I’m at the gym. It’s 6 am and I’m wearing clothes I picked out in the dark. Not my best look but since my gym has a ratio of 99% gay men to 1% potentially straight it’s too hard to tell at 6 am women, I don’t really care.
Being that there are so few women, one tends to notice the others around. There’s the girl with the brand new boobs who hoists them like a shelf and the clog wearing perky trainer whose voice registers in an octave only heard by whales and dogs. There’s the heavy set lesbian (even at 6 am, there’s no hiding for her) who passes her cardio time with a complete set of tabloids and the girl in the short shorts who might want to wear longer shorts the next time she does squats.
And then there’s the girl with the pin. She’s easy to spot, hard to miss because she is wearing, as she has been for the past 6 days, a large pin on her shirt which reads:
“Sexy Women Vote For Obama.”
I don’t know if she’s gay or straight, but even at 6 am, one thing is fairly certain, this woman is a total and complete moron.
A pin worn to the gym is in and of itself stupid. The chances of being impaled by an Obama pin are not wasted on me and I spend my 37 minutes on the Precor picturing what happens when she drops a weight on her chest, the pin opens, jabs her in the heart, blood spouts out, and she dies; the headline reading, “Sexy Woman dies due to Obama stabbing.” But that’s not the real problem here.
Political views aside, it’s her choice of words that’s got me all wound up. “Sexy Women Vote for Obama.” Does that mean that non-sexy women vote for McCain? And who decides whose sexy enough to vote for Obama because I was gonna vote for Obama, but I’m wearing an outfit I picked out in the dark so I wouldn’t wake my husband as I snuck off the gym to work out for an hour before my kid wakes up and wants to play his new favorite game, “Lets throw food on Mommy” which makes me feel, to be honest, not so sexy. So can I still vote for Obama?
I don’t mind that the Pin Girl has an overly healthy opinion of her own sexuality, but I do mind that the very important decision of who should run the country comes down to how sexy you are. And I’m wondering how the Pin Girl would feel if she were to tell a man she was voting for Obama and he replied, “Well that’s because you’re sexy.” That guy would probably get a slap on the face and be accused of being a sexyist.
We live in an era where young girls look up to Paris Hilton over Hillary Clinton where Wall Street boasts the lowest number of female executives to date in a country with the fewest females holding public office in 30 years. Even Pakistan has had a female President and yet we are defining our voting habits by how sexy we are.
Since becoming a parent, I’m constantly reminded that two people, one of whom is me, will define my son’s view of the world. I’ll expose him to his favorite food and develop his love or hate of music. He’ll appreciate theatre if I do and have a strong sense of family if I encourage it. And his view of women will also be defined by one of two people, me. Personally, I want my son to learn that women are sexy but I’d also like him to learn that women are smart, whomever they vote for, as long as they vote.
I’m at the gym and there she is, the Pin Girl, bench-pressing a grueling 7 pounds. I decide I’m going to stand up for all women and tell her what I think. “Sexy Women Vote for Obama?” I’ll say. “How bout Smart Women Vote. Period.” Then I’ll walk away with my gym full of gays cheering me on. But before I can get over there, I hear a crash. She’s dropped her weights on her chest.
“Fucking pin!” she screams as she rubs her chest.
I turn around, head back to my workout. I take that back. While it’s smart to vote, it’s even smarter not to wear sharp metal objects to the gym.
And by the way, if you’re smart, you’ll vote Obama, no matter how sexy you are.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
NANNYGATE, PART DEUX
Claudia needs three weeks off every summer while Aida needs to bring her son to work. Laela isn’t actually a nanny, doesn’t know how to change a diaper, but “really likes kids.” And though Jennifer lives in a one-bedroom apartment with her son, her mother, and grandmother, she doesn’t want to work too many hours because she wants to stop working to become a nurse.
“Taking care of sick people is fun, “ she tells me. “It’s like taking care of a baby, but sick!”
Jennifer looks disappointed when I remind her that my son, while a baby, is perfectly healthy.
In my two-week immersion into Nanny Gate 2008, I have interviewed well over 20 candidates and have whittled the 20 down to 5 who have worked for me at least a day to see if they just might be the one. Each comes with her own file folder full of glowing recommendations from families claiming to have wept upon her absence, wishing their children didn’t have to go to school so they could keep her on.
Ann, a 50 year old nanny who took three years off from “the baby biz” to work at Curves is my first test. Looking at her resume, filled with perfect reviews from former bosses and nursery schools at which she’d been employed, I’m optimistic, even enthusiastic, until she starts work. Within five minutes, she asks me to hold the baby so she can “take a breather to wipe her brow.” It’s clear her time working for Curves was not spent on the gym floor.
Judith, a self -proclaimed “Super Nanny” with 25 years of credentials comes to her interview enthusiastic if ebullient. But that enthusiasm fades quickly into her workday when simple tasks like: following directions or folding a child’s laundry is required. “I don’t understand this, what is this?” she barks while pointing to my son’s pajamas. When I confirm that yes indeed my son’s pajamas are in fact pajamas, she seems perplexed. “I don’t understand. How do you want me to fold these? I don’t know what these are!” she says again as she throws them on the floor. Judith might be a Super Nanny, but she's also Super Angry.
And these are the ones that made it past the interview.
I remember the days when I, like these nannies, worked for an hourly wage. I remember counting my ten dollars or fifteen dollars per hour until my rent was made, my car was paid for, and hopefully my food. If my boss asked me to work extra hours, I was thrilled, knowing that I’d have a few more tens or fifteens toward covering my nut.
When I worked as a personal assistant, and met my boss for the first time she said, “I’m very particular, I like things done a certain way.” What I heard was that she was very particular and liked things done a certain way, which is what I did. I did things her way and we got along famously. But every nanny I’ve met comes with her list of demands, her career pre-nup if you will, listing the conditions, benefits, and payment required for her to do her job.
Jillian, a French nanny who charges $19 an hour, “But is willing to negotiate”, will work for $18 an hour as long as I am willing to pay for her gas to and from work. A simple request, but when was the last time a teacher got paid for his drive to work or a nurse for hers? People shouldn’t be treated poorly because they clean a house or take care of a child to make a living, but they shouldn't be treated better either. Adding up the expenses of Jillian’s requests and benefits, she’d make more than my husband and I combined. So needless to say, I said “au revoir” to Jillian, wishing her “bon chance” and remembered that a French nanny would be lovely if only she weren’t French.
I start another week immersed in Nanny Gate 2008 wondering if I’ll find a suitable candidate before my new job starts, a movie I’m writing, for which I’ll probably get paid less than my nanny. It’s my first big writing job, there’s not much room for negotiation, but I’m happy for the opportunity, happy to have a job. It's easy to "dignify" yourself out of a job, demand your way into the unemployment line. Somewhere out there is a nanny who wants to work and is happy for the opportunity and realizes there's not a lot of room for negotiation.
And if not, I hope my kid knows how to spell check and write jokes because he and I have got work to do.
“Taking care of sick people is fun, “ she tells me. “It’s like taking care of a baby, but sick!”
Jennifer looks disappointed when I remind her that my son, while a baby, is perfectly healthy.
In my two-week immersion into Nanny Gate 2008, I have interviewed well over 20 candidates and have whittled the 20 down to 5 who have worked for me at least a day to see if they just might be the one. Each comes with her own file folder full of glowing recommendations from families claiming to have wept upon her absence, wishing their children didn’t have to go to school so they could keep her on.
Ann, a 50 year old nanny who took three years off from “the baby biz” to work at Curves is my first test. Looking at her resume, filled with perfect reviews from former bosses and nursery schools at which she’d been employed, I’m optimistic, even enthusiastic, until she starts work. Within five minutes, she asks me to hold the baby so she can “take a breather to wipe her brow.” It’s clear her time working for Curves was not spent on the gym floor.
Judith, a self -proclaimed “Super Nanny” with 25 years of credentials comes to her interview enthusiastic if ebullient. But that enthusiasm fades quickly into her workday when simple tasks like: following directions or folding a child’s laundry is required. “I don’t understand this, what is this?” she barks while pointing to my son’s pajamas. When I confirm that yes indeed my son’s pajamas are in fact pajamas, she seems perplexed. “I don’t understand. How do you want me to fold these? I don’t know what these are!” she says again as she throws them on the floor. Judith might be a Super Nanny, but she's also Super Angry.
And these are the ones that made it past the interview.
I remember the days when I, like these nannies, worked for an hourly wage. I remember counting my ten dollars or fifteen dollars per hour until my rent was made, my car was paid for, and hopefully my food. If my boss asked me to work extra hours, I was thrilled, knowing that I’d have a few more tens or fifteens toward covering my nut.
When I worked as a personal assistant, and met my boss for the first time she said, “I’m very particular, I like things done a certain way.” What I heard was that she was very particular and liked things done a certain way, which is what I did. I did things her way and we got along famously. But every nanny I’ve met comes with her list of demands, her career pre-nup if you will, listing the conditions, benefits, and payment required for her to do her job.
Jillian, a French nanny who charges $19 an hour, “But is willing to negotiate”, will work for $18 an hour as long as I am willing to pay for her gas to and from work. A simple request, but when was the last time a teacher got paid for his drive to work or a nurse for hers? People shouldn’t be treated poorly because they clean a house or take care of a child to make a living, but they shouldn't be treated better either. Adding up the expenses of Jillian’s requests and benefits, she’d make more than my husband and I combined. So needless to say, I said “au revoir” to Jillian, wishing her “bon chance” and remembered that a French nanny would be lovely if only she weren’t French.
I start another week immersed in Nanny Gate 2008 wondering if I’ll find a suitable candidate before my new job starts, a movie I’m writing, for which I’ll probably get paid less than my nanny. It’s my first big writing job, there’s not much room for negotiation, but I’m happy for the opportunity, happy to have a job. It's easy to "dignify" yourself out of a job, demand your way into the unemployment line. Somewhere out there is a nanny who wants to work and is happy for the opportunity and realizes there's not a lot of room for negotiation.
And if not, I hope my kid knows how to spell check and write jokes because he and I have got work to do.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
NANNYGATE
If someone doesn’t show up for work is she quitting her job or just being an asshole?
Me, Wednesday Sept 3, 2008
One of my husband’s favorite theories is, “Hope is a terrible strategy.” He says things like this all the time as if repetition per theory justifies the exorbitant amount of money he spent to go to an Ivy League Business School to learn such things. A day doesn’t go by without him quoting some hero of wealth with a quick, tight theory that encapsulates a moment. Instead of admitting that I’m not listening or worse yet, that I have little interest in business, I nod and occasionally quote back to him some theory just to make him feel like he’s had an impact. But the notion that hope alone is nothing to bank on resonates with me, especially since becoming a Mom. Especially since deciding to hire a nanny.
I long ago stopped hoping my nanny would get my name right or that she’d show up when expected. So after spending 3 hours waiting for her to arrive on time to work on a Wednesday morning, after two weeks off with pay followed by a paid Labor Day Monday, it comes as no surprise to me when my phone finally does chirp the ring of doom.
“Hello, Merta? It’s me, Dalia. My Mother broke her leg.”
She pauses as if she’s given a complete and logical explanation for why she’s three hours late for work when she’s been given countless warnings about missed days of work, and hasn’t called until now.
Well did she break your phone, too? I ask not half or even a little bit kidding.
“Maybe Friday should be my last day,” she says with a decisiveness that betrays her lack of emotion on my behalf.
Recognizing that losing a nanny is a chaos inducing inconvenience rather than a life spent starving in Darfur, battling cancer, or finding out you’re related to one of the morons on MTV’s “The Hills, I try to keep it all in perspective. But since I’ve had more nannies than children, my patience has worn thin.
In one year of Motherhood, I’ve had two nannies; both excellent at the job as long as one doesn’t consider showing up for work a job requirement. There were always last minute illnesses, surprise children’s school conferences and the inevitable “mother with a broken leg” excuses. Each excuse requiring a day, two, four off from work, unpaid and unaccounted for. I’m left wondering if I’m the only person in America that actually needs to work. Because it seems like there’s an awful lot of people who don’t mind missing out on a day or seven of work and a day or seven of a paycheck.
Every Mom who hears my story feels my pain, even those who do have cancer and are related to morons on TV. But with every offering of sympathy also comes the inevitable, “Haven’t you been through this like…a lot?” Yes, I’m quick to respond. I give people too many chances. I guess I was just hoping…” my voice trailing off, me knowing that I sound about nannies like 20 year-old girls do about boyfriends, hoping it will all work out knowing that it’s a terrible strategy.
Others offer a more cynical opinion. “It’s just how they are. They live a flip flop kind of life, they’re not reliable,” one relative suggests not explaining if the “they” so politely referenced is Nannies or Hispanics in general. Another asks where our nanny was born, then seems confused, “But California has all those cheap Mexicans who will work for free. I didn’t know they were so uppity like the girls from the Islands. They’re very high maintenance.” Suddenly, it seems that a crap employee is no longer just that, they’re a representation of a whole race brought down in one fell swoop.
Instead of joining the cynics, I opt to get back on the horse, get back out there, and start interviewing others. Out of three appointments I make, two candidates don’t show up, one never calling to cancel, the other saying she’s “just too tired.” The third, a lovely girl from Pensacola, peaks my interest until she explains that she’s hoping to get into nannying “to get out of bartending” I feel like she just might not be the right fit as I imagine my son’s first word being “highball.”
I make three more appointments for the following day. Each potential Nanny from a varying country around the world; one Guatemalan, another Israeli, another Russian. One by one, before each woman’s appointment, my phone rings, each canceling her interview.
With each passing cancellation, I begin to miss my old Nanny more and more. Maybe I should call her, I think to myself, just to see if she really meant to quit. Sure she wasn’t reliable and was so forgetful she could forget her own name, but at least I knew her bad qualities. When your kids are involved, the devil you know is better than the nanny you don’t know.
But settling for someone who’s unreliable, uninterested, and quite frankly unavailable is not a solution. Maybe that’s what got me here in the first place, settling for someone sub par to take care of the person who matters most to me, my son. Sure we can’t do any better, women go from settling for bad boyfriends to bad nannies simply out of fear of the unknown. There’s no one race lazier or more unreliable than another, but you get what you settle for in any aspect of life. People are as reliable as you require them to be, as concerned as needed.
The truth is, my son is the most valued thing in my world, I shouldn’t settle for anything but the best, wherever the person is from. So until I find the right person, I guess it’s just he and I, napping, playing, trying to get our work done. I know I’ll find the right person; she’s out there somewhere, at least I hope so. Sure, it’s a terrible strategy, but sometimes hope is all you’ve got.
Me, Wednesday Sept 3, 2008
One of my husband’s favorite theories is, “Hope is a terrible strategy.” He says things like this all the time as if repetition per theory justifies the exorbitant amount of money he spent to go to an Ivy League Business School to learn such things. A day doesn’t go by without him quoting some hero of wealth with a quick, tight theory that encapsulates a moment. Instead of admitting that I’m not listening or worse yet, that I have little interest in business, I nod and occasionally quote back to him some theory just to make him feel like he’s had an impact. But the notion that hope alone is nothing to bank on resonates with me, especially since becoming a Mom. Especially since deciding to hire a nanny.
I long ago stopped hoping my nanny would get my name right or that she’d show up when expected. So after spending 3 hours waiting for her to arrive on time to work on a Wednesday morning, after two weeks off with pay followed by a paid Labor Day Monday, it comes as no surprise to me when my phone finally does chirp the ring of doom.
“Hello, Merta? It’s me, Dalia. My Mother broke her leg.”
She pauses as if she’s given a complete and logical explanation for why she’s three hours late for work when she’s been given countless warnings about missed days of work, and hasn’t called until now.
Well did she break your phone, too? I ask not half or even a little bit kidding.
“Maybe Friday should be my last day,” she says with a decisiveness that betrays her lack of emotion on my behalf.
Recognizing that losing a nanny is a chaos inducing inconvenience rather than a life spent starving in Darfur, battling cancer, or finding out you’re related to one of the morons on MTV’s “The Hills, I try to keep it all in perspective. But since I’ve had more nannies than children, my patience has worn thin.
In one year of Motherhood, I’ve had two nannies; both excellent at the job as long as one doesn’t consider showing up for work a job requirement. There were always last minute illnesses, surprise children’s school conferences and the inevitable “mother with a broken leg” excuses. Each excuse requiring a day, two, four off from work, unpaid and unaccounted for. I’m left wondering if I’m the only person in America that actually needs to work. Because it seems like there’s an awful lot of people who don’t mind missing out on a day or seven of work and a day or seven of a paycheck.
Every Mom who hears my story feels my pain, even those who do have cancer and are related to morons on TV. But with every offering of sympathy also comes the inevitable, “Haven’t you been through this like…a lot?” Yes, I’m quick to respond. I give people too many chances. I guess I was just hoping…” my voice trailing off, me knowing that I sound about nannies like 20 year-old girls do about boyfriends, hoping it will all work out knowing that it’s a terrible strategy.
Others offer a more cynical opinion. “It’s just how they are. They live a flip flop kind of life, they’re not reliable,” one relative suggests not explaining if the “they” so politely referenced is Nannies or Hispanics in general. Another asks where our nanny was born, then seems confused, “But California has all those cheap Mexicans who will work for free. I didn’t know they were so uppity like the girls from the Islands. They’re very high maintenance.” Suddenly, it seems that a crap employee is no longer just that, they’re a representation of a whole race brought down in one fell swoop.
Instead of joining the cynics, I opt to get back on the horse, get back out there, and start interviewing others. Out of three appointments I make, two candidates don’t show up, one never calling to cancel, the other saying she’s “just too tired.” The third, a lovely girl from Pensacola, peaks my interest until she explains that she’s hoping to get into nannying “to get out of bartending” I feel like she just might not be the right fit as I imagine my son’s first word being “highball.”
I make three more appointments for the following day. Each potential Nanny from a varying country around the world; one Guatemalan, another Israeli, another Russian. One by one, before each woman’s appointment, my phone rings, each canceling her interview.
With each passing cancellation, I begin to miss my old Nanny more and more. Maybe I should call her, I think to myself, just to see if she really meant to quit. Sure she wasn’t reliable and was so forgetful she could forget her own name, but at least I knew her bad qualities. When your kids are involved, the devil you know is better than the nanny you don’t know.
But settling for someone who’s unreliable, uninterested, and quite frankly unavailable is not a solution. Maybe that’s what got me here in the first place, settling for someone sub par to take care of the person who matters most to me, my son. Sure we can’t do any better, women go from settling for bad boyfriends to bad nannies simply out of fear of the unknown. There’s no one race lazier or more unreliable than another, but you get what you settle for in any aspect of life. People are as reliable as you require them to be, as concerned as needed.
The truth is, my son is the most valued thing in my world, I shouldn’t settle for anything but the best, wherever the person is from. So until I find the right person, I guess it’s just he and I, napping, playing, trying to get our work done. I know I’ll find the right person; she’s out there somewhere, at least I hope so. Sure, it’s a terrible strategy, but sometimes hope is all you’ve got.
Monday, August 11, 2008
1000 GOODBYES
I can’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my image. It’s far too un-hip of a thing to think, much less say out loud. I’d sound like one of those Moms, you know the kind who ceases to have a personality, much less an interest of her own the minute the kid comes out. I’m not like those Moms; I’m hip and groovy. Those Moms spend their days scrap-booking…
That reminds me, I’ve got to get my kid’s scrapbook together, he’s almost a year and if I don’t do it now, then I’ll never…
Well anyway, I’m not like them. Those are the kind of Moms who cut their hair short the second the kid is born…
That’s what I forgot to do, make a haircut appointment. If this kid pulls out anymore, I’ll be bald. Now, I just look like I’ve got payus…
Well anyway, I’m not like that. I have a life of my own. I’m not just someone’s Mom; I’m my own person. For the record, I’m never ever going to be referred to as “Mommy”, that’s so…
The sweetest thing happened, my kid is trying to talk. He almost said my name. I can’t wait until I hear his voice when he says Mo…
You’re right. I’m just like them. We may look different and live in different places, but all Moms have one thing in common: we don’t want to say goodbye. There, I said it.
I’ve been missing my kid lately. He’s not even gone and I miss him. I’m starting to wean and quite frankly, he may be ready, but I’m not. I thought I’d hate it, me being the food source for a human being. “Gross,” I’d think to myself. Especially after I saw that lady walking through Target nursing what looked like a tall 2 year-old or a small 37 year-old, I vowed never to be one of those freaky, crunchy, Moms who can’t let her kids go. But now that I have to start letting him go, I’m overcome with sadness and despair and the overwhelming notion that I don’t want to say…well I’m not ready yet.
It’s not about the weaning. He’ll be fine; so will I. I’ll have more freedom and anyway, the timing is right. My kid doesn’t know the difference; he won’t miss it. Nothing worse than a baby whose got to wean its Mom. It’s supposed to be the other way around, but some Moms get too close. They need to be needed. But I fear becoming interchangeable, just another on the long list of people who adore him. I never thought I’d get so attached, but since we were attached, it makes sense.
Modern Moms aren’t supposed to miss their kids. We’re not even supposed to like being around them. We’re supposed to hate breastfeeding, worship our nannies before God, and describe our parenting strategy as “Here ya go!” As we long to pass off our child to anybody with a pair of open arms.
But that’s not how it happened for me. Don’t get me wrong. I do actually worship my nanny, but she’s not a replacement for me, she’s an addition. Another set of arms so I’m not “on” all the time and so that I can continue to work. But I find myself feeling a lot more 1950’s than I could have expected. Sure, I’m not wearing pearls while cooking and cleaning…
I’m obsessed with my Swiffer. Swivels and cleans, genius…
Anyway I’m not like that. But I do enjoy my time with my kid, my husband, and I don’t get bored of either. And while I like my time at work or going out with friends, I find a disproportionate amount of that time is spent missing my kid. Then, suddenly I feel like I’m back in 1950, the little Missus, referring to herself as a “we” when talking about her child.
Motherhood is as lifetime of goodbyes. From the moment your child is born, it’s no longer just the two of you. And for every milestone your child crosses, he or she becomes less and less a child, more and more his or her own person. The weaning lasts a lifetime. The goodbyes are endless and there’s a loss every time. And while Motherhood forces you to say goodbye to your freedom, your sleep, sometimes even your waistline, you can live with those losses. But from the second you have your child; you feel like you’re already saying goodbye. A child is just passing through, yours only to nurture, not to hang on to without letting go.
I swear my Mom cries every time she sees me. We don’t live close so we’re always saying goodbye, me always laughing as she wells up, mascara cascading down her cheeks. “Moooooom,” I say as I roll my eyes while mock singing “Sunrise/Sunset.” But now that I have a kid, I can see that my Mom cries when she sees me because she knows that she’s also going to have to say goodbye. She had a career, an active social life, a long marriage, and still, she dreads saying goodbye to her kids.
It may not be politically correct, it may make me less edgy and hip, but I’ll miss my kid every day of my life. My success as a parent will be marked by his ability to say goodbye to me and by my lack of desire to say goodbye to him. I’ll do it when I have to. I’ll say it. I just won’t be happy about it.
Motherhood is a raw deal, the short end of the stick. It’s a lifetime of goodbyes, thousands to be precise. I’ll dread each and every one. I’ll long to have him back, but will begrudgingly let him go. He’ll laugh and roll his eyes, but at least I’ll have said it.
That reminds me, I’ve got to get my kid’s scrapbook together, he’s almost a year and if I don’t do it now, then I’ll never…
Well anyway, I’m not like them. Those are the kind of Moms who cut their hair short the second the kid is born…
That’s what I forgot to do, make a haircut appointment. If this kid pulls out anymore, I’ll be bald. Now, I just look like I’ve got payus…
Well anyway, I’m not like that. I have a life of my own. I’m not just someone’s Mom; I’m my own person. For the record, I’m never ever going to be referred to as “Mommy”, that’s so…
The sweetest thing happened, my kid is trying to talk. He almost said my name. I can’t wait until I hear his voice when he says Mo…
You’re right. I’m just like them. We may look different and live in different places, but all Moms have one thing in common: we don’t want to say goodbye. There, I said it.
I’ve been missing my kid lately. He’s not even gone and I miss him. I’m starting to wean and quite frankly, he may be ready, but I’m not. I thought I’d hate it, me being the food source for a human being. “Gross,” I’d think to myself. Especially after I saw that lady walking through Target nursing what looked like a tall 2 year-old or a small 37 year-old, I vowed never to be one of those freaky, crunchy, Moms who can’t let her kids go. But now that I have to start letting him go, I’m overcome with sadness and despair and the overwhelming notion that I don’t want to say…well I’m not ready yet.
It’s not about the weaning. He’ll be fine; so will I. I’ll have more freedom and anyway, the timing is right. My kid doesn’t know the difference; he won’t miss it. Nothing worse than a baby whose got to wean its Mom. It’s supposed to be the other way around, but some Moms get too close. They need to be needed. But I fear becoming interchangeable, just another on the long list of people who adore him. I never thought I’d get so attached, but since we were attached, it makes sense.
Modern Moms aren’t supposed to miss their kids. We’re not even supposed to like being around them. We’re supposed to hate breastfeeding, worship our nannies before God, and describe our parenting strategy as “Here ya go!” As we long to pass off our child to anybody with a pair of open arms.
But that’s not how it happened for me. Don’t get me wrong. I do actually worship my nanny, but she’s not a replacement for me, she’s an addition. Another set of arms so I’m not “on” all the time and so that I can continue to work. But I find myself feeling a lot more 1950’s than I could have expected. Sure, I’m not wearing pearls while cooking and cleaning…
I’m obsessed with my Swiffer. Swivels and cleans, genius…
Anyway I’m not like that. But I do enjoy my time with my kid, my husband, and I don’t get bored of either. And while I like my time at work or going out with friends, I find a disproportionate amount of that time is spent missing my kid. Then, suddenly I feel like I’m back in 1950, the little Missus, referring to herself as a “we” when talking about her child.
Motherhood is as lifetime of goodbyes. From the moment your child is born, it’s no longer just the two of you. And for every milestone your child crosses, he or she becomes less and less a child, more and more his or her own person. The weaning lasts a lifetime. The goodbyes are endless and there’s a loss every time. And while Motherhood forces you to say goodbye to your freedom, your sleep, sometimes even your waistline, you can live with those losses. But from the second you have your child; you feel like you’re already saying goodbye. A child is just passing through, yours only to nurture, not to hang on to without letting go.
I swear my Mom cries every time she sees me. We don’t live close so we’re always saying goodbye, me always laughing as she wells up, mascara cascading down her cheeks. “Moooooom,” I say as I roll my eyes while mock singing “Sunrise/Sunset.” But now that I have a kid, I can see that my Mom cries when she sees me because she knows that she’s also going to have to say goodbye. She had a career, an active social life, a long marriage, and still, she dreads saying goodbye to her kids.
It may not be politically correct, it may make me less edgy and hip, but I’ll miss my kid every day of my life. My success as a parent will be marked by his ability to say goodbye to me and by my lack of desire to say goodbye to him. I’ll do it when I have to. I’ll say it. I just won’t be happy about it.
Motherhood is a raw deal, the short end of the stick. It’s a lifetime of goodbyes, thousands to be precise. I’ll dread each and every one. I’ll long to have him back, but will begrudgingly let him go. He’ll laugh and roll his eyes, but at least I’ll have said it.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
MY NEW BRA
It’s late, time for guilty pleasure TV viewing. Since “Bret Michels Rock of Love” is on hiatus, I’m mainlining Pirate’s Booty and am instead watching Kathy Griffin’s show on Bravo. Kathy’s Mom is getting a new bra, her first in 17 years. Mom wants to tell everyone about it. She’ll even show you if you ask. She didn’t know she needed one, but once she got her new bra, she realized how long it had been, how long she’d needed to make the change. 17 years is a long time.
I’m about to go onstage. It’s the first time I’ll have “performed” in front of an audience since I quit being a failed actor. I’m about to read an essay I had published earlier this year on the stage of a theatre I had performed on so many times before, performing someone else’s lines. Now, it’s just me and a music stand, an audience, and my own words. I started acting 17 years ago. 17 years is a long time.
I didn’t so much as quit; I just stopped trying. I could deal with the poverty; I just couldn’t deal with dreading any annual event where someone I’d known since I was 6 might politely ask, “What’s new?” To which I could only respond, “Nothing.” The universal remote control of my life was on “Pause” and I wanted to be on “Play.” Then I got to an age where standing still, without any progress, just stuck in effort, was no longer cute. And so I just sort of stopped.
“I’m listening to the world,” I’d tell my actor friends who’d look at me like I was mainlining more than snacks. “Sometimes you’ve got to listen to the world. Chances are it’s telling you something.” Once I listened, I heard the world say, “It’s not happening.” And so, like that, I was no longer an actor, and became a failed actor, not on strike, but quit for good.
I come from a long line of non-quitters, live in a city full of dreamers who don’t quit things unless they’re married to them, living in a country, which promises rewards to anyone who works hard. But the truth is, you can work as hard as you want, and if you’re working at the wrong thing, you might as well have never tried. It’s hard work to admit your failings and listen long enough to know when it’s not happening and never will. Whether it be a job, a friendship, or a romance, sometimes it’s just not gonna happen no matter what you do. The biggest effort is being willing to close doors, say no to a dream, and no longer have the option of coming back. It’s an effort to change.
I don’t mind admitting that I failed. I don’t mind because I worked hard and then, maybe a little too late, realized it wasn’t happening. My life will be as much marked by the doors I’ve closed, the people I’ve said goodbye to, the dreams I’ve traded in for new ones as it will be marked by the things I accomplish. If there’s anything I’m proud of, it’s knowing when to quit and being willing to make a change. It’s hard to admit we’re not who we were, not good at what we wanted to be good at, or haven’t achieved what we think we should. It’s hard to look in the mirror and give yourself an honest glance and admit that your life is as ill a fit as that 17 year-old bra.
I’ve just gotten offstage. I’ve performed here a million times, but tonight I’m a writer reading my own stuff. My husband and a buddy are waiting for me in the lobby. There’s the inevitable high fives and “good jobs”. I look back at the theatre where I’d performed so many times. It’s nice to revisit my old life and even nicer to leave. My husband pulls the car around. I hop in, turn back to my old stomping grounds and can’t help but think, “I’m so glad I’m not an actor.” 17 years is a long time.
I’m about to go onstage. It’s the first time I’ll have “performed” in front of an audience since I quit being a failed actor. I’m about to read an essay I had published earlier this year on the stage of a theatre I had performed on so many times before, performing someone else’s lines. Now, it’s just me and a music stand, an audience, and my own words. I started acting 17 years ago. 17 years is a long time.
I didn’t so much as quit; I just stopped trying. I could deal with the poverty; I just couldn’t deal with dreading any annual event where someone I’d known since I was 6 might politely ask, “What’s new?” To which I could only respond, “Nothing.” The universal remote control of my life was on “Pause” and I wanted to be on “Play.” Then I got to an age where standing still, without any progress, just stuck in effort, was no longer cute. And so I just sort of stopped.
“I’m listening to the world,” I’d tell my actor friends who’d look at me like I was mainlining more than snacks. “Sometimes you’ve got to listen to the world. Chances are it’s telling you something.” Once I listened, I heard the world say, “It’s not happening.” And so, like that, I was no longer an actor, and became a failed actor, not on strike, but quit for good.
I come from a long line of non-quitters, live in a city full of dreamers who don’t quit things unless they’re married to them, living in a country, which promises rewards to anyone who works hard. But the truth is, you can work as hard as you want, and if you’re working at the wrong thing, you might as well have never tried. It’s hard work to admit your failings and listen long enough to know when it’s not happening and never will. Whether it be a job, a friendship, or a romance, sometimes it’s just not gonna happen no matter what you do. The biggest effort is being willing to close doors, say no to a dream, and no longer have the option of coming back. It’s an effort to change.
I don’t mind admitting that I failed. I don’t mind because I worked hard and then, maybe a little too late, realized it wasn’t happening. My life will be as much marked by the doors I’ve closed, the people I’ve said goodbye to, the dreams I’ve traded in for new ones as it will be marked by the things I accomplish. If there’s anything I’m proud of, it’s knowing when to quit and being willing to make a change. It’s hard to admit we’re not who we were, not good at what we wanted to be good at, or haven’t achieved what we think we should. It’s hard to look in the mirror and give yourself an honest glance and admit that your life is as ill a fit as that 17 year-old bra.
I’ve just gotten offstage. I’ve performed here a million times, but tonight I’m a writer reading my own stuff. My husband and a buddy are waiting for me in the lobby. There’s the inevitable high fives and “good jobs”. I look back at the theatre where I’d performed so many times. It’s nice to revisit my old life and even nicer to leave. My husband pulls the car around. I hop in, turn back to my old stomping grounds and can’t help but think, “I’m so glad I’m not an actor.” 17 years is a long time.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
HUSBAND PROOFING
It’s late. We’re watching TV. There’s a beer commercial or another interchangeable ad in which the girl is unattainably hot. The guy is a doofus bordering on…my husband interrupts, “Why does every ad make the guys look like morons?”
“Research,” I reply.
My front door is open. There’s the unmistakable smell of carcinogens. Something’s burning and yet no one’s home. The images in my head are Movie Of The Week worthy. A torch-bearing bandit played by the actor who plays “Bo” on Days of Our Lives, takes my husband and kid. Maybe Valerie Bertenelli plays me, hopefully in her skinny phase so people don’t think I’ve let myself go.
I follow the smell of fire to the kitchen. No fire here, just a pot of water left burning on the stove, next to it 3 uncooked eggs. No bandit here, just one husband, who started something, which had the potential to burn my house down, without finishing it.
We have a lot of these incidents in our house. Ever since the baby came, I feel like I’m following him around, my husband not the baby, making sure everything is safe for him, my baby not my husband, so that I don’t have one more reason to be up all night grinding my teeth down to sandstone. Ovens are rarely turned off and safety gates usually left open. Toilet seat safety locks remain unlocked without fail and our floor is a smorgasbord of hazards like coins, shoes, and dry cleaning bags, all of which are met with a gleam in my son’s eyes as he thinks to himself, “I wonder what that plastic bag tastes like?” You see while my house is baby proofed, I can’t figure out a way to husband proof.
I’m faced with two choices: put on an orange vest and become the family default Safety Patrol or nag. Trust me, every woman gets accused of nagging, every man distracted to forgetfulness. As far as I can tell, no woman wants to spend her time reminding her husband about the minutia of life. Truth be told, for every nagging wife, there’s a husband who forgot to finish what he started. I can’t help but wonder, which came first, the chicken or the eggs left burning on the stove?
Before you think that I think I’m perfect, I don’t. It’s just that my flaws won’t say…kill our kid. And before you think I believe all men are actually morons, I don’t. They’re just very distracted. We all are.
I can’t remember a time when my husband and son were playing together when a Blackberry, a magazine, or a computer weren’t involved. Technology, it seems, makes us feel like everything coming in is important, timely, must be handled immediately. The Blackberry buzzes “Incoming!” and we feel like we’ll miss the boat and be passed up by some other colleague or friend who’s armed with their technology all the time. Time spent with our kids feels like wasted time, we’re not “getting things done.” But isn’t the whole point of technology to free us up so we aren’t locked in an office, unable to spend time with our own families? We’re distracting our lives away to the point of missing out.
Drive down the street you’ll see a Mom driving a Suburban full of kids yet she’ll be texting while driving like she’s 16 year-old trying to find directions to the kegger. Go to a park on any afternoon and most parents, Moms and Dads, will have half their attention on their kids, the other half on the cell phone call they’ve been on for the past hour. Look around a busy restaurant, you won’t find a table where at least one patron doesn’t have their head down, hands under the table, answering emails or texts that need “immediate attention.”
All parents will face a day when we’ll go to kiss our kids and they’ll push our face away, roll their eyes, and squirm out of our reach. They’ll dread spending time us for fear that they’ll miss an email, or won’t be able to get anything done while wasting time with Mom and Dad. We’ll long to have the moments back of uninterrupted kid time, which we squandered adding friends to our Facebook page or checking our stock portfolio on our iPhone.
TV Dads are portrayed as morons, but in truth we’re all morons if we miss out on our own lives. It’s a lot of pressure having a family, whether you’re the primary earner or the primary caretaker, but it takes discipline to turn off that pressure and show up for your own life. It takes discipline to unplug, unclog, and turn off whatever beckons, “Incoming!” and be with your family, friends, and loved ones long enough to cook breakfast without burning the house down or drive down the street without turning your car into a death bomb because you just “had to answer that text.” And while it seems like “getting things done” is moving our families further forward, sometimes the real forward movement is standing still, spending uninterrupted, distraction free time with the people we love. There’s a lot of discipline in doing nothing.
We’re watching TV. It’s a beer commercial or another interchangeable ad in which the girl is unattainably hot. The guy is a doofus bordering on…my husband interrupts, “Why does every ad make the guys look like morons?”
I think for a moment, grab the remote, “I don’t know,” I tell him as I turn off the TV, roll over, and snuggle into my spot. We’re foot-to- foot, cheek-to-cheek, doing nothing. Minutes feel like hours when you’re doing nothing. We’ve got time on our hands, just to be together. That's forward motion.
“Research,” I reply.
My front door is open. There’s the unmistakable smell of carcinogens. Something’s burning and yet no one’s home. The images in my head are Movie Of The Week worthy. A torch-bearing bandit played by the actor who plays “Bo” on Days of Our Lives, takes my husband and kid. Maybe Valerie Bertenelli plays me, hopefully in her skinny phase so people don’t think I’ve let myself go.
I follow the smell of fire to the kitchen. No fire here, just a pot of water left burning on the stove, next to it 3 uncooked eggs. No bandit here, just one husband, who started something, which had the potential to burn my house down, without finishing it.
We have a lot of these incidents in our house. Ever since the baby came, I feel like I’m following him around, my husband not the baby, making sure everything is safe for him, my baby not my husband, so that I don’t have one more reason to be up all night grinding my teeth down to sandstone. Ovens are rarely turned off and safety gates usually left open. Toilet seat safety locks remain unlocked without fail and our floor is a smorgasbord of hazards like coins, shoes, and dry cleaning bags, all of which are met with a gleam in my son’s eyes as he thinks to himself, “I wonder what that plastic bag tastes like?” You see while my house is baby proofed, I can’t figure out a way to husband proof.
I’m faced with two choices: put on an orange vest and become the family default Safety Patrol or nag. Trust me, every woman gets accused of nagging, every man distracted to forgetfulness. As far as I can tell, no woman wants to spend her time reminding her husband about the minutia of life. Truth be told, for every nagging wife, there’s a husband who forgot to finish what he started. I can’t help but wonder, which came first, the chicken or the eggs left burning on the stove?
Before you think that I think I’m perfect, I don’t. It’s just that my flaws won’t say…kill our kid. And before you think I believe all men are actually morons, I don’t. They’re just very distracted. We all are.
I can’t remember a time when my husband and son were playing together when a Blackberry, a magazine, or a computer weren’t involved. Technology, it seems, makes us feel like everything coming in is important, timely, must be handled immediately. The Blackberry buzzes “Incoming!” and we feel like we’ll miss the boat and be passed up by some other colleague or friend who’s armed with their technology all the time. Time spent with our kids feels like wasted time, we’re not “getting things done.” But isn’t the whole point of technology to free us up so we aren’t locked in an office, unable to spend time with our own families? We’re distracting our lives away to the point of missing out.
Drive down the street you’ll see a Mom driving a Suburban full of kids yet she’ll be texting while driving like she’s 16 year-old trying to find directions to the kegger. Go to a park on any afternoon and most parents, Moms and Dads, will have half their attention on their kids, the other half on the cell phone call they’ve been on for the past hour. Look around a busy restaurant, you won’t find a table where at least one patron doesn’t have their head down, hands under the table, answering emails or texts that need “immediate attention.”
All parents will face a day when we’ll go to kiss our kids and they’ll push our face away, roll their eyes, and squirm out of our reach. They’ll dread spending time us for fear that they’ll miss an email, or won’t be able to get anything done while wasting time with Mom and Dad. We’ll long to have the moments back of uninterrupted kid time, which we squandered adding friends to our Facebook page or checking our stock portfolio on our iPhone.
TV Dads are portrayed as morons, but in truth we’re all morons if we miss out on our own lives. It’s a lot of pressure having a family, whether you’re the primary earner or the primary caretaker, but it takes discipline to turn off that pressure and show up for your own life. It takes discipline to unplug, unclog, and turn off whatever beckons, “Incoming!” and be with your family, friends, and loved ones long enough to cook breakfast without burning the house down or drive down the street without turning your car into a death bomb because you just “had to answer that text.” And while it seems like “getting things done” is moving our families further forward, sometimes the real forward movement is standing still, spending uninterrupted, distraction free time with the people we love. There’s a lot of discipline in doing nothing.
We’re watching TV. It’s a beer commercial or another interchangeable ad in which the girl is unattainably hot. The guy is a doofus bordering on…my husband interrupts, “Why does every ad make the guys look like morons?”
I think for a moment, grab the remote, “I don’t know,” I tell him as I turn off the TV, roll over, and snuggle into my spot. We’re foot-to- foot, cheek-to-cheek, doing nothing. Minutes feel like hours when you’re doing nothing. We’ve got time on our hands, just to be together. That's forward motion.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
CALIFORNIA ON MY MIND
My brain is full. Really. I’m starting to forget things. Not my kid’s name, I’m talking the other kind where your brain is full with crap like the age difference between Kevin and Matt Dillon or the name of all of Ron Perelman’s ex wives. Then the name Pol Pot randomly pops into your head and you find yourself unable to remember who, or what, the fuck was Pol Pot.
Hmm, Pol Pot, wasn’t he a General for the ummmmmmmm Vietnamese Army? No. Right, Pol Pot was a place in uhhhhhh Laos. Yes, Laos. No, not Laos. Didn’t I order Pol Pot last week when we went to Dim Sum? No, that was Har Gow, not Pol Pot.
See, my brain is full.
I do this for two hours, me trying to remember who Pol Pot was. I don’t dare ask my husband who’ll surely remind me that I’d know the answer were I not the product of the Public School System; the California Public school system no less. “California” is a curse word to East Coasters who often say it with a whisper or disguise it as “Out West,” that’s New York for stupid.
My husband’s a native New Yorker, “Manhattan” he’d be quick to interrupt before reminding you he’s the recipient of not one, but two Ivy League Degrees. “Double Ivy,” he’d boast. So instead of asking the Prince of Manhattan, I wait until I’m alone with my computer and ask the Prince of Technology, my beloved Google. I can’t get through a day without Googling something. But if my brain fills up with more irrelivencia like the name of Chelsea Clinton’s first boyfriend, I’m going to forget to Google and then I’ll definitely be screwed.
You see my kid, while not even a year old now, is someday going to need more from me than making sure he doesn’t bonk his head on his head or that he doesn’t spend the day with a diaper full of har gow. Right now I know everything and can solve any problem, but the kid is eventually going to start talking, which means learning and asking questions. He’s going to need to know who Pol Pot was, how the Boston Tea Party started, or the capital of Mozambique. Then I will be outed as a total, utter, complete moron; a “Californian.”
Unlike most Angelenos I do in fact read the paper. I know things. I keep up on current events, but the events I keep up on are usually in the Arts and Entertainment section. I’m not an US Magazine reader; I’m not interested in the name of Nicole Ritchie’s baby….
Harlow. Damn it! Why do I know that? Nicole Ritchie’s never had a job and yet, I, who couldn’t give a shit, know her illegitimate baby’s name. Crap, why do I know that baby Harlow is illegitimate? Why?
This is why my brain is full. While I don’t read those mags, you’d have to live under a rock to escape the current pop culture blitz we face everyday about the lives of people who’ve never actually had jobs.
For the record, I read the New Yorker for the essays and the Calendar section for the movie reviews and Vanity Fair for everything. That’s not totally moronic, is it?
The truth is, I grew up in a fairly academic, politically spirited household. We talked about politics over feelings and could debate how any current President had ruined the country. You had to know stuff, a lot of stuff, or you’d be left in the dust, passed by another kid who’d read the paper, watched the news long enough to have something to talk about with our Dad whose sole interest after talking about how horrible the weather is, is to discuss how horrible any current administration is. Knowledge is my family’s connection.
But as an adult on my own, I’ve become unconnected from their interests and connected to my own. I’ve developed my own passions and now have my own family with our own dinner table conversation, which is all well and good as long as my kid wants to know that Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe were married and that Richard Nixon covered up the White House swimming pool to make room for a tennis court. So either I’ve got some reading to do or my son is going to look elsewhere for help with his homework.
The truth is, parents want to be seen as all knowing, like we have all the answers. But in reality, we’re just learning along side our kids. While I can’t remember a time my Mom didn’t know the answer to something, there’s a good chance a few times she winged it or looked up the answer before telling me. But I can’t remember those times; I can just remember that she always had the answers. So since I’ve got 5 or so years to brush up on my facts, I’m not going to worry about it. I should probably read more than the Entertainment section of the newspaper and might want to read a book that isn’t found in the “chick lit” section of the bookstore. But at least I read, at least I’m passionate and open to learning new things. That’s a far more valuable lesson to pass on to my kid than something anyone can look up on Google. And worse comes to worse, if my kid asks me who Pol Pot was and I can’t remember, I’ll say with confidence and passion, “The Dillon Brothers are exactly one year apart.”
And for the record, Pol Pot was the Prime Minister of Cambodia and the leader of the Communist movement Khmer Rouge. I remembered that without Googling. So I guess my brain isn’t full. It's almost full, but there's still room. Now that’s California.
Hmm, Pol Pot, wasn’t he a General for the ummmmmmmm Vietnamese Army? No. Right, Pol Pot was a place in uhhhhhh Laos. Yes, Laos. No, not Laos. Didn’t I order Pol Pot last week when we went to Dim Sum? No, that was Har Gow, not Pol Pot.
See, my brain is full.
I do this for two hours, me trying to remember who Pol Pot was. I don’t dare ask my husband who’ll surely remind me that I’d know the answer were I not the product of the Public School System; the California Public school system no less. “California” is a curse word to East Coasters who often say it with a whisper or disguise it as “Out West,” that’s New York for stupid.
My husband’s a native New Yorker, “Manhattan” he’d be quick to interrupt before reminding you he’s the recipient of not one, but two Ivy League Degrees. “Double Ivy,” he’d boast. So instead of asking the Prince of Manhattan, I wait until I’m alone with my computer and ask the Prince of Technology, my beloved Google. I can’t get through a day without Googling something. But if my brain fills up with more irrelivencia like the name of Chelsea Clinton’s first boyfriend, I’m going to forget to Google and then I’ll definitely be screwed.
You see my kid, while not even a year old now, is someday going to need more from me than making sure he doesn’t bonk his head on his head or that he doesn’t spend the day with a diaper full of har gow. Right now I know everything and can solve any problem, but the kid is eventually going to start talking, which means learning and asking questions. He’s going to need to know who Pol Pot was, how the Boston Tea Party started, or the capital of Mozambique. Then I will be outed as a total, utter, complete moron; a “Californian.”
Unlike most Angelenos I do in fact read the paper. I know things. I keep up on current events, but the events I keep up on are usually in the Arts and Entertainment section. I’m not an US Magazine reader; I’m not interested in the name of Nicole Ritchie’s baby….
Harlow. Damn it! Why do I know that? Nicole Ritchie’s never had a job and yet, I, who couldn’t give a shit, know her illegitimate baby’s name. Crap, why do I know that baby Harlow is illegitimate? Why?
This is why my brain is full. While I don’t read those mags, you’d have to live under a rock to escape the current pop culture blitz we face everyday about the lives of people who’ve never actually had jobs.
For the record, I read the New Yorker for the essays and the Calendar section for the movie reviews and Vanity Fair for everything. That’s not totally moronic, is it?
The truth is, I grew up in a fairly academic, politically spirited household. We talked about politics over feelings and could debate how any current President had ruined the country. You had to know stuff, a lot of stuff, or you’d be left in the dust, passed by another kid who’d read the paper, watched the news long enough to have something to talk about with our Dad whose sole interest after talking about how horrible the weather is, is to discuss how horrible any current administration is. Knowledge is my family’s connection.
But as an adult on my own, I’ve become unconnected from their interests and connected to my own. I’ve developed my own passions and now have my own family with our own dinner table conversation, which is all well and good as long as my kid wants to know that Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe were married and that Richard Nixon covered up the White House swimming pool to make room for a tennis court. So either I’ve got some reading to do or my son is going to look elsewhere for help with his homework.
The truth is, parents want to be seen as all knowing, like we have all the answers. But in reality, we’re just learning along side our kids. While I can’t remember a time my Mom didn’t know the answer to something, there’s a good chance a few times she winged it or looked up the answer before telling me. But I can’t remember those times; I can just remember that she always had the answers. So since I’ve got 5 or so years to brush up on my facts, I’m not going to worry about it. I should probably read more than the Entertainment section of the newspaper and might want to read a book that isn’t found in the “chick lit” section of the bookstore. But at least I read, at least I’m passionate and open to learning new things. That’s a far more valuable lesson to pass on to my kid than something anyone can look up on Google. And worse comes to worse, if my kid asks me who Pol Pot was and I can’t remember, I’ll say with confidence and passion, “The Dillon Brothers are exactly one year apart.”
And for the record, Pol Pot was the Prime Minister of Cambodia and the leader of the Communist movement Khmer Rouge. I remembered that without Googling. So I guess my brain isn’t full. It's almost full, but there's still room. Now that’s California.
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