Thank You for Asking

Headlines

I use to be a (relatively) normal person (eating issues aside), but once I had kids all hell broke loose.  I was terrified I was not up to the job of caring for my little darlings.  They were so tiny!  So precious!  My guilt and worry grew exponentially with every child I had.  Everything seemed fraught with danger.  I needed to be vigilant at all times!  Out of the various afflictions I developed one of the more annoying ones was the tendency to see tragedy in everyday situations then putting it into newspaper headline format.  Newspaper headlining could sneak up on me at any time.  I was almost unaware I was doing it. 

Last weekend Beloved and Youngest went off on their kindergarten Redwood camping trip.  CAMPING TRIP ENDS IN TRAGEDY FOR FATHER AND SON.  Frankly, I was excited to see them go, as I would have two less to deal with for the weekend.  INEXPERIENCED FATHER AND DEFENSLESS CHILD PUSHED INTO RISKY CAMPING SITUATION BY SELF-CENTERED MOTHER.  I thought maybe I would call Barb and we would have lunch and do a little shopping later.  FATHER AND SON FIGHT FOR THEIR LIVES WHILST MOTHER SPENDS MONEY WITH CARELESS ABANDON.  Later in the evening Oldest said he would babysit Middle, so I decided to meet Micki for a glass of wine.  MOTHER LEAVES CHILDREN UNATTENDED TO GO ON ALCOHOLIC BENDER.  Once I start it’s almost impossible to stop.    

I am nothing if not imaginative.  If not newspaper headlining, I am hearing conversations of acquaintances discussing a terrible fate that has befallen our family.  “They were always such a happy family…right up until the bitter end.  Yes, I heard what happened.  What a disaster.  No, no warning whatsoever!”  I usually end my fantasy with Beloved and me dying a horrible death leaving Oldest to deal with caring for his brothers alone and penniless (those gossipy acquaintances too busy butting into other people’s business to help the poor orphans.) 

Conversationing usually happens when I am feeling particularly pleased with myself.  You know, swanning about, neglectful of the danger around every corner.  If it’s something particularly egregious I may newspaper headline and conversation at the same time.  A friend once gave me a ride home from LA in her family’s private plane.  NON-GREEN WOMAN PLUNGES TO HER DEATH IN PRIVATE PLANE THAT WASN’T EVEN HERS.  “Well you know Miss Thang, (sometimes my conversationalists are inner-city gals) just haaad to get herself on that private plane.  I guess she’s happy now.  No more than she deserves…”           

I don’t like to paint all mothers with my own crazy brush but empirical evidence tells me many mothers suffer from some version of this disorder.  Even sensible Micki is not immune.   When her son hit 8^th grade and started going around on his own a bit more she became obsessed with the idea that he was going to be abducted.  Never mind that in 8^th grade her son was 6’ tall and 170 lbs.  Barb and I tried to tell her that logistically it would be very difficult on   an abductor.  At the very least he would have to round up one or two more abductors to help him do the job, and even then it would be tricky for them to carry off a 6’ tall 170 lb. victim without anyone noticing.  It didn’t matter.  She still lay awake at night worrying about her little pumpkin.

Lest you think I am a crack-pot schizoid (well…I’m not a schizoid) I must say that the happier I and my family are the worse my imagined disasters are.  It is not for me to explain why.  I will leave that up to the professionals…and maybe the pharmaceutical companies.  LOW-DOSE ZOLOFT PROVEN EFFECTIVE IN CURBING DELUSIONS OF ECCENTRIC HOUSEWIVES!

Eating Food

Youngest and I were having a nice conversation about the lunch program at his school.  It is really good.  Mostly organic, mostly local and the children mostly like it.  Youngest has learned so much!  He says it teaches them what real food looks like, tastes like, where it comes from, “and” he says excitedly wiping away the crumbs from his Chips-Ahoy-stuffed-with-Goldfish sandwich, “it makes you prefer healthy food!”  He pauses and looks at me curiously as something occurs to him.  “Mommy, why don’t you ever eat…you know…food?”  “What!” I cry, mouth full of Middle’s pancake remains leftover from breakfast.  I stop fishing in the compost bin for Oldest’s leftover bacon that I’m pretty sure I saw him throw in earlier and present my “you are obviously confused, but mommy will clear it up for you” expression.  I grab my 9^th cup of coffee of the morning and walk over to the kitchen table.  “Darling, of course Mommy eats food.  She eats food all the gosh-darn time!”  I give him a friendly little push to show that I know he is being silly, but I take no offense.  “You eat stuff but you don’t eat what we eat” he answers me un-swayed.

I feel shaken, confused and really hungry.  When did this happen?!  I’m pretty sure I use to be a person who ate meals.  But then again, I use to be a lot of things, didn’t I.  I conjure up an image of myself before my life of servitude to my family began.  Beautiful, super skinny, long dark hair, a smokin’ hot rack, ton of tattoos…no, no…that’s Angelina Jolie.  Anyway, you get my point!  The years have taken their toll on me physically and mentally.  Where do we women get our eating issues from?  When in doubt of where my various bad habits developed from I typically blame my mother.  Now…I am sure it is her fault, but how exactly?  hhmmm….yes…yes….THAT’S IT!  I have a vivid image of her smoking cigarettes, drinking Tab and being THIN!  I shake my head at her blatant disregard for my burgeoning female brain, ripe for picking up mixed messages about female sexuality and body image (could my crippling procrastination be because she drank Tab and smoked cigarettes???   No, best not push my luck). 

  Now that I’ve decided this eating thing is no fault of mine I still must decide how best to deal with it.  I realize I have been trying to deal with it in one form or another for years.  When my sister and I gained our “freshmen 5” we realized we couldn’t drink and eat and maintain our svelte figures, so we decided eating must go.  Sadly, my sister went a little  too far with the premise (as she occasionally does), so we were forced to drop that regime.  Most of my friends are like me, no serious issues, but thoughts of food and how not to eat it takes up a disproportionate amount of our time.  I decide to gather them together, have a round table discussion and try to get to the bottom of the situation.    

With my friends gathered around, drinking Tabs and smoking cigarettes (I inadvertently mentioned it worked for my mother) we launch into our various issues with food.  Micki, taking a huge slug of Tab then blowing a perfect smoke ring, confesses her mother is beautiful, thin and has an engaging personality…I think she need go NO further!  Poor Micki.

Barb, feeling faint from her Blueprint Cleanse, (the cleanse doesn’t allow Tab therefore she is chain smoking so as not to fall behind the rest of us) says maybe we weren’t meant to eat food at all.  She brings up an Indian man that supposedly hasn’t eaten for years and seems to be doing just fine.  We ignore Barb and suspect she may be hallucinating from lack of food.  However, we are pretty sure we recognize the presence of a mother’s influence lurking beneath it all.

Angelica then says something that, quite frankly, blows our minds.  “I was recently introduced to a rather alternative doctor” she whispers.  “Aaahhh” we reply in unison.  Now she’s speaking our language.  There is nothing more exciting than the word “alternative”.  “Now prepare yourselves!”  “Yes yes!  Go on!” we cry.  “Well…he says it is all a matter of…calorie intake and energy output!”  “Wha…??!!...The FRAUD…He’s a monster!...His license should be revoked!...Is he even a medical doctor?!”  Our outrage is overwhelming.  Finally I say, “Listen Angelica, we are trying to have a serious conversation here.  It is all well and good to try these “alternative” whims of yours, but really, let’s try to keep it within the realm of common-sense!  Suitably chastened Angelica lowers her eyes and nods in agreement.

We never really come to any hard conclusions other than we’re pretty sure our eating issues are our mother’s faults, and Tab is really disgusting.  What I have decided to do is something a little crazy, some would even say alternative.  I am going to sit down with my family at every meal, serve myself food and eat it.  I know!  Crazy!           

Couples Massage

My husband is super cute and I love him and everything…but he’s never been the “sit in the bath with candles lit” kind.  Any sort of contrived romantic gestures makes him nervous and he ends up yelling that he is, “not the role-playing type!!”  Frankly, I sort of agree.  Words like “make-love” make me want to gag.  In fact, neither of us can say the words, “make love” without dragging out the vowels (maaake looooooove) and swaying our bodies around.  I know that makes us sound immature and not very sexy, but there it is.

Having said that, Beloved has been known to make the odd romantic-gesture.  When he IM’d me and said he was going to cash in our certificate for a free two night stay at a romantic spa in Napa and if the baby-sitter didn’t cost too much I could go with him, I knew I better jump on it (he denies he asked me like that, but…).  I start to get excited as the day approaches.  Beloved and I haven’t been away alone for a while now.  As I pack all my pretty “weekend away with my husband” gear, I think I could consider sitting in a bathtub with him with candles lit (although the thought makes me laugh a little bit). 

The day finally arrives with both of us feeling a lot of pressure to be super loving and romantic, so we decide to get in a fight to ease the stress.  Luckily, I booked the babysitter for the wrong time allowing Beloved to be self-righteously irate.  We drive away with the two little ones hanging out the upstairs windows, waving scissors and drinking out of bottles that look suspiciously like cleaning-materials.  Oldest (temporary babysitter) is in the basement playing X-box with earphones on.  I re-group and retaliate by pointing out how easy it is to do everything right when one has only oneself to worry about!  I would also be efficient and responsible if I didn’t have to take care of 4 other people as well as myself!! (that is not strictly true as I really wasn’t much better when I was single, but Beloved doesn’t know that!)  Finally, with the fight out of the way, and aaaaabsolutely no expectations of romantic gestures, we begin to actually enjoy ourselves.

We arrive at the spa/hotel and are greeted with a hot towel, a weird drink and VERY effusive staff.  That is saying a lot coming from me.  Beloved refers to me and my family as, “The Gushers.”  You may well imagine Beloved has never “gushed” a day in his life.  The staff all personally introduce themselves, then inquire if our, “drive up was FANTASTIC?!”  We start to answer, but they carry on irrepressibly, “Isn’t it a GLORIOUS day?!  You have picked the absolute BEST weekend to visit us!!”  We feel a little clever at this and begin to murmur modestly that luck had a little something to do w… “NOT to say that EVERY day is not an INCREDIBLE day in The Napa Valley!!”  No, no (at this point only I am answering) that goes without being said, obviously.  I look at Beloved and realize I better get him out of this situation before it starts to go downhill.

After kissing, hugging and promising to get together again soon with the staff, we finally arrive at our room.  It is lovely.  Beloved and I adamantly refuse to acknowledge the candles scattered strategically about, but we both notice the bathtub is made to accommodate two people (with the faucet being placed in the middle).  I think this adds unnecessary stress and think about saying so on the “comments are welcome” form left by my bedside.

While Beloved makes us both a stiff Gin and Tonic (yes, yes, I know we’re in “The Napa Valley”!)  I book the “couples massage” that came with our two night package.  I’m not sure where I stand on “couples massage.”  Knowing us, like I do, I just can’t feel entirely comfortable with the idea, however, free is free so I book us a pre-dinner massage.

The massage room has two beds just close enough to maybe hold hands (if that’s what we’re meant to do) but not without our arms getting tired.  I’m not sure what is supposed to be sexy or romantic about this, but I take comfort in the fact that if I am confused Beloved is downright miserable.  He grumbles non-stop about the whole set-up…that is until the two masseuses enter the picture.  They introduce themselves as Karina and Magda.  It is immediately apparent who is getting who.  Beloved looks Karina in the eye and addresses himself only to her, leaving me with the very capable-looking, mustachioed Magda.  “Now, is there any area that needs special attention?” Karina asks in her sweet Swedish accent.  “Why yes there is actually.  My lower back…yes yes right there.  Mmmm that’s nice…”  Meanwhile, with no further ado, or questions regarding needs I might have the very Russian, Gulag-trained Magda begins going to town on my poor unsuspecting body.  It is all I can do not to cry out in pain, but it seems wrong to interrupt the special bond that is forming between Beloved and Karina.  Neither of them bother to lower their voices and there is nothing in their demeanor to show they have any awareness of the torture being inflicted not two feet away from them.  After Karina has determined that yes, in fact Beloved does work-out and she communicates to him that, ah, she thought as much, I begin to hope the conversation might slow down or at least lower its pitch to where someone somewhere will hear my quiet whimpers of pain.  Sadly, that is not to be my fate.  At one point, I think their conversation may have come to an end, but at that exact moment Magda whips off my towel, tosses me over, using only one arm and slaps a super hot towel on my face.  In the split second before the towel scalds my corneas I realize two things.  One, Magda clearly does not take advantage of the excellent depilatory services the spa offers, and Two, the reason it is so quiet is Karina is now on the bed, crouching over Beloved in a position that renders speaking difficult.  The last thing I remember before blacking out is Magda murmuring that all some people really need is a little time with a medicine ball…

When I come to I find Beloved smoking a cig… all right all right!  I find Beloved in post-massage bliss.  I lay on the bed, moaning quietly waiting for him to come to my aid.  I keep waiting.  Finally, I eek out a tiny, "help."  Beloved sighs heavily then says, “Honey, do you mind keeping it down just a bit?  The post-massage rest is really my favorite part.”