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.”          

Day of Service

I had no idea St. Anthony’s helped so many different types of people!  I find I am a bit disappointed when I am told to report to the old folk’s home instead of the children’s center.  I mean, I am thrilled to help wherever I am needed…obviously!  I just somehow imagined myself making a difference in…you know…a child’s life (Leigh Anne Tuohy again).  I would support him (I guess it could be “her” but “her” would probably want to borrow my clothes, make-up…SHOES!) in a loving but firm way.  I would always expect the best from him and years later, when he’s graduating from Harvard Medical School giving his Valedictory Acceptance Speech (do they have valedictorians at Harvard Medical School?) he will say (tears in his eyes) that I was tough but always fair, and he owes everything he is today to m….oops!  I stumble over someone taking a nap on the sidewalk and realize I haven’t heard a word Micki is saying about the fortitude and community spirit running through veins of the people of the Tenderloin.  I really must concentrate!  I don’t want to appear flaky on our Day of Service.

I get serious and shift my thinking from Child-Service to Aged-Service.  It is probably for the best.  I know, through first-hand experience from my own unappreciative brood, children are not always as grateful as one would like.  An aged person however, is experienced enough to know how lucky they are when one bestows aid upon them.  I enter the Madonna Residence oozing with altruism and ready to give my all to the old dears.

The first thing I notice when I see these “old dears” is how…well, how Asian they are.  Every single one!  Also, as opposed to quietly sitting in their wheel chairs, knitting or sprawled out with blank expressions on their faces, they seem super fit and alert.  A few are in a corner doing Tai Chi, others are playing a really complicated-looking math/number/strategy type game (I feel a bit nervous at this) and, ah yes, there they are, the one or two white people, sitting in their wheel chairs, lolling about with rather sweet, simple expressions on their faces…doing aaaabsolutely nothing at all.  I feel just a little embarrassed for us. 

The head of the Madonna Residence (Asian) greets us and gives us a few instructions.  “Now, how many of you speak another language?)" he briskly asks.    Five hands shoot up leaving me and an Irish-looking boy, hands glued by our sides, feeling rather inadequate.  The Head asks each (Asian) child what language(s) they speak.  “Tagalog!”  “Cantonese!”  “Mandarin and Cantonese!!”  “Mandarin and Cantonese with a working knowledge of Japanese!”  “Me too!”   Paddy O’Shanohan and I stand there, trying to look intelligent, but managing only to appear rather dimwitted.  I adamantly refuse to look at the old white people in their wheel chairs not wanting to emphasize the association.

The languages-speaking crew is shipped off to do some heavy-duty work in the field, while the Head turns to Paddy and me.  We look at him expectantly, he sighs and thrusts a board game in each of our hands.  “Why don’t you two try to play some games with the residents,” he suggests, stopping short of patting us on our heads.  Clearly wanting to distance himself from me, (and not have to play that scary game) Paddy hightails it to the sweet simple dears in the wheelchairs.  I am left standing alone in the middle of the room trying to avoid eye-contact with the two women quietly sipping tea.  They look as if they would like nothing better than to dive right into some mathematical strategy and keep pointedly eyeing the box in my hands.  Finally, there is nothing for it but to walk over.  “Good morning!”  I greet them brightly.  “Would either of you like to play th…” one of them snatches the box out of my hand and the other one shoves a chair underneath me.  They both start explaining the rules of the game, very loudly, in Cantonese (possibly Mandarin).  I try to feel superior what with my working knowledge of English, but it is hard to do with them screaming in laughter at every errant move I make.  And if that Paddy O’Shanahan doesn’t stop smirking at me I might just go over and wring his cowardly little neck! 

By the time my shift is up I am shattered.  I have played 50 matches of this horrifying math game, and I have lost 50 matches of this horrifying math game…by a wide margin judging by the roaring and back-slapping crowd that gathered to watch.  Micki and I meet up on the sidewalk once again.  She is pale and is holding her hand to her mouth.  I rush to her and ask what in the world has happened!  She can barely speak but finally manages to relay that she was put to work in the Dining Hall.  “No!” I scream.  Micki has had nothing but organic, sustainable, glass stored, gluten-free, slow-cooked food pass her lips since the 90’s.  I know how traumatic this must have been for her since one of the rules of the Dining Hall is one must eat as well as serve the food that has been prepared so as not to appear snobby. 

The ride home is taken in silence.  I eat some crackers from my earth-quake preparedness bag while Micki uses my Colgate mini-toothbrush with freshening bead to get the taste of the pork and beans out of her mouth.  When I finally arrive home I drop all my bags and start upstairs, desperate for a bath and a cup of tea.  Youngest hears me and comes running from the playroom yelling, “Mommy, Mommy!  Don't forget you said you would play Connect Four with me!  Remember!  I’m about to beat my record of whipping you 15 times in a row!”  No one can understand why I suddenly burst into tears          

Volunteering

When Oldest’s religion class asked for volunteers to chaperones their Day of Service at St. Anthony’s in the Tenderloin, I was the first to sign up.  I talk a good community service game, but if the truth be known I’ve gotten all the mileage I’m going to get out of “that time” I served breakfast at St. Martin de Porres.  I knew I was overdue in the giving department.    

I wake bright and early and ready to go, but deciding what to wear takes a little time.  I know I should probably keep it simple, after all we are there to serve.  Maybe just some comfortable patent leather flats, a simple straight skirt, worn with a neatly tucked slim-fit polo…pushed up at the sleeves…some thin hoop earrings, Tom Ford sunglasses casually perched on top of my head, big gold Kenneth Jay Lane ring and…no, no, of course not, that would be silly!  I realize, too late, my confusion is coming from watching The Blind Side the previous evening.  I am fighting a no-nonsense Memphis accent from creeping in.  I also have to remind myself that Sandra Bullock is not really Leigh Anne Tuohy.  I keep fretting over who will gain custody of the big football player now that Sandra and Jesse James are breaking up. 

Micki sits in my driveway honking.  I am running late due, not only to my Leigh Anne Tuohy confusion, but also to the fact that I seem to feel preparing for venturing into the Tenderloin is akin to earth quake preparedness.  By the time I run down my front steps my sensible understated Longchamp backpack (I am nothing if not sensitive) is stuffed full of water bottles, flashlights, a couple extra batteries, some crackers and those handy Colgate mini-toothbrushes with freshening bead. 

We find a parking space fairly close to St. Anthony’s but are frozen in indecision when the homeless (we assume) man leaning nonchalantly on our parking meter makes no move to leave.  We are not quite sure what the protocol is for putting money in an occupied parking meter is, so we decide taking a chance on a ticket is more polite.  Slipping out of the car, clutching our handbags, eyes downcast, we murmur something along the lines of, “good morning, lovely day today, sorry to be a bother, cheerio, tally ho…” and scurry quickly past the unpaid parking meter.  I’m pretty sure I hear laughter behind us.   We finally enter the oasis of St. Anthony’s and are shepherded into a lecture hall with the students.  The perky pony-tailed young woman who gives us our orientation is inspiring.  She talks about the Tenderloin with such love and commitment that it brings tears to our eyes.  She reminds us that the Tenderloin is a vibrant dynamic community!  We purse our lips, squint our eyes and shake our heads in whole-hearted agreement or horrified alarm depending on which statistic she is relaying.  By the time Micki and I return to the sidewalk to be assigned work areas we are just fit to be tied at how misunderstood and neglected those 50 square blocks of teeming humanity are!

We walk through the Tenderloin with our heads up, proud to now be a part of this special neighborhood.  Micki is saying something about the amazing sense of community she feels permeating the Tenderloin, and I am nodding in complete agreement when I see our friendly parking meter lounger.  Feeling a little sheepish at the cowardly way we behaved an hour ago, I look him straight in the eye (as per instructions), give him my most heart-felt smile and shout out a cheery, “Good Morning!” (I stop short of adding “my good man”).  He promptly lurches toward us making obscene hand gestures, whilst saying, “I’ll give ya’ a good mornin’ fancy  lady…”  Once again Micki and I scurry sheepishly away.

Home Office

Okay, fine.  It’s time to move on.  I get it.  We finally hire a lovely woman to “help me out” in the house and with the children.  In a (curt) nod to cutting back she comes only in the afternoon when the children return from school.  The first day she came she brought ambrosia for a snack, and I almost started to cry.  Since that near miss, however, things have progressed smoothly and it looks like we might make it.  Beloved is only a little bit irritated that he lost the, “why do we need a housekeeper” fight, and I feel things are back on an even keel.  We were even able to keep the children’s Trust Accounts intact.

A rogue thought sneaks into my head that if having a housekeeper is such a stretch, then why have one?  Well…so I can be friends with Bono of course.  From what I can tell, most of the people I know are friends with Bono.  How hard can it be?  Being friends with Bono is a fail-safe justification for having a housekeeper!  It means I am doing more interesting AND more important things with my life.  I couldn’t, in good conscience, clean my own home if starving people in Africa are waiting for me to aid them!!  And, of course, the ONLY reason I would want to be friends with Bono is to aid starving people in Africa.  It is just the type of person I am!  I do find it strangely easy to resist helping the under-privileged schools just down the hill from us that are in desperate need of food, books and clothes.  Feeling mildly uncomfortable, I wonder why this is.  Then I realize what they need is their own “Bono”.  It would really whip up support!  I think I will suggest it to them.

 I call Sabrina to see if she is friends with Bono.  “No sweetie, I don’t really know  Bono.”  I’m illogically pleased.  “However,” she continues, “I am BEST friends with his darling wife Ali…would you like to meet her?”  Of course she is.  “Ali is just a doll ! Giving personified.  Makes Bono look like a selfish p___k.”  I should have known Sabrina could one-up Bono.  “Yes” I meekly reply.  “I would love to meet her.”  Finally!  I will be able to put my home-office to good use.  I imagine Bono’s wife and me holed up in my home-office, hair tied back in a charmingly messy way, both of us wearing organic EDUN clothing (I wish it were a bit more form fitting…I will mention that to her) me suddenly 5 lbs. thinner as I always am in my fantasies, the two of us working furiously to get the guest list out for their our latest fund-raiser.  “Don’t forget Christy Turlington and Ed Burns!”  I chummily remind her.  “No darlin’” (I’m assuming she has a lovely Irish accent).  “How could I forget them after the weekend we all had together in Ibiza!” we laugh exhaustedly in a “those weekends are going to be the death of us” sort of way.  I look around at my home-office and realize that in its present state the only evidence of any work being done are the various school papers and official-looking forms scattered about that I can’t quite be bothered to fill out and return in a timely manner. 

Sabrina suddenly interrupts my reverie, “Oh!  You’re in luck!  Next Thursday one of my BEST friends is throwing a party for Ali and Bono!  I will put you on the guest list.  Now…let’s see…yes! here it is…$1500.  You can make the check out to Product Red” She briskly informs me.  “Oh!  Uh… Super!   Only, I thought I could be more of a “on-the-committee” type.  You know, working in the trenches with the people that are doing the Saving of Africa not paying for the Saving of Africa.”  I pause a moment as something occurs to me, “Of course, I should probably attend the party, you know, as a committee insider, sort of a Red Ambassadress, if you will.”

There is silence on the other end of the phone.  “I think there are plenty of those already” Sabrina drily informs me.  “You’re not doing this just so you can be friends with them are you?” she suddenly asks in an accusing tone.  “Certainly not!” I say indignantly.  “I mean” she continues, “there are some people who would want to meet them just to hang out with them.”  “well not m…” I try to say but am cut off by Sabrina, on a roll now “You know…meet their friends, fly around with them on their private plane, visit them in the South of France, worm their way into their inner circle…”  “I can’t think of anything further from the truth!” I exclaim, thinking how close to the truth she is.  “I am doing this” I say in my haughtiest tone, “purely because of my passion for the Red campaign!” before she can ask me more about my passion for the Red campaign, which frankly has always confused me, I say I must go and smartly hang up the phone. 

There I sit, disappointed, in my home office, office materials at the ready.  Apparently Africa will not be saved by me.  I wonder how Cambodia is doing.  Isn’t that where Angelina Jolie got her start?  I have always been passionate about Cambodia… 

Fatal Search

Though I can’t claim I’ve mastered Acceptance I have at least come to a point of grim Realism.  The first few days PR (Post Rowena) were dark days indeed.  It is hard to remember exactly what happened as the details are still a bit fuzzy.  All I know is one dark drizzly morning I came to, sporting a trench coat and dark glasses, holding a bunny over a boiling pot in someone else's kitchen screaming, “I will not be IGNORED Rowena…!!!!”  That was my rock bottom day.  I decided right then and there I needed to get help. 

So Help I sat out to get.  Sadly, as any spurned lover employer knows it is hard to replace perfection.  The first interview I had was with a very polite, nicely dressed, well-spoken woman…REEKING of cheap perfume and wearing the REDDEST lipstick ever made.  Obviously a slut and a thief.

The next woman came bearing gifts, a book for Middle and a little car for Youngest.  As IF she thought buying our affection would work!  Well… actually it did work, but only because my children are easily bought and have low moral standards.  They immediately pronounce her the best, Youngest going so far as to say she is superior even to Rowena!  What they don’t see are her beady little eyes, staring at them with a sinister gleam as if to say, “I know to the dollar how much a nubile young boy fetches on the black market.”   I don’t think so!

Simone was a darling Brazilian.  She had amazing references from former employers stating the only thing better than her cleaning was her cooking, unless, of course, it was the gentle kind care she gave their children.  She also had long tanned legs, a sexy accent and a butt smaller than mine...Next!

I continue on like this, never finding the right synergy of personality, cleaning standards and butt size.  Collapsing one evening, on the playroom sofa, after a day of heavy interviewing, I ask Beloved (with an exhausted sigh) to please pour me a glass of wine and would he mind kicking away that basket of dirty clothes blocking the television screen.  Beloved seems to have something on his mind, so, ever the giver, I ask what is bothering him.  Or rather, I ask, “shwhuut ish bwuffering oo?” as my mouth is stuffed full of left-over frozen chicken nuggets that I threw downstairs for the children earlier that evening.  He seems reticent, so I give him an encouraging smile whilst wiping the panko crumbs from my mouth with the back of my hand.   

“Actually, the Rowena situation is what I wanted to talk to you about” he says in a rather no-nonsense tone, considering the delicate subject matter.  “Ye-e-e-s?”  I respond warily.  “Well,” he says slowly, as if talking to someone with a slightly less than par intelligence.  “Since the children are all in school…”  I continue staring at him blankly.  “And…you don’t have a job…yes, yes, I know you’re writing your Romance Novel (as he sees me indignantly spit a nugget out at this) but you probably spend…what an hour or  two a day on that?”  I nod enthusiastically thinking how wildly he is overstating things.   “So…” he keeps staring at me as if expecting an answer.  “I was just thinking…maybe…you could clean the house.”  We stare at each other for quite a while, neither of us saying a word.  “Ah” I finally say in a brisk manner.  “What you’re proposing, then, is I clean the house.”  “Precisely” he responds.  He gets up as if glad we got that settled.

“Yes dear.  I think that is an excellent idea.” I pronounce.  “Glad to hear we agree” he says over his shoulder as he starts to go upstairs.  “Oh yes, absolutely!  Me clean the house.  Marvelous idea.  Why, as soon as I finish herding the sheep so I can spin wool for the children's clothing, I will absolutely clean the house.”  I see him sigh heavily as he slowly turns back around.  “I know!  Maybe you should splurge and buy a potters wheel, so I can make all our own vessels!”  I shrill, warming to my theme.  “And really! Why waste money on gas and car maintenance!  Why don’t you just procure a rickshaw, so I can use that to cart the boys and their friends all over creation!”  I throw myself face down on the sofa and sob uncontrollably.  Beloved, not an unkind man, comes to me saying, “All right, all right.  There’s no need to cry!  It was just a suggestion! ” and starts to rub my back.  I arrange myself comfortably and think if he would just scoot over a tiny bit I could see the end of The Real Housewives of Orange County.  Now those ladies are seriously spoiled.  Personally, I don’t think it’s becoming, but that’s just me…                                      

Despair

Gloom.  Despair.  Agony.  These feelings threaten to overcome me.  I can barely make it out of bed and when I do I prostrate myself in anguish.  No, no the children are fine.  No, Beloved has not done a runner.  The situation is far more grave than any of that…Rowena has finally done it.  She has left me. 

One always hopes in time of catastrophe that one will react with dignity and decorum.  I did not, and I am not proud of that.  It will be a long time before I can forget the wailing, the begging, the bribery…and that was just my children’s reaction.  I was far worse.  Even Beloved looked a little pale and panicky at the thought of the household and children left in my slapdash hands.  I knew it was dire when he asked Rowena if it was a matter of money, “because,” he desperately offered, “we still have the children’s Trust Accounts.”  “Oh darling!”  I cry gratefully.  “The children’s Trust Accounts!  Yes!  You’re brilliant!”  I turn swiftly and scream maniacally at Rowena “We have more…we can get you more!”  Rowena pries herself out of my arms and says gently, kindly even, “It is done.  By the time the sun rises in the morning…I will be gone” or something along those lines.  I cannot believe this is happening!  She is our Sensai!  We are her little grasshoppers, and she has let us loose into a world for which we are NOT YET READY!

I find I am going through the various stages of grief.  I initially act as if it isn’t happening (Denial).  When Rowena attempts to leave after her earth-shattering announcement I trill merrily, “Okay, RoRo (the children’s pet name for her) see you tomorrow!”  She just shakes her head sadly and moves me bodily from my spread eagle position in front of the door.

I then decide I never liked her that much in the first place (Anger), and throw all the food from the freezer, that she kindly pre-prepared for us, into the compost bin.  I stand looking at the atrocity I have committed and discover I cannot move.   Beloved and the boys find me hours later in the garbage room lovingly stroking a frozen Coq   au Vin.  

By morning I decide we just didn’t try to get her to stay hard enough (Bargaining).  I have all the boys call and plead with her one by one.  I pinch Youngest so he cries a little bit.

 With none of this working I finally take to my bed (Depression).  What does any of it matter?  Why should I bother to grocery shop?  There is no one to do anything with the food I buy!  I lie in bed thinking of all the good times Rowena and I had, her working, me napping.  I can’t understand how it all went so wrong!  At one point I think I’m getting better… until, one day, while gazing nostalgically into the refrigerator, I find Rowena’s sweet and sour sauce we used to dip her Lumpia in.  That, I can tell you, was a hard day.

The final stage (Acceptance) has not yet graced me with her fickle presence.  Every morning I still wait to hear Rowena’s key turn in the lock, but the sound does not come.  Every night I sit, waiting, at the dinner table, but no food arrives.  Maybe I’ll just give Rowena a quick call…one more time…           

Play Date

Sabrina calls to ask if I would like to bring the children over for a play date.  We are all going out of our minds being cooped up inside because of the rain, so I grab Middle and Youngest and rush right over.   When we arrive, I am happy to find Sabrina has assembled a little party of mothers with their children.  I pour myself a cup of tea, grab two handfuls of the children's goldfish and settle in for a nice cozy chat. 

The subject turns to our kids and the difficulty some of them are having in their very challenging schools.  Seeing as how most of my extended family is riddled with ADHD, and my children seem to be proudly carrying on the family tradition I feel this is a subject I can, with confidence, say I am a bit of an expert in.

Jillian tells us she has been notified by the school that, though her first grader has a 7^th grade vocabulary and can do a word problem in nothing flat, he still confuses his b’s and d’s and is not 100% confident in Sequencing Events.   Apparently this is very difficult for Jillian to understand as she effortlessly excelled in school.  She’s pretty sure these problems come from her husband’s side of the family.  “Ha!” I cry, happy to join in.  “I tried that one on Beloved and suggested that the boys got their ADHD from him.”  I elbow her chummily as I laugh helplessly at the memory.  Jillian looks at me with disdain and continues as if I’d not spoken.  Of course she understands that everyone is different, and believe you me, she has plenty of issues she struggles with such as…ooh, let’s see, wellllll…she is really messy!  Just can’t seem to clean up after herself!  Apparently it has always been thus!  She gets a far away look in her eye and remembers her teachers laughingly sympathizing with her parents over a cup of tea during parent/teacher conferences; how difficult it must be to deal with such a bright young thing unable to cope with day to day mundane tasks…bit of an absent-minded professor really.  I sit munching goldfish and think about the dread-filled hours waiting for my parents to come home from my parent/teacher conferences.  I’m sure no one in the conference was laughing least of all my extremely irritated and fed up teacher.

The conversation is not going exactly as I expected.  Everyone else’s problems seem almost …desirable.  My children’s issues are not as cute.  During one of our boy’s conference a teacher blithely told us our son was the “Most Requested by Other Parents Not to be Seated Next to Their Son.”  After a few awkward moments of the teacher looking at us, eyebrows raised, expecting a response, Beloved mumbled weakly, “is there an award category for that?”  No one laughed.  Felicity breaks into my reverie as I hear her say she has exactly the opposite problem.  “Me too!” I exclaim, thinking I’ll confide in her the, “Most Requested” story, but Felicity carries on to inform us that in actual fact her son is horribly bored in school.  Aaah.   The teachers apparently find it terribly difficult to challenge him.  Now, she’s not saying he’s brighter than the other children, at this she lowers her eyes in a modest “I’m not the sort to point that out” kind of way, but sometimes it is almost more difficult for the extremely intelligent to cope in school as it is, well, the slower children (at this she smiles sympathetically at Jillian).

Jillian frantically tries to figure out a way to retract her statement regarding her son’s Sequencing Events problem.  “Yes, well, new studies have found that to compete in our rapidly changing society the old-fashioned children who learn by rote will no longer be relevant.  They will become the middle-managers of the world, whilst the creative children that think outside the box will be the innovators, the scholars, the doers, so to speak.”  Jillian breathes a big sigh of relief and seems quite pleased with this up-dated world view.  I am getting more and more concerned, as I realize the only box that holds interest for my children, in or out of, is their X-box.  I would be thrilled for them to be “by-rote learners”, boringly making A’s, whilst drearily snatching up school awards.  

At that moment, Sabrina comes upstairs having settled AnaLeticia and the children.  She’s a little put out, as it seems Youngest would not go along with the others in building a Lego Airplane, because he thought it should be a Space Ship.  “How interesting!” I exclaim.  “So, even though the instructions said it was an Airplane…he saw a Space Ship.”  I look around to see who else is seeing what I’m seeing.  Apparently no one.  I try again, “so even though the box (I pause meaningfully) said it was an Airplane…Youngest, thinking in a different and original way, thinks it should be a Space Ship.”  Yes, yes, highly original” Sabrina says briskly, “I think the problem is it is made for ages 7-14.  Clara and Minnie always work above their ages…but that’s girls (she smiles at me generously).  I’m sure we can find some blocks for Youngest, so he can build whatever his creative little mind can come up with.” 

Car Accident

Weary with the paralyzing pressure of being a stay-at-home mom and being pulled this way and that, I make things worse by getting in a car accident.  I am pretty sure it’s not my fault because the car in front of me…that I rear-ended… appeared straight out of thin air.  The very angry Russian fellow that leaps with agile grace out of his car screaming and gesticulating wildly appears to think it was my fault.  I look frantically around and spot a group of construction workers across the street.  Luckily, there are some things in life one can always depend upon and one of them is the construction worker code of conduct.  Therefore, in a stand-off between a very angry Russian fellow and a girl…the girl wins, regardless of age, clothing or whether or not she brushed her hair that day.

Not familiar with being in the right in car-related situations, I ask the construction workers if they are sure it was the Russian fellow’s fault…that I rear-ended him.  “”Yup…saw the whole thing.  Dude’s fault.”  I ask them to please stay close as the Russian fellow seems to be totally losing control, and I’m not sure what he’s capable of.  I’m surprised to find I have developed a Southern accent as I say this and am starting to enjoy the attention.  They all watch (my ass) as I walk away, and I think how sad it is that construction workers aren’t always treated with the respect they deserve.  I approach the angry Russian having acquired a sexy little stroll and a bit of an attitude after my encounter with the construction workers.  I lose this attitude f-a-a-a-irly quickly as the Russian’s anger confronts me.  I guess generations of having to deal with Cossacks, Stalin and government-sanctioned art have really honed their ability to get mad.  I put my hand up to stop the tirade and say indignantly, “I am sorry suh, but stoppin’ dead in thu middle of thu road with no warnin’ is just plain dangerhus!”  Damn, I forgot to lose the Southern accent and it doesn’t appear to be going down well with the Russian.  He responds with something along the lines of, “You stupid hick! I was trying to park and you careened right into the back of my car!” except in a scary Russian accent.  I look back at my construction worker friends, but they seem very busy with their bacon and egg sandwiches.  I have to calm the Russian down and exchange “information” all in a Southern accent which I now feel obliged to stick with or risk looking flaky.

Finally a police officer arrives but says she has no jurisdiction and is there to help only if someone is injured…are either of us injured?  I promptly say, “No ma’am, ahm jes fine.”  The lesbian police officer looks like she could happily slap me silly, as the suddenly very fragile sounding Russian says, while rubbing his neck, that he’s just not sure.  He looks around in a dazed manner.  Do we mind if he just sits down on the sidewalk for a minute?  “What?!  You were totally fine not two minutes ago!” I scream, losing my Southern charm.  “Ma’am, please calm down and stop harassing this man, or I’ll have to issue you a citation” the lesbian says self-righteously.  “But he’s lying!”  I scream.  My inner racist comes storming out as I scream to the Russian, “This is what’s wrong with your country in the first place!!”  That stops all of us in our tracks as none of us are quite sure what I mean.  The lesbian is the first to recover, “at any rate ma’am, this will be looked into by your respective insurance companies and I’m sure once the facts are in” she says, whilst beadily eyeing the front seat of my car where my recently discarded coffee cup, mascara wand and cell phone sit in full indicting view, “I’m sure a settlement can be agreed upon.” 

The Russian is now prone on the sidewalk, gently moaning and mumbling something about soft tissue damage.  I am outraged by the injustice and look back at my fair-weather construction worker friends who have had a burst of initiative and are jack-hammering, painting and drilling to beat the band.  The lesbian officer has her citation book and pen at the ready and is looking at me hopefully.  I give her a withering look and march haughtily back to my car.  After struggling a few minutes to get my car door to shut I drive the clattering Volvo away in what I hope is a dignified yet ominous you-haven’t-heard-the-last-of-me manner.  I look in my rear view mirror to see their reaction.  The police officer is very gently helping the now extremely fragile and aged Russian to his feet.  “The gall…WHA..!!!!”  I screech to a stop after missing by inches a car stopped at the Stop sign in front of us.  The very angry Nicaraguan woman jumps from her car, screaming at me in Spanish whilst pointing to the “Baby on Board” sign on her window.  I take a tentative look back and see the police officer striding…jogging really…toward me flipping through her citation book like mad with a look of pure joy on her face.  

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental...really.