did people turn out? Were the popular girls still going to be hot? Or at least thin?
Thirdly, the reunion was ten minutes from my house and started at 6 pm, early bird special time. I could definitely be home in time to partake in my original plan; to watch a Death in Paradise while eating a Skinny Cow ice cream in bed.
At 5:30 PM, I met Carina and another girl, Janet (who was hot and popular at the time and thus I never hung out with) at a dark bar before the actual event. I walked in a little nervous. Would I feel left out..on the periphery of the clique as I always had in high school? I didn’t. Maybe age levels the playing field, or maybe I’m too tired to play but I felt comfortable and connected immediately. And I mean even before I drank my straight tequila. And they looked exactly the same. Maybe taller, but seriously, like exactly the same. And while the bar was dark and my eyes are bad, it was impressive. They were both still gorgeous. Fit bodies, wrinkle free skin, real-chick authentic energy.
We Ubered to the main event which was at a breakfast joint, made even more casual because it was actually staged outside in the parking lot.
I walked into a group of people whom I mostly didn’t recognize. Thank G*d for name tags. It’s always odd seeing grown up versions of people you associate as kids. But it’s even a little more odd seeing old grown up versions. A lot of the women looked great. A lot of the men had bellies. There was a lot of hugging going on. There was a lot of small talk which I found hard to concentrate on while trying to jog my memory back 30 years as to how I knew the person and whether I liked them. My memory sucks (except for remembering what people ate..total waste of brain space). I can barely remember people I met last year, let alone saw around campus 30 years ago.
Everyone brought up the 20 year reunion and how fun it was. Three people asked me why I didn’t come to the 20 year reunion.
“I don’t know,” I said, “I wish I did. It sounded fun,”
It wasn’t until Sean Bearson, a smart ginger haired guy I knew in elementary school came up to me,
“Hey, where’s your husband? I really enjoyed talking to him at the 20 year,”
I realized I was there and I was almost 8 months pregnant at the time.
I didn’t know what was more disturbing, being so unmemorable that the majority of people didn’t know I was there. Or being so unmemorable that I wasn’t sure I was there either.
I went in to get a drink. The first thing I see inside the restaurant is my daughters 4th grade teacher. He’s a young handsome guy who always tucks his shirt in. He’s the guy you know all the girls have crushes on. He was sitting at a table with a friend.
I smile and wave and bound over in tequila heightened friendliness and give him a big hug. I could feel him stiffen. Awkward.
“Oh my G*d, this is so crazy! I’m here for my 30 year high school reunion and you’re here too! What are the odds?”
He smiled, both friendly and uncomfortable.
“Congratulations,” he said.
“For what? Being fucking old?” I asked, then laughed uproariously before absorbing the slightly shocked and taken aback expressions on my daughters beloved teacher and his friend.
“Um, I’ll let you get back to your, uh, your thing. Sorry for interrupting” I added while stepping away with my tail between my legs.
I went to the bar to order more tequila (because I’m smart like that) but low and behold they only served beer and wine (seriously? Don’t these organizers know that women my age don’t have the enzymes to process red wine and the metabolism to drink beer?)
I took my giant glass of Shoju, and went back outside to gain some distance from the teacher. Okay, I said to myself. Let’s see what’s going on in these peoples lives. This should be fun.
And it was…and kind of depressing too.
Here were the following topics of discussion
Breast cancer
Traffic
Housing prices in LA and how no one could afford them.
Trump
Being tired.
I decided to head back to Carina and Janet, the girls I came with and felt like life was normal around. Jerry, jovial, articulate and one of the peeps throwing this reunion joined us in our huddle. We all hugged even though I had zero recollection of who he was. He didn’t notice because he was too busy staring at Janet. But he did speak to me, albeit while looking at Janet.
“You know Janet was the love of my life,” he said.
Janet shifted uncomfortably, then added, “Yeah, we used to make out behind the PE building before school. Can you imagine your daughter’s doing that?” She said to me.
“No, I can’t imagine my daughter’s arriving at school early enough too,” I said.
Jerry turned to me, “You want to hear a funny story?” He asked.
“Um, sure,” I said surprised he wanted to tell me a story but happy to hear something funny after the last conversations I’d had.
“So back in high school I was supposed to go see Janet at her house and my cousin was supposed to drive me,” Jerry started.
“Uh, huh,” I said thinking this story is not going to be funny.
“And my cousin couldn’t. I can’t remember why. But I couldn’t get to Janet so l called her and I was all upset so I was crying. Because you know, I really wanted to see her,”
“Uh, huh,” I said.
“And then she broke up with me. She said I was too serious about her,” Jerry laughed, or was it a yelp?
“And then she started dating a gangster guy,” he said looking at Janet who nodded.
“Yeah, I mean, he didn’t carry a gun, but yeah,” she said.
“And I used to watch them,” Jerry continued, “Seeing the woman I love not being treated well,”
“Um, not to interrupt but you kind of sold this story as funny but it doesn’t sound like it has a happy ending,” I said.
“Oh but it does because Janet ended up meeting the man of her dreams who she married,” said Jerry, a little shaky.
Okay, this exchange was more depressing than the breast cancer girls. I mean at least their stories ended on an upbeat, appreciate life note. One even commented that she was lucky because insurance covered her boob job.
I Ubered home soon after that interaction. I was happy I went. It was nice to see this group of people who used to intimidate me as just people…everyone with their own challenges and accomplishments, everyone more or less, content to be alive and with each other.
Maybe cute teacher was right to congratulate me. That and at least I’m not Jerry.
**names have been changed to protect the innocent…
So, some of you may recall the first time I got mistaken for a grandma…The Scene; TraderJoes on a weekday morning i.e, completely inhabited by moms with small children and senior citizens, the culprit; a 70 year old woman in a Raider’s baseball cap and maroon tracksuit… the victim; me, 42, admittedly looking haggard in ill fitting sweats, with Serena, my fresh faced 9 month old screaming in my cart.
“Oooh, your grand baby is so cute!”
That incident spiraled me out….straight to the dermatologist anyhow.
And really it was more the nudge that pushed me over the vanity edge….not the entire shove. I am an old mom, relatively speaking. I know that. Sort of. When I’m not in denial of the fact. And it’s hard to be in denial when you’re forced to interact with perky 29 year old moms at preschool on a regular basis.
Naturally, I went to a nurse and I got some Botox. And then I got some filler. And while the process scared the shit out of me (needles being jammed deeper in my face than seemed possible without hitting bone)…and cost a small fortune which I justified as a ‘business expense’ (ageism), I did think I looked better. So I decided this was just something modern women needed to do.
I’d always known there was a ‘chance’ of getting a bruise or maybe having an eyelid droop down over my pupil for a month but hey, there were pirate patches for that and feeling moderately attractive (or further from that dreaded age where carrying a fancy purse seemed like a necessity for requesting decent tables at restaurants) . But then 5 years later, one of my closest friends (and fellow mature mom) told me about a woman she knew, whose kids went to the same school as mine did, who lived blocks away from her, who got some filler near her eye and was blinded, permanently, 70% in one eye by one of the best docs in the city, because apparently that happens and more than I thought, even though I’d signed several release forms at the various medical facilities I’d been to, detailing just that risk. The kicker was, SHE WAS 31. I mean, at 31 I thought popping a pimple was invasive.
That was it. I was done. No more filler for me. My eyes had already deteriorated to the point where I needed readers to work the toaster oven. And that’s without actively blinding myself. I was done. Vanity be damned.
Besides, I was well aware that at this point in my life, the cute guy in the coffee shop was not looking at me, but trying to read the menu above my head. Filler or no filler. And I understood that yes, I should probably give away the mini-skirts that took up a small bar in my closet because no one really wants to see crepe-y knee skin and injections did nothing for that either.
I also know that at age 47, in most of the world, I should be a grandma because most people have children before they start experiencing menopausal symptoms.
But what I know and what I feel rarely match up.
And, my skin care regimen is better now than it was five years ago. I exfoliate. Don’t scoff. Exfoliation is huge when you’ve got like 12 layers of old skin sitting on top of each other all grey looking and flakey.
Perhaps because of my excellent exfoliation regime, (and I the poor lighting in my bathroom). I was genuinely surprised when it happened again.
I was in Hawaii with my family. Having improved my skin care, I was more careful about sun exposure. I slathered on enough zinc oxide to frost a wedding cake. I knew I probably didn’t look my best, the last thing I thought was that I looked old. I mean, between my extra large round black sunglasses and white sun-block face mask, I believed I could pass for 20….or 45…maybe?
We were on the beautiful, humid, and thus skin plumping island of Kauai by the hotel pool. I was walking my 5 year old and 9 year old to the bathroom when we happened to pass a table where a full-sized Hawaiian lady in a pair of large shorts and a floral printed tube top sat camped out with a slew of supplies for making leis. Her bare foot rested proudly on top of the table as she was using her big toe to hold a loop of tea leave strands she was twisting into necklaces. Her skin was plump and wrinkle free. It even had a sheen or youth, or perhaps sweat. but a few random strands of grey poked out to frame her smiling, ‘don’t mess with me, bitch’ face.
Next to her, a bland looking tourist mom in horn rimmed glasses and khaki slacks sat with her 8 year old son. They were deeply focused on sticking plumeria into a necklace of twisted tea leaves.
I turned to the lei maker.
“Those lei’s are gorgeous. Could my DAUGHTERS make one?” I asked.
“That’s why I’m here,” she smiled, leaning back next to her her large sign that read, Complimentary Lei Making, TIPS ACCEPTED.
“Great. They’ll be right out of the bathroom,” I said taking a seat.
Another mother came by with her kids. She was blonde and fit with deep crows feet next to her eyes even when she didn’t smile. I liked her immediately for that. Her kids were about my kids age, and half-Asian to boot.
I smiled that super big, super warm ‘hello sister who also chose to have mixed race kids over the age of 37’ smile I made to moms I judged to be around my age and thus a potential friend of mine.
She sort of smiled back as she took a seat at the other end of the table for 8. Hmph. Maybe she was intimidated because I was probably younger than her.
My kids returned from the bathroom and I motioned for them to come over.
“Here you go,” said the lei maker laying down a handful of the most stunning magenta plumeria I’d ever seen.
“I’m cold MAMMA,” said 5-year old Serena as she sat down shivering, still soaking wet from the pool.
“I’ve got a towel right here bubu,” I said picking up all 45 pounds of her, like a mother would and wrapping her up like a towel burrito.
Elyse, 9, followed right after and plopped herself down next to Serena. The lei maker tossed her a tea leaf necklace. I’d like to say my daughter’s said thank you, but well, you get the picture.
“You want to do one?” She asked me.
“I’d love to,” I said gratefully taking the tea leaf necklace she tossed to me. Ah, lei maker thinks I’m a local girl. We’re friends.
“So,” said lei maker, eyes scanning me from head to toe as she tossed me some plumeria after the necklace. “These are your grandkids, huh,” she said motioning to Elyse and Serena.
I froze. Was she joking? Was she a moron? Elyse looked up and flared her eyes a bit. She knew I was sensitive about my age.
“No, no these are my children,” I corrected in as even a voice as I could muster.
I didn’t look at the lei maker, instead I turned to the other moms expecting support. I flared my eyes for a moment at the one with the crows feet and the mixed kids expecting her to mouth What a bitch, or perhaps get up and say, I’ve never heard anything so shocking and rude in my life. Or shake her head with empathy and smile?
But blonde-crows feet didn’t even look up. Come on, sister old mom. I stared at her for a good 30 seconds willing her to look back. Nothing. Neither she, nor the odd bird in the khakis despite it being 90 degrees one made one moment of eye contact with me.
I tried to calm myself. This sweet lei maker just made a mistake. It was innocent. Let it go.
“Oh,” said the lei maker with a smile, “you must have had them really old, then.”
I did not just hear that. I turned again to the other moms. Surely I’d get a reaction for this one.
But no! Neither of them glanced my way. And there was no way they didn’t hear this. Hawaiian lei maker had a booming loud voice.
Serena didn’t notice. She was far too focused on sticking flowers into the her toe braided tea leaves to notice Mommy suffering. The only person who even dared look at me was Elyse who mouthed “dang”.
“Heh, heh,” I pushed out a laugh to mask my pain.
What the f**k??? Seriously? I thought really loudly. Those words were like twisting the knife. What was her deal? Did she want to be right more than polite? If so, she shouldn’t be working at a resort where people pay $12 for a glass of coconut water because it was supposed to come with an umbrella and a smile.
I wanted to get up. I wanted to leave. I wanted to look in the mirror to see if something happened to my face in the last hour that aged me horrifically. But my girls really liked these leis.
I felt anger welling. Why was I hearing this again? Why was I being singled out? Was this some sort of message from the powers that be? Were they telling me not to be such a chicken shit and go back to the derm? Hmmm. Somehow that didn’t seem likely.
I inhaled deeply. I wanted to take the high road. Michele Obama said to after all.
But while she had to deal with a racism, political unrest, being constantly scrutinized by a nation, and teenage daughters, I doubted anyone had called her the ‘G’ word (grandma)
That was it. I could feel the primitive rage taking over. I turned to the lei maker as my kids were finishing up.
“Um, I don’t have any cash on me to tip you. I’m going to have to get to my room to get it and come back,” I said with attitude. It was actually true too. I mean who brings cash to a pool anyhow? But had she not called me Grandma I would have run up to our room while my kids were making leis.
Me and my kids walked back to the lounge chairs where my husband sat also coated in zinc oxide reading a book on physics on his iPad.
I told him what happened.
“Just tell her you were too busy attending college to have kids as young as her,” said Rick, uncharacteristically catty.
“It’s okay. I said my piece,” I said self righteously.
I did not get that woman’s tip money… till like the very end of the day.
I have a new article in the Feb issue of Oprah. Please check it out.
moniquebarry 