Thank You for Asking

1K

Youngest has just told me in a pleasant, informative tone, apropos of nothing, that I am mean and Beloved is nice.  He must have noticed the look on my face, because he amends this to, “well, you are nice, but Daddy is nicer.”  Youngest is not without compassion.  He pats my hand in a benevolent manner and charges off for some serious Lego building.  As I finally finish my unpacking from the trip we returned from a week ago, I ponder why I am mean.  First of all, my room is a mess, and I’m in a bad mood.  I’ve been using my suitcase as my closet, picking out whatever happens to be on top to be my outfit for the day.  Why is it if you don’t unpack the second you get home the bags just become permanent fixtures at the place where they were dropped?  Or maybe that’s just mean old lazy me.  I tell myself it’s because I just put others needs before my own, but that doesn’t entirely work, and I drop this line of reasoning fairly quickly.  Maybe Youngest is mad because we went away for 10 days…maybe children are like dogs and they punish you for leaving them.  Even that doesn’t wholly ring true.  My children love Rowena so much that they keep asking, hopefully, if we have any more travel plans in the near future.  I think back to our blissful trip celebrating our biggie wedding anniversary.  Is it possible it was only two weeks ago that we started out?  Life seemed so full of promise then.  Excitement was in the air.  It was if anything could and would happen.  

It all came about because Beloved and I were invited to go to a birthday party being celebrated in Italy by some super-glamorous friends of ours.  Beloved is nothing if not resourceful and quickly jumped on the opportunity to have a ready-made celebration.  The fact that it was for someone else’s birthday and not our wedding anniversary he conveniently skipped over and I didn’t care…  

 I haven’t been on a trip without my children for so long I am excited by the prospect of being on a plane for 10 hours with just Beloved.  I imagine us having long conversations covering all the topics we never seem to have time for at home.  I know this is not to be the case when an hour into the flight I realize the very serious-looking Beloved is actually playing Wurdle on his iPhone and not doing the necessary and serious work he said he had to do if he was to, “take all this time off!!”  I don’t really care though, because for the first time in a long time, I am going to be the passenger without noisy, messy, kicking-the-seat in-front-of-them children.  Beloved has sprung for seats at the front of the bus (with miles that were about to expire, but who’s counting).  I find myself irrationally hoping there will be a crying child on the flight I can give stern looks to and exhale noisily about.  There isn’t a noisy child (sadly) but there is a very noisy and proud adult male passenger.  He embarks wearing gray sweatpants and slippers (Beloved says they are just practical and comfortable shoes but I disagree).  He has his Personal Air Ionizer looped around his neck and instructs his poor mousy bullied wife, also in sweat pants and slippers, to follow his lead…he is a 1K!!!  I kick Beloved in a humorous, “getta load of this guy” way but Beloved returns his usual firm, “mind your own business” look.  Easier said than done...I become obsessed with 1K.  It isn’t hard as everything he says is obviously meant for the rest of the plane to hear.  While Beloved and I are gobbling up the salty toasty nuts and downing champagne, 1K snatches the champagne glass out of poor wife’s eager hands and gives the nuts back to the flight attendant, saying the salt will make you bloat and the champagne will de-hydrate you.  EVERYONE knows you don’t drink on a flight.  It makes the effects twice as strong (Beloved and I look at each other thinking isn’t that precisely the point?).  When the flight attendant comes around to ask for our dinner order, 1K says, loudly, “my wife and I have pre-ordered the vegetarian low-sodium option…AS I USUALLY DO.”  Beloved and I tuck into the filet mignon smothered in salty gravy and decide we’ll follow our white wine with a nice glass of Bordeaux.  We hear 1K tell his wife it’s time to stand up and stretch and to take their one tablet of aspirin for blood circulation, for AS MUCH AS HE FLIES he really has to be careful with his blood circulation.  They do their deep-knee bends and side stretches, and I begin to realize the flight may not be long enough for all the activities I want to cover.  As I look at my pile of People, In-Style, Star and In-Touch, the Georgette Heyer novel I’ve been waiting to start, the two movies I’d like to watch and the ice-cream cart they’re just starting to come around with, I hear 1K tell poor wife, “NOW IT’S TIME FOR US TO GO TO SLEEP!”  I can see her look longingly at The Proposal but 1K has already plopped her seat down and thrust eye shades in her hands.  He’s still talking as she drifts off telling her how when they arrive they will take a brisk walk in the sun, have a light dinner then early to bed so they can immediately recalibrate to Italian time.   

 I look fondly at a now bleary-eyed Beloved who’s saying, “yes, of course I’d like to try a glass of port” and realize even after all these years we still have so much in common.  I reach over and steal his phone so he’ll be forced to talk to me if I decide I need to, but for now I happily settle in to reading about who Jennifer Anniston is dating, how much Lindsay Lohan weighs and what the adoption rate is up to with Angelina and Brad (I still don’t approve).  I’m feeling ever so nice…if only Youngest was here to see me.                                    

Topshop

Apparently it’s not business as usual in our household.   I had determined it was time to return to a relatively normal usage of our funds and was acting accordingly, before Beloved informed me otherwise.  So I’m down-sizing yet again.  I no longer shop at Barneys, Neiman Marcus, et al.  BUT, I have discovered the best thing ever…TopShop on line.  Everything is super cheap and super fashionable and some of it is designed by Kate Moss.  Now, some unkind souls (Barb, are you listening) might say, “haven’t you just had a birthday?  Do you really think you are the gal Kate Moss is designing for?”  To that, I will quote my super-stylish friend who lives in New York (so should know) who says in regard to dressing “don’t be a bore be a whore.”  So, tout suite, I order the most marvelous pair of thigh high, black leather platform boots.  They are a mere $190.  It’s a win-win.  In 5-7 business days I will be full on ho (well…maybe a stylish ho that’s learned restraint).   

In a sad case of bad timing, in 5-7 business days I am out for the day doing something really important.  I don’t arrive home until late.  I walk in the door and confront the biggest box I have ever seen.  It has stickers all over it and just reeks of money having been spent on it.  Who knew TopShop actually shipped from the UK??  And my thighs are not that high!  Is it necessary to ship one measly pair of boots in that humongous box?!  I look around wildly to determine if Beloved is home yet.  He is.  He and Middle are playing dominoes in the living room, but luckily Beloved’s back is to the foyer where the box sits.  I start to slide the box into the dining room where it will not be seen but am stopped by Beloved shouting out, “where have you been all day?”  I mumble something about “kids” and “charity” and “feeding the homeless takes time!” then high-tail it to my office to re-group.   I deep breathe, telling myself I can get through this.  Now think dammit think!  If only I can get the box to the dining room I will be home free.  I won’t be forced into having vaguely guilty feelings, as I dimly remember swearing I would absolutely not buy anything unnecessary (which I didn’t, not really…thigh-high boots are the must-buy of the season!!!).   

I peek out of my office into the living room.  Beloved’s back looms large and stern.  Middle is busy counting by fives but looks up a little curiously as I do a shoulder roll into the foyer to try to gain possession of the box.  I don’t want Middle to think Beloved and I are not on the same page, so I finish off the shoulder roll with some innocent-looking stretches.  When I think Middle is no longer looking, I pull my body forward with my forearms, military-style. Middle looks up suddenly, wrinkles his brow and opens his mouth to say something inconvenient.   I make a wild slashing motion at my throat.  I will give him the, “mommies and daddies don’t always have to agree on everything” speech later.  Finally, I make it to the box.  I flip on my back and slowly and quietly push the box with my feet towards the dining room.  I am aaalllmmmooosssttt there when I hear Beloved say, “your thigh-high boots were delivered from the UK today.”  I freeze mid-push as Beloved turns around.  He and Middle both stare at me lying prone on the floor.  I put my hands behind my head and start doing sit-ups with an intense but innocent, “no time like the present to work on those abdominal muscles” look.  “What darling?” I huff.  “What the hell are you doing?” he queries.  “I think Mommy’s trying to get in shape for her thigh-high boots” Middle helpfully proposes.  How the hell do they know about my thigh-high boots???  Just then I notice the tape flapping on the box.  “We were all so excited to get such a special-looking box we opened it to see what it was” Beloved says trying to suppress a smile.  Finally Middle and Beloved let it all out and collapse with laughter.  “Mommy, don’t you think those are a little…inappropriate?” Middle suggests after he and Beloved are finished back-slapping themselves in mutual hilarity.  “Not if I wear them with a suitably severe dress with just a hint of leg and arms fully covered!”  I respond shrilly feeling ganged up on and just a little ridiculous.  “Well, whatever you think best dear (dear?).  You’re the ‘fashion expert.” They go back to their dominoes game, and I’m left staring at my super-big box.  I exhale noisily and march into the kitchen to get the wrapping tape.  I am not 100% convinced this was not a ruse cooked up by Beloved to shame me into returning my purchase, but one thing I do know…I will not be wearing thigh-high boots this season.  Sigh.

 
 

                      

OCD

“I’m going out!  Do you want anything??!!”  Beloved yells up the stairs.  “Ooh, I’d love a cappuccino!” I respond excitedly.  …after a long pause he finally responds, “I will get it for you, but I am NOT going through the whole rigamarole!!”  That is so like Beloved.  He makes everything difficult.    All I want is a cappuccino…heavy on the foam…but NOT milky like a latte.  And don’t tell me to order a “wet” cappuccino because that puts you at the mercy of the judgment of the person making the coffee.  The foam should be thick NOT bubbly and airy…a good way to judge the consistency of the foam is to stand the wooden stirring stick in the foam…if the stick falls or tilts the foam is NOT thick enough.  I’ve explained this trick to Beloved a dozen times, but he always forgets.  I generally put one (brown NOT white) packet of sugar in my small (NOT “tall”, because I would NEVER go to Starbucks) cappuccino except, I think the quality control of the sugar packets have been slipping.  I’m pretty sure the amount of sugar in each packet is not standardized.  Sometimes I have to add just a touch of sugar from an additional packet…it really is hard to tell, though I’m getting fairly good at being able to judge by the weight of the sugar packet itself.  Beloved was a math major, so I don’t know why this seems SO hard for him.  The other thing, and I know this may sound unreasonable, but I really don’t think it is…some of the people making the coffee just don’t seem to be well-trained.  A good rule of thumb is the more piercings/body tattoos/ or ambivalence of gender…the better the barista.  I once went in to my favorite Peets and they had a woman making coffee that looked like she worked in a diner.  She had a pencil behind her ear, was chewing gum and yelled out at me in a cheery and friendly manner, “Mornin’, what’ll it be?!”   I didn’t go back for weeks.  I’ve explained to Beloved the ONLY one to order from is the guy who paints his fingernails black and wears wooden ear-lobe stretchers.  I can make do with the woman in Kabuki make-up or in a pinch the young boy with the Russian (not the Romanian one) accent.  And if it’s the Asian guy who wears cowboy shirts just turn yourself right around and walk straight on out. 

It’s all fairly straightforward!                       

Parmesan Cheese

The all-boys school Youngest and Middle attend is just around the corner from our home.  It is a lovely school and very convenient.   However, it has been plagued for years with an elitist reputation (absolutely undeserved!).  To remedy this we now do things such as march (with still mostly white faces, alas) with fervor through the streets of Pacific Heights on Martin Luther King Day all hopped up on the centuries of persecution we (er, some) have endured, glaring at anyone insensitive enough to try to squeeze a car through.  The boys study Important Women in History like nobody's business and what our boys don’t know about Buddhism doesn’t need to be known.  One of the most recent changes, however, is the food program.     

Our Food Program has been completely over-hauled, and it is a raging success.  Books have been written about it.  Mothers argue over who single-handedly took on the man and got it changed.  OUR CHILDREN’S LIVES ARE AT STAKE FOR GOD’S SAKE!!  There is nothing plastic or disposable in sight, and the plates, bowls, cutlery and glasses are washed by hand.  There are big bowls of delicious, organic, whole-grain, non-white food and of course everything is composted.  It is a hell of a lot of work for the parents who volunteer to serve.  What used to be a fairly social, standing-around-complaining-about-“class-dynamics” affair is now a hair-net wearing, sleeves-rolled-up, sweaty, working-like-a-cafeteria-lady experience.  With Oldest staying up nights worrying about diminishing top soil I will do whatever I can to relieve his anxiety and leave the world a better place for him and the other boys. 

They give you a list of rules on your first day of lunch duty, and if one transgresses one gets a polite e-mail reminding you of your oath of service.  One of the rules concerns parmesan cheese serving.  Apparently, organic parmesan cheese is expensive.  Left to their own devices the greedy boys would pile it on everything with abandon, so the parents dole it out.  Recently, I was put on parmesan cheese duty.  Taking my job seriously, I tried to be judicious with my helpings, giving enough to make the boys happy but not enough to warrant an e-mail the next morning.  It was all going well until… up he saunters with a careless grin.  He looks at me, and I at him.  I can tell there is going to be trouble, but I ask, in an unconcerned way, “would you like some cheese?”  He says politely, “yes…but I will serve it myself, thank you.”  I (thinking “bring it”) say courteously, “there is no need, I will do it for you.”  He says, with a self-satisfied little chuckle, “Madam (?!), I successfully completed two rigorous years of pre-school, I recited my address and phone number,  the age and date-of-birth of all my family members, I correctly stated what city, state and country I live in, I knew the name of the President, Vice President and Speaker of the House (it is San Francisco after all), I drew a face and body with correct corresponding body parts, and hopped on one foot to get into this school, I think I can serve myself my own cheese."  “Yes my darling” I respond sweetly, “but in this school I serve the goddam cheese!”  It is abruptly quiet.  The suddenly angelic looking 2nd grader says in an injured tone, “that’th okay I jutht won’t have any today” (did he have a lisp before??).  He walks slowly away and I look around at the suddenly hostile faces.  I smile nervously at my fellow cheese server and say, “kids… huh?”  She turns her back.  

They didn’t wait until the next morning to send the e-mail.