My nanny is supposed to be at work in an hour. Anytime the phone rings within an hour of an employee’s designated arrival time, I brace myself for the inevitable “Dog ate my homework” excuse for why they can’t work. I pick up the phone already canceling my plans in my head.
Instead of my French nanny’s voice, I hear a computerized voice akin to a serial killer. It’s the only voice I’ve ever heard with less charm than hers
“You…have…a…cell…to…land…line…text…coming, please…hold.”
I do.
The computerize voice then recites the text:
“Getting on a flight to Paris. Death in the family. Not my fault.”
As they say in French, c’est tout. That’s it. Three lines, 13 words, no class. You see I would feel badly if Frenchie had lost a family member, if she actually lost a family member. But young Frenchie made a Cardinal mistake, just days before, leaving a note to herself to book an Air France ticket on her parents’ miles. Either Frenchie is incredibly psychic or Frenchie’s got some explaining to do. Possibly she can text me the real story, since this one is bullshit.
Every time I get a text, I feel like I’m fifteen. Maybe that’s because texts should really only be sent by fifteen year olds. When I was a teen, I spent hours of my after school time on the phone with the same people I had just seen all day. We’d watch “Days of Our Lives” and eat Doritos, each at our own house, connected by the widespread grasp of Ma Bell. Now, fifteen year-olds spend hours on their Sidekicks or Iphones, texting back and forth, talking about nothing. Each text is stream of consciousness, diarrhea of the brain, meant to be read, responded to and deleted immediately. But that’s what you do when you’re fifteen: waste time and talk about it.
Not when you’re a grown up, with a job, being depended on. Possibly leaving the country on a moment’s notice might warrant a bit more communication than 13 impersonal words. Of course that’s probably why she sent a text, no communication.
I’ve tried to think back on where I may have gone wrong. Sure, part of this was my fault. I hired a French nanny, after all. I’m lucky she didn’t send a text that read: “I surrender.”
With every hiring and the inevitable un-hiring, I’m left picking up the pieces, wondering what I did wrong. Then I’ll talk to a friend or two, each with similar stories, each reminding me there are just a lot of crazy people in the world. Hiring a nanny is a tricky thing. Moms are supposed to thank the nanny profusely for achieving the simple task of doing her job. We’re supposed to treat a nanny like family, but she’s not expected to do so in return. We’re expected to pay on time, give healthy Christmas bonuses, but have no recourse when a nanny decides Paris beckons.
Somewhere out there is a reliable employee. Ideally she will have good English, a reliable car, and good references. But most important, hopefully she’ll have no cell phone. That way when she quits, she’ll at least have to tell me in person.
I’m sure I’ll hear from Frenchie. Undoubtedly, she’ll return in a month of two from her existential crisis in Paris, realize that it’s hard to live without an income, and will have assumed I kept her job for her. She’ll send a text:
“Back from funeral. Can work tomorrow.”
I’ll spend some time thinking of how to respond, knowing there is only one response. But unfortunately, I can’t remember how to say it in French. If only I’d paid better attention in 7th grade, I’d be able to remember how to text; “Go fuck yourself.” But since I don’t, I’ll settle for the alternative.
“Merci, mais non merci.”
Thanks but no thanks.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
FACETIME
If you were to look at my Facebook page, you would see that I have a lot of friends, over one hundred to be exact. According to the Internet, I’m connected, maybe even popular. When I first joined Facebook, on a lark sparked by curiosity, my only “friends” were people I already spoke to all the time. But with time, I found old friends to whom I hadn’t spoken in years, long lost high school or college buds all of whom I liked, but apparently not enough to stay in touch with over the years. Our lives had taken different paths, we’d gone our own ways, but are now re-united under the intimate umbrella of the world wide net.
It’s been nice to get back in touch, find out what happened to each, how life turned out. Most people’s stories seem to be the same; exploration in the form of humiliation in their 20’s, a desire to “get it together” in their early 30’s, followed by the inevitable spouse, house, and child in the early to mid to late 30’s, which brings us to now.
A few singles are hanging on, men and women alike assuring anyone who asks that they’re really, really happy with their life but if you happen to know anyone to set them up with, they’d be even really, really happier. A few marrieds are hanging on, assuring anyone who asks that they’re really, really happy with their life, but if you happen to know a good divorce attorney they’d be even really, really happier. The ones with newborns haven’t slept, the ones with toddlers haven’t sat down and the one’s whose kids are hitting double digits long for an infant or toddler, apparently tired of all the sleeping and sitting one does when their kids aren’t quite so needy. And most people seem to like their job until you ask them if they like their job, the question receiving a unanimous, no-recount on this vote needed, “No.” But still, they’re really, really happy.
The chances that I will actually see in person most of my over one hundred friends is slim to none. I barely see my friends who live five minutes from me much less the ones I haven’t seen in years. We’ll be cyber friends forever, but we’ll probably never speak to or see one another again. But I know everything about them, or at least what they put on their Facebook profile. I know what one friend had for breakfast, that another friend’s kid doesn’t sleep through the night, and where another friend traveled on Thanksgiving. I know everything about my “friends”, I just know nothing about my friends. People seem to be too busy, too overworked, too something to actually make, and (God forbid) keep a plan. Possibly, the people I know would have more time to see or speak to actual humans in person were they not spending so much time on the Internet updating their Facebook page every time they have a successful bowel movement.
The older I get, the less real friends I have. I can count on one hand the amount of friends or family members I speak to with any regularity, the number who actually know the details of my current life even less. I have friends and family members who've never come to see my child and I live down the block from two friends whom I never see. But I do know which Facebook friend is on a raw food diet, which one really like her kids’ Halloween costumes, and whose afraid to turn 40. I know the Cliffnotes of my friends lives.
I’ve enjoyed being on Facebook. It’s provided me the opportunity to find old friends whom I’d lost touch with for no other reason than we lost touch. I’ve seen photos of their children, most of whom I’ll never meet due to distance. And I’ve reconnected with a part of my life I’d long since abandoned. But I’ve come to realize that knowing someone isn’t knowing the stats of their life. Friendship isn’t catching up, it’s moving forward. So the next time I go on a raw food diet, like my kid’s Halloween costume, or have a successful b.m., I’m going to call an actual real live human person whom I consider a friend. And if I want to know their response, I’ll click on Facebook, chances are that’s where to find them.
It’s been nice to get back in touch, find out what happened to each, how life turned out. Most people’s stories seem to be the same; exploration in the form of humiliation in their 20’s, a desire to “get it together” in their early 30’s, followed by the inevitable spouse, house, and child in the early to mid to late 30’s, which brings us to now.
A few singles are hanging on, men and women alike assuring anyone who asks that they’re really, really happy with their life but if you happen to know anyone to set them up with, they’d be even really, really happier. A few marrieds are hanging on, assuring anyone who asks that they’re really, really happy with their life, but if you happen to know a good divorce attorney they’d be even really, really happier. The ones with newborns haven’t slept, the ones with toddlers haven’t sat down and the one’s whose kids are hitting double digits long for an infant or toddler, apparently tired of all the sleeping and sitting one does when their kids aren’t quite so needy. And most people seem to like their job until you ask them if they like their job, the question receiving a unanimous, no-recount on this vote needed, “No.” But still, they’re really, really happy.
The chances that I will actually see in person most of my over one hundred friends is slim to none. I barely see my friends who live five minutes from me much less the ones I haven’t seen in years. We’ll be cyber friends forever, but we’ll probably never speak to or see one another again. But I know everything about them, or at least what they put on their Facebook profile. I know what one friend had for breakfast, that another friend’s kid doesn’t sleep through the night, and where another friend traveled on Thanksgiving. I know everything about my “friends”, I just know nothing about my friends. People seem to be too busy, too overworked, too something to actually make, and (God forbid) keep a plan. Possibly, the people I know would have more time to see or speak to actual humans in person were they not spending so much time on the Internet updating their Facebook page every time they have a successful bowel movement.
The older I get, the less real friends I have. I can count on one hand the amount of friends or family members I speak to with any regularity, the number who actually know the details of my current life even less. I have friends and family members who've never come to see my child and I live down the block from two friends whom I never see. But I do know which Facebook friend is on a raw food diet, which one really like her kids’ Halloween costumes, and whose afraid to turn 40. I know the Cliffnotes of my friends lives.
I’ve enjoyed being on Facebook. It’s provided me the opportunity to find old friends whom I’d lost touch with for no other reason than we lost touch. I’ve seen photos of their children, most of whom I’ll never meet due to distance. And I’ve reconnected with a part of my life I’d long since abandoned. But I’ve come to realize that knowing someone isn’t knowing the stats of their life. Friendship isn’t catching up, it’s moving forward. So the next time I go on a raw food diet, like my kid’s Halloween costume, or have a successful b.m., I’m going to call an actual real live human person whom I consider a friend. And if I want to know their response, I’ll click on Facebook, chances are that’s where to find them.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
MISS EVENTUALLY
Excuse me, would you mind moving your cart over? That’s all I said to the woman, parked next to me, whose shopping cart is sitting in the parking spot that will soon be mine. I’m at Trader Joe’s, parking spots are a commodity and this is the last in the lot. The woman, either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t want to me hear me. She’s busy trying to figure out how to unlock her car. Apparently, in between the bulk cashews and organic lettuce, she forgot how to unlock her own car. Nonetheless, I’ve got 30 cars honking behind me, angry that I’ve held up the line, each hoping I’ll move on so they can take the spot. I ask again, Excuse me, would you mind moving your cart? She turns to me, winks, and says, “Eventually” and goes back to trying to unlock her own car.
Every time I’m at Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s, I’m faced with a similar issue. There’s always some sort of automobile altercation involving two people who in addition to loving sustainable foods, also love Range Rovers. They’ll fight to the end over the last parking spot or the last cumquat. They’ll overpay for organic air, but pass the free sample table 10-20 times saying things like, “Oooh, what’s this?” as if they haven’t already had 30 squares of free cheddar, outed only by the fact that they and the sample girl are now on a first name basis.
I’ve always thought the customers at these expensive healthy markets are so rude because they’re hungry. Tempers can rise when the last real meal you had was cooked kale and barbequed tempeh. Judgment isn’t always clear when you’re on your third day of a 47 day cleansing fast and you’ve run out of Cayenne Pepper, the sole ingredient in your fast other than jicama. People aren’t always nice when they’re hungry.
But these angry people seem to be all over the place. It’s sort of like the three years where everywhere I went I’d see either Jennifer Grey or Jeremy Piven. It got to the point where I started to consider they were the same person since they were never in the same place but one of them was always there. But now instead of Baby and Ari following me around town, angry and hungry are after me. Everywhere I go there’s someone yelling at someone.
From Election Day to yoga class, there they are. The girl who speaks in hushed tones, breathing deeply through carefully modulated breaths is the first to say “No way” when the teacher asks her to move her yoga mat to make room for another. Obama loving, No on Prop 8 voting open minded citizens duking it out in from of my polling place, neither willing to give up the closest parking spot to the building. A woman, kids in hand, screaming at the checker at Babies R Us, “I’ll wait for you outside and cut you!” also has a bumper sticker on her car that reads, “God loves us all.”
Personally, when people like Miss Eventually gives me a wink and an ignore, I want to roll down my window and say, “Well maybe eventually you should go fuck yourself.” But ever since I flipped off that huge angry man who chased me and my husband for 20 minutes through back allies and private roads only to catch up to us and scream, “Now what do you have to say?” I’ve tried to tone it down. Especially when my kid is in my car. I try to remember that it’s not my job to remind everyone else that they’re morons, chances are they already know.
It’s hard to go through life thinking there will be enough because it always feels like there won't be...enough parking spots, free samples, space to exercise. It's hard to remember to take a deep breath and remind yourself there will be more...of everything. There will be enough. And screaming at strangers or taking something away from someone else doesn’t create anything more; it just makes us feel good for a second, until something else makes us feel badly.
So when I see Miss Eventually still struggling with her car when I finish my shopping, I roll myself and my kid over, and show her how to open her car door. My husband calls me Tech support cause I can figure things out, a Mommy MacGyver if you will. Figuring out how to open a car in 2008 isn’t so tough.
The woman thanks me profusely and says she just couldn’t figure it out. I simply respond, “Oh you’d a figured it out.” And while I’m still tempted to ding her car or block her in, I just load my boy and my crap in my KidUV and go home. And while it’s not as gratifying to walk away from the opportunity to be right, getting into it is a bad idea. That kind of stuff catches up with you. Maybe not now, and maybe not a long time from now, but it catches up with you, eventually.
Every time I’m at Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s, I’m faced with a similar issue. There’s always some sort of automobile altercation involving two people who in addition to loving sustainable foods, also love Range Rovers. They’ll fight to the end over the last parking spot or the last cumquat. They’ll overpay for organic air, but pass the free sample table 10-20 times saying things like, “Oooh, what’s this?” as if they haven’t already had 30 squares of free cheddar, outed only by the fact that they and the sample girl are now on a first name basis.
I’ve always thought the customers at these expensive healthy markets are so rude because they’re hungry. Tempers can rise when the last real meal you had was cooked kale and barbequed tempeh. Judgment isn’t always clear when you’re on your third day of a 47 day cleansing fast and you’ve run out of Cayenne Pepper, the sole ingredient in your fast other than jicama. People aren’t always nice when they’re hungry.
But these angry people seem to be all over the place. It’s sort of like the three years where everywhere I went I’d see either Jennifer Grey or Jeremy Piven. It got to the point where I started to consider they were the same person since they were never in the same place but one of them was always there. But now instead of Baby and Ari following me around town, angry and hungry are after me. Everywhere I go there’s someone yelling at someone.
From Election Day to yoga class, there they are. The girl who speaks in hushed tones, breathing deeply through carefully modulated breaths is the first to say “No way” when the teacher asks her to move her yoga mat to make room for another. Obama loving, No on Prop 8 voting open minded citizens duking it out in from of my polling place, neither willing to give up the closest parking spot to the building. A woman, kids in hand, screaming at the checker at Babies R Us, “I’ll wait for you outside and cut you!” also has a bumper sticker on her car that reads, “God loves us all.”
Personally, when people like Miss Eventually gives me a wink and an ignore, I want to roll down my window and say, “Well maybe eventually you should go fuck yourself.” But ever since I flipped off that huge angry man who chased me and my husband for 20 minutes through back allies and private roads only to catch up to us and scream, “Now what do you have to say?” I’ve tried to tone it down. Especially when my kid is in my car. I try to remember that it’s not my job to remind everyone else that they’re morons, chances are they already know.
It’s hard to go through life thinking there will be enough because it always feels like there won't be...enough parking spots, free samples, space to exercise. It's hard to remember to take a deep breath and remind yourself there will be more...of everything. There will be enough. And screaming at strangers or taking something away from someone else doesn’t create anything more; it just makes us feel good for a second, until something else makes us feel badly.
So when I see Miss Eventually still struggling with her car when I finish my shopping, I roll myself and my kid over, and show her how to open her car door. My husband calls me Tech support cause I can figure things out, a Mommy MacGyver if you will. Figuring out how to open a car in 2008 isn’t so tough.
The woman thanks me profusely and says she just couldn’t figure it out. I simply respond, “Oh you’d a figured it out.” And while I’m still tempted to ding her car or block her in, I just load my boy and my crap in my KidUV and go home. And while it’s not as gratifying to walk away from the opportunity to be right, getting into it is a bad idea. That kind of stuff catches up with you. Maybe not now, and maybe not a long time from now, but it catches up with you, eventually.
Friday, November 14, 2008
ANYTHING FOR YOU
The first thought the came to mind when my son was born was, “Anything for you.” When I saw his little face, full head of hair, ten fingers and toes, all I could think was, “Anything for you.” And now, I’m standing in the Nordstrom Kid’s Shoe department hoping I didn’t say that loud enough for anyone to hear.
It happens overnight. One day, you’ve got a noodle who just eats and sleeps all day, the next you’ve got a terror who needs shoes. My kid has been toying with walking, or falling, for a while. But now he’s moved up to the big leagues, the Frankenstein walk, and he couldn’t be happier. My kid is a Walkaholic. It’s all he wants to do, unless he has the opportunity to climb, which he considers just walking turned upward.
Walking well is undoubtedly just around the corner. Walking far, coming up on its tail. And running is in my near future. I say mine because it is I who will running after he, my terror, when he discovers that running is like walking on crack. So my kid needs shoes.
Buying a kid his first shoes is a Sunrise/Sunset moment. It’s emotional. As my kid gets closer and closer to crossing each milestone, I get closer and closer to losing a good friend I fondly call, “disposable income.” This makes me emotional. Having a child is like living in Manhattan. From the second you leave the house, you’re twenty bucks poorer.
The problem isn’t just the price, it’s that I love them. One pair after another are really, really cute. It’s not just the tiny Chuck Taylor’s or the mini Ugg Boots, it’s the Prada loafers that have their own special rack with a smart sign and label. The shoes beckon me and remind me that I said, “Anything for you.”
In my mind, I know it’s silly to buy a child anything expensive. Kids like to do things like grow, lose, hurl, maim, and destroy. They don’t know the difference between Gucci and Gap and will undoubtedly not fit into either within 4.4 seconds of their purchase. But still, they’re really cute. I’m tempted. I’m just keeping my promise, “Anything for you.” Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?
I turn the loafers over and am already thinking of the explanation I’ll give my husband for spending 80 or 100 dollars on kid shoes. But they’re not 80 or 100 dollars, they’re $250. I turn them back over, look up and see a sign: Sale. Four letters have never sounded so good. You see, I had a child, not a lobotomy. The only person whose getting overpriced shoes in my house is me. I’m far less likely to grow, lose, or maim.
I feel good leaving the store with a $30 pair of shoes, a chocolate brown loafer with a smart Velcro strap and a green balloon. My kid seems far more interested in the balloon than the shoes and I am happy I didn’t give in and overspend. On the way out, I pass a woman, her cell phone, and her daughter, all three covered in Burberry. The kid is throwing a temper tantrum because she wants her Mom to get off the phone. She takes off her Burberry rain boots and throws them into the aisle. The Mom doesn’t notice as she keeps on pushing the stroller and talking on the phone. At $300 a pop for for the boots, the Mom will find that to be a very expensive phone call.
I live in LA where no one seems to have a job and everyone seems to have money. The kids are as well dressed as their parents, designer duds not out of the question. Me trying to keep up isn’t doing anything for my kid. Doing anything for him means getting over my own desire to have my kid be the best dressed and do what’s right which is to get him what he needs, not what I want him to have. Undoubtedly, I have a lifetime ahead of me of my kid telling me, “But Johnny got a Game Boy, Xbox, PSP, new Car, trip to Europe…” which will be followed by the mandatory parental answer, “Well then you should go live with Johnny.”
At some point in the conversation my kid claim I am the meanest Mom in the world and at some point I’ll believe him. But when my kid can go to college because I didn’t spend my savings trying to keep up with Johnny, he’ll someday realize his parents did do anything for him. Making sure your kids will have a secure future is doing anything. Making sure your kids look great in the process, just an added benefit.
We watch the fountain and check out Santa, but then it’s time to go home. I put my kid in the car and look down. We’re down one man, one shoe gone. We owned the shoes for 30 minutes. That’s a buck a minute. My son’s feet charge more than some call girls. And while buying the shoes again is pricey, the time together is priceless, even if I did just buy a $30 balloon.
It happens overnight. One day, you’ve got a noodle who just eats and sleeps all day, the next you’ve got a terror who needs shoes. My kid has been toying with walking, or falling, for a while. But now he’s moved up to the big leagues, the Frankenstein walk, and he couldn’t be happier. My kid is a Walkaholic. It’s all he wants to do, unless he has the opportunity to climb, which he considers just walking turned upward.
Walking well is undoubtedly just around the corner. Walking far, coming up on its tail. And running is in my near future. I say mine because it is I who will running after he, my terror, when he discovers that running is like walking on crack. So my kid needs shoes.
Buying a kid his first shoes is a Sunrise/Sunset moment. It’s emotional. As my kid gets closer and closer to crossing each milestone, I get closer and closer to losing a good friend I fondly call, “disposable income.” This makes me emotional. Having a child is like living in Manhattan. From the second you leave the house, you’re twenty bucks poorer.
The problem isn’t just the price, it’s that I love them. One pair after another are really, really cute. It’s not just the tiny Chuck Taylor’s or the mini Ugg Boots, it’s the Prada loafers that have their own special rack with a smart sign and label. The shoes beckon me and remind me that I said, “Anything for you.”
In my mind, I know it’s silly to buy a child anything expensive. Kids like to do things like grow, lose, hurl, maim, and destroy. They don’t know the difference between Gucci and Gap and will undoubtedly not fit into either within 4.4 seconds of their purchase. But still, they’re really cute. I’m tempted. I’m just keeping my promise, “Anything for you.” Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?
I turn the loafers over and am already thinking of the explanation I’ll give my husband for spending 80 or 100 dollars on kid shoes. But they’re not 80 or 100 dollars, they’re $250. I turn them back over, look up and see a sign: Sale. Four letters have never sounded so good. You see, I had a child, not a lobotomy. The only person whose getting overpriced shoes in my house is me. I’m far less likely to grow, lose, or maim.
I feel good leaving the store with a $30 pair of shoes, a chocolate brown loafer with a smart Velcro strap and a green balloon. My kid seems far more interested in the balloon than the shoes and I am happy I didn’t give in and overspend. On the way out, I pass a woman, her cell phone, and her daughter, all three covered in Burberry. The kid is throwing a temper tantrum because she wants her Mom to get off the phone. She takes off her Burberry rain boots and throws them into the aisle. The Mom doesn’t notice as she keeps on pushing the stroller and talking on the phone. At $300 a pop for for the boots, the Mom will find that to be a very expensive phone call.
I live in LA where no one seems to have a job and everyone seems to have money. The kids are as well dressed as their parents, designer duds not out of the question. Me trying to keep up isn’t doing anything for my kid. Doing anything for him means getting over my own desire to have my kid be the best dressed and do what’s right which is to get him what he needs, not what I want him to have. Undoubtedly, I have a lifetime ahead of me of my kid telling me, “But Johnny got a Game Boy, Xbox, PSP, new Car, trip to Europe…” which will be followed by the mandatory parental answer, “Well then you should go live with Johnny.”
At some point in the conversation my kid claim I am the meanest Mom in the world and at some point I’ll believe him. But when my kid can go to college because I didn’t spend my savings trying to keep up with Johnny, he’ll someday realize his parents did do anything for him. Making sure your kids will have a secure future is doing anything. Making sure your kids look great in the process, just an added benefit.
We watch the fountain and check out Santa, but then it’s time to go home. I put my kid in the car and look down. We’re down one man, one shoe gone. We owned the shoes for 30 minutes. That’s a buck a minute. My son’s feet charge more than some call girls. And while buying the shoes again is pricey, the time together is priceless, even if I did just buy a $30 balloon.
Friday, October 31, 2008
OPEN DOOR POLICY
I’m surprisingly handy. It comes from growing up in a do-it-yourself, this knowledge will build character, kind of family. Character building is the term parents use to justify slave labor. When I was 7 my Dad and I were the President, Vice-President and only members of our synagogue’s landscaping committee. At first-grade, I could boast built character, not to mention a keen understanding of how long it takes for a small child to plant 200 junipers. And unlike my husband who grew up in a Manhattan townhouse with more staff working in his house than people who lived in it, I grew up the youngest of three girls; I was the staff. So that’s why I’m doing surgery on my son’s $1000 Stroller System, which is on the fritz and determined to build my character, more.
For those not member's of the baby world’s Sorority, Kappa Kappa Overspending, a Stroller System is merely an overpriced stroller. For $1000, a stroller becomes a “system” giving owners the opportunity to both feel like a total and complete asshole for paying so much for a stroller and the feeling of superiority over those parents who didn’t. Currently, my son’s System is in the sick bay with two flat tires complete with air pump that neither pumps nor supplies air, an adjustable handle bar that won’t adjust, and a handle bar grip that looks like its been chewed to bits by a very angry wolf.
But with the $1000 purchase and the feeling of superiority, also come something only System owners get: real live customer service. I’ve received replacement parts for those not working from Claire, an actual human on the other end of customerservice@expensivestrollersystem.com. We’ve even had a back and forth email exchange, me wondering why I can’t follow the supposedly very easy directions that accompanied my System’s replacement parts and why my hands are too big to properly work the L-shaped Aika style wrench clearly made for small children working in coal mines.
To: customerserivce@expensivestrollersystem.com
Re: Replacement Parts
Dear Claire:
Thanks so much for the parts. My only question regarding the “easy to remove cup holder,” is: how do you define easy?
To: Meredith@overpaid.com
Re Re: Replacement Parts
Dear Meredith:
You may need a hammer, mallet, flat-head screwdriver, Phillips-head screwdriver, a wrecking ball, and a tetanus shot but otherwise the screws should come out after a couple of hours.
You should know that unless a hammer has a Gucci symbol on it, my husband isn’t interested. So I’m on my own figuring this one out. I’ve been at it for a couple hours, me now fairly certain that I might define the word easy a bit differently than my new best friend on the other end of customer service.
Hour three turns into hour four. I’m now cursing directly at my tiny little Aika wrench, Fucking piece of shit, I yell as I give in to the notion that I’m not as handy as previously thought. But before I can yell directly at the System itself, my kid, who by the way can’t walk, crawls by without even a glance my way, climbs himself up the wall so he’s standing like Spider-Man, opens the door and crawls out into the front yard. A Toddler who can’t walk figured out how to escape and I can’t unscrew a screw? I think to myself. This System will not beat me! I say now more determined than ever to finish my mission.
I end my kid’s self-proclaimed liberation and put him to bed, deciding to spend the rest of the evening fixing my System. I’ll open a bottle of wine, watch something stupid on TV, and fix this damned thing, I think. But when I search for the corkscrew, I can’t find it. Instead, I find every cabinet in my kitchen open, a Tupperware massacre occurring on my floor. I go to turn on the TV but the remote has been altered, the TV no longer turns on. In fact, I look around the house and nearly every bit of baby-proofing has been removed, the contents of each cabinet strewn about. I’ve been baby-ransacked! I realize. It seems that I’m not the only Handy Andy in the house, I’ve given birth to a modern day McGyver.
In fact, spend time with any one-year-old and it is clear they are far smarter than their parents. When my son doesn’t like his dinner, he hides it in his pockets, smiling like a Cheshire cat. He may have a toy cell phone and a fake set of keys, but he wants the real thing, knows the difference, and can call Tanzania with the flip of a few cordless phone buttons. He can un-babyproof a house faster than I can say, Watch out, that’s sharp! And he can tell when I’m hiding vegetables in his food even if he can’t see them.
The only thing he hasn’t figured out is how to do is quit. He’s tenacious, has his eyes on the prize and is determined to acquire the phone, remote, or computer no matter where I hide them. He’s figured out how to open doors and how to hide food, and he’s even figuring out how to walk. So if my kid isn’t a quitter, than I won’t be a quitter. And since I figured how to fix our rooftop satellite dish when I was 8 months pregnant (no Gucci on the dish, husband wasn’t interested), fixed our water heater without any prior plumbing knowledge, and repaired all our TVs after the geniuses at Direct TV “fixed” them, I can figure out how to mend a Stroller System desperately in need of repair.
If not, I’ll just ask my kid who seems to know everything. Just today, he figured out how to flush a toilet. Maybe next, he’ll teach his Dad.
For those not member's of the baby world’s Sorority, Kappa Kappa Overspending, a Stroller System is merely an overpriced stroller. For $1000, a stroller becomes a “system” giving owners the opportunity to both feel like a total and complete asshole for paying so much for a stroller and the feeling of superiority over those parents who didn’t. Currently, my son’s System is in the sick bay with two flat tires complete with air pump that neither pumps nor supplies air, an adjustable handle bar that won’t adjust, and a handle bar grip that looks like its been chewed to bits by a very angry wolf.
But with the $1000 purchase and the feeling of superiority, also come something only System owners get: real live customer service. I’ve received replacement parts for those not working from Claire, an actual human on the other end of customerservice@expensivestrollersystem.com. We’ve even had a back and forth email exchange, me wondering why I can’t follow the supposedly very easy directions that accompanied my System’s replacement parts and why my hands are too big to properly work the L-shaped Aika style wrench clearly made for small children working in coal mines.
To: customerserivce@expensivestrollersystem.com
Re: Replacement Parts
Dear Claire:
Thanks so much for the parts. My only question regarding the “easy to remove cup holder,” is: how do you define easy?
To: Meredith@overpaid.com
Re Re: Replacement Parts
Dear Meredith:
You may need a hammer, mallet, flat-head screwdriver, Phillips-head screwdriver, a wrecking ball, and a tetanus shot but otherwise the screws should come out after a couple of hours.
You should know that unless a hammer has a Gucci symbol on it, my husband isn’t interested. So I’m on my own figuring this one out. I’ve been at it for a couple hours, me now fairly certain that I might define the word easy a bit differently than my new best friend on the other end of customer service.
Hour three turns into hour four. I’m now cursing directly at my tiny little Aika wrench, Fucking piece of shit, I yell as I give in to the notion that I’m not as handy as previously thought. But before I can yell directly at the System itself, my kid, who by the way can’t walk, crawls by without even a glance my way, climbs himself up the wall so he’s standing like Spider-Man, opens the door and crawls out into the front yard. A Toddler who can’t walk figured out how to escape and I can’t unscrew a screw? I think to myself. This System will not beat me! I say now more determined than ever to finish my mission.
I end my kid’s self-proclaimed liberation and put him to bed, deciding to spend the rest of the evening fixing my System. I’ll open a bottle of wine, watch something stupid on TV, and fix this damned thing, I think. But when I search for the corkscrew, I can’t find it. Instead, I find every cabinet in my kitchen open, a Tupperware massacre occurring on my floor. I go to turn on the TV but the remote has been altered, the TV no longer turns on. In fact, I look around the house and nearly every bit of baby-proofing has been removed, the contents of each cabinet strewn about. I’ve been baby-ransacked! I realize. It seems that I’m not the only Handy Andy in the house, I’ve given birth to a modern day McGyver.
In fact, spend time with any one-year-old and it is clear they are far smarter than their parents. When my son doesn’t like his dinner, he hides it in his pockets, smiling like a Cheshire cat. He may have a toy cell phone and a fake set of keys, but he wants the real thing, knows the difference, and can call Tanzania with the flip of a few cordless phone buttons. He can un-babyproof a house faster than I can say, Watch out, that’s sharp! And he can tell when I’m hiding vegetables in his food even if he can’t see them.
The only thing he hasn’t figured out is how to do is quit. He’s tenacious, has his eyes on the prize and is determined to acquire the phone, remote, or computer no matter where I hide them. He’s figured out how to open doors and how to hide food, and he’s even figuring out how to walk. So if my kid isn’t a quitter, than I won’t be a quitter. And since I figured how to fix our rooftop satellite dish when I was 8 months pregnant (no Gucci on the dish, husband wasn’t interested), fixed our water heater without any prior plumbing knowledge, and repaired all our TVs after the geniuses at Direct TV “fixed” them, I can figure out how to mend a Stroller System desperately in need of repair.
If not, I’ll just ask my kid who seems to know everything. Just today, he figured out how to flush a toilet. Maybe next, he’ll teach his Dad.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
PRE-SCHOOL'D
I swear I’m still crowning when a friend asks me where I’m going to apply to Pre-School. She’s just put her kid on the list for Sunshine, Sunlight, Sunstroke, I can’t remember the name, but apparently it is THE school in LA. The same parents who want their toddlers to go to Pre-Schools that boast independent thinking as part of the curriculum, have to go to THE haircutter, THE pediatrician, THE baby store. So it comes as no surprise that Angelenos want their kids to go to THE Pre-School.
“You know,” my friend warns not moments after I’ve been stitched up and introduced to my 4- second old child, “Fetus’ are turned down for applying too late.”
I know Pre-School is a big deal. I want my now 5-second old child to go having always had fond memories of my own Pre-School experience, but I guess I thought I had a few months, even longer before worrying if he’s going to get into THE school so he can learn to sit in a circle without picking his nose. But I live in LA where being competitive is a competition. It’s never too early to start thinking and worrying about your child’s future and how you’ve ruined it. So with a child not yet days old, my Pre-School panic attack begins.
I talk to friends who have been through the process with their own children. Each suggests I go see Claire Duncan Hayes, Los Angeles’ Pre-School Guru. So I make the drive across town to her Pre-School Workshop. She’s helpful, informative, and frank.
After some introductions, Claire gets down to the real reason we’re all here. We want to know how to get our kid into Sunshine, Sunlight, or Sunstroke. We want to know how to get into THE school that can start our children’s futures off right.
“You” she says without looking up, “You, the Jew from the entertainment business whose kid has a weird name.” she continues again without looking up. No one answers.
That’s all of us, I offer.
“Exactly,” she says. “LA is about as diverse as Buckingham Palace. These schools want someone who adds something different to the experience. None of you are getting in,” she says without apology. “Unless…” she says while looking around the room. “Unless you can stand out.”
Claire spends the next 20 minutes talking about diversity, which is the LA Pre-School buzzword. In addition to “independent thinking,” schools in Los Angeles boast diversity. It makes parents feel better about the fact that while they want their kids exposed to different types of people, they don’t want to live near them.
Suddenly, I hate being white. Worse, Jewish. Where I grew up in the suburbs of San Francisco, being Jewish was by definition diverse, but now I’m just another one of many families going to temple twice a year in between trying to balance making it in the entertainment biz and raising our oddly named children.
Then I realize just how much competition in the form of diversity this town has to offer. At the park, there are the two Moms who adopted a Laotian amputee last year on their way back from vacationing in Thailand. They can write their own ticket. There’s that damned single Dad I met at the pediatrician’s office fulfilling his dying sister’s wish to raise her child. No question there. And of course there’s the Rwandan family I met at Whole Foods who were airlifted out of their war torn homeland, brought to LA where the father happened on a winning Lotto ticket and claimed his 30 million dollars before the interpreter could even translate “You just won the lottery.” They’re rich, they’re African, and they’re in.
Damned double threats, I think to myself as Claire Duncan Hayes continues her lecture on why my son is never going to Pre-School.
And then it happens. There’s an infiltrator in what was otherwise a safe workshop filled with other families whose children’s lives are over. Diversity has exposed itself and is sitting to my left.
Just as Claire is about to go through the list of the city’s best and worst schools, the woman sitting to my left raises her hand. She and I had chatted over the cookie buffet and I learned that she lives in my neighborhood and has a boy born the day before my son.
She and I could totally be friends I think to myself before taking another Stella Doro.
But when she raises her hand and coyly asks, “Um Claire?” Claire responds yes without looking up. “What about cancer? Does that make you diverse?”
The whole room falls silent. For the first time in 3 hours, Claire makes eye contact.
“You have cancer?” Claire asks, “How wonderful!”
“And I’m pregnant,” the girl smugly adds.
“Even better,” says Claire as the rest of the participants murmur things like, “You’re so lucky!” “She’s totally getting in,” and “Nothing good ever happens to me!”
Pregnant with cancer sits gloating while writing down Claire Duncan Hayes’ suggestions for how to handle the interview process. The first being: “Don’t wear your wig to your interview.”
I can’t compete with illness or pregnancy, I lament. But I definitely can’t compete with a young Mom of two with no hair! Suddenly, I hate my hair too, one more thing about me that’s keeping my son from fulfilling his dreams.
One of the ten Jewish agents in the room raises his hand asking, “What can you do if you’re not diverse?”
Claire thinks for a second and then offers, “It’s all about what you are and who you know. So if you’re not someone special, start sucking up to your friends who are. They can help get you in.”
So that’s my angle. I may not be diverse but I am someone special. I’m my son’s Mom, I’ll always be special to him. If my kid can’t go to THE school because there are only two openings and I’m not from a remote village in Uzbekistan, well I suppose he’ll be okay. After all, I’m a Jewish kid who went to a Presbyterian Co-op Pre-School. My Mom volunteered for the day in order to offset the cost and I collected worms in the playground during outside time. I loved the worms, I loved seeing my Mom, and I loved my school, which wasn’t THE school. It was just a school.
So I decide to stop resenting all those who are diverse figuring that each Rwandan or cancer victim would pay their lotto winnings to trade places with me, my biggest worry being will my kid get into THE school, their biggest worries being far more life altering. My kid will go where he gets in, hopefully somewhere that teaches diversity and independent thinking. Regardless, he’ll still pick his nose, still have a hard time sitting in a circle, and still think is Mom is the most special person around.
“You know,” my friend warns not moments after I’ve been stitched up and introduced to my 4- second old child, “Fetus’ are turned down for applying too late.”
I know Pre-School is a big deal. I want my now 5-second old child to go having always had fond memories of my own Pre-School experience, but I guess I thought I had a few months, even longer before worrying if he’s going to get into THE school so he can learn to sit in a circle without picking his nose. But I live in LA where being competitive is a competition. It’s never too early to start thinking and worrying about your child’s future and how you’ve ruined it. So with a child not yet days old, my Pre-School panic attack begins.
I talk to friends who have been through the process with their own children. Each suggests I go see Claire Duncan Hayes, Los Angeles’ Pre-School Guru. So I make the drive across town to her Pre-School Workshop. She’s helpful, informative, and frank.
After some introductions, Claire gets down to the real reason we’re all here. We want to know how to get our kid into Sunshine, Sunlight, or Sunstroke. We want to know how to get into THE school that can start our children’s futures off right.
“You” she says without looking up, “You, the Jew from the entertainment business whose kid has a weird name.” she continues again without looking up. No one answers.
That’s all of us, I offer.
“Exactly,” she says. “LA is about as diverse as Buckingham Palace. These schools want someone who adds something different to the experience. None of you are getting in,” she says without apology. “Unless…” she says while looking around the room. “Unless you can stand out.”
Claire spends the next 20 minutes talking about diversity, which is the LA Pre-School buzzword. In addition to “independent thinking,” schools in Los Angeles boast diversity. It makes parents feel better about the fact that while they want their kids exposed to different types of people, they don’t want to live near them.
Suddenly, I hate being white. Worse, Jewish. Where I grew up in the suburbs of San Francisco, being Jewish was by definition diverse, but now I’m just another one of many families going to temple twice a year in between trying to balance making it in the entertainment biz and raising our oddly named children.
Then I realize just how much competition in the form of diversity this town has to offer. At the park, there are the two Moms who adopted a Laotian amputee last year on their way back from vacationing in Thailand. They can write their own ticket. There’s that damned single Dad I met at the pediatrician’s office fulfilling his dying sister’s wish to raise her child. No question there. And of course there’s the Rwandan family I met at Whole Foods who were airlifted out of their war torn homeland, brought to LA where the father happened on a winning Lotto ticket and claimed his 30 million dollars before the interpreter could even translate “You just won the lottery.” They’re rich, they’re African, and they’re in.
Damned double threats, I think to myself as Claire Duncan Hayes continues her lecture on why my son is never going to Pre-School.
And then it happens. There’s an infiltrator in what was otherwise a safe workshop filled with other families whose children’s lives are over. Diversity has exposed itself and is sitting to my left.
Just as Claire is about to go through the list of the city’s best and worst schools, the woman sitting to my left raises her hand. She and I had chatted over the cookie buffet and I learned that she lives in my neighborhood and has a boy born the day before my son.
She and I could totally be friends I think to myself before taking another Stella Doro.
But when she raises her hand and coyly asks, “Um Claire?” Claire responds yes without looking up. “What about cancer? Does that make you diverse?”
The whole room falls silent. For the first time in 3 hours, Claire makes eye contact.
“You have cancer?” Claire asks, “How wonderful!”
“And I’m pregnant,” the girl smugly adds.
“Even better,” says Claire as the rest of the participants murmur things like, “You’re so lucky!” “She’s totally getting in,” and “Nothing good ever happens to me!”
Pregnant with cancer sits gloating while writing down Claire Duncan Hayes’ suggestions for how to handle the interview process. The first being: “Don’t wear your wig to your interview.”
I can’t compete with illness or pregnancy, I lament. But I definitely can’t compete with a young Mom of two with no hair! Suddenly, I hate my hair too, one more thing about me that’s keeping my son from fulfilling his dreams.
One of the ten Jewish agents in the room raises his hand asking, “What can you do if you’re not diverse?”
Claire thinks for a second and then offers, “It’s all about what you are and who you know. So if you’re not someone special, start sucking up to your friends who are. They can help get you in.”
So that’s my angle. I may not be diverse but I am someone special. I’m my son’s Mom, I’ll always be special to him. If my kid can’t go to THE school because there are only two openings and I’m not from a remote village in Uzbekistan, well I suppose he’ll be okay. After all, I’m a Jewish kid who went to a Presbyterian Co-op Pre-School. My Mom volunteered for the day in order to offset the cost and I collected worms in the playground during outside time. I loved the worms, I loved seeing my Mom, and I loved my school, which wasn’t THE school. It was just a school.
So I decide to stop resenting all those who are diverse figuring that each Rwandan or cancer victim would pay their lotto winnings to trade places with me, my biggest worry being will my kid get into THE school, their biggest worries being far more life altering. My kid will go where he gets in, hopefully somewhere that teaches diversity and independent thinking. Regardless, he’ll still pick his nose, still have a hard time sitting in a circle, and still think is Mom is the most special person around.
Friday, October 17, 2008
BLEEDING HEART
Phone conversations with my Dad are short. His conversation style can best be described as concise. Full sentences are often composed solely of the words “Huh?” or “What?” And while he rarely utters the words, “How are you?” he’ll always ask, “How’s the weather?” This presents a problem for me living in Los Angeles where discussions of the weather are, in a word, redundant.
It’s fine Dad, 80 degrees and sunny.
He’s also interested in politics, his in particular. Conversations with Dad consist of 20, 30-minute political monologues I stop listening to one minute in. To say Dad is conservative in his beliefs would be an understatement. Phone calls with him often leave me wondering if “close minded” should be the Third Party.
Dad and I have been disagreeing about politics for years, decades in fact since I moved to 80 degree Los Angeles from my native suburban San Francisco. We’ve been having the same conversation for so long that I take great comfort in the repetition. I’ll remember I haven’t called in a while and pick up the phone. Dad will answer, sound cautiously happy to hear my voice, the caution only released when he realizes I haven’t called to ask for money.
Quickly, we’ll pass over the weather in favor of politics. He’ll say something ridiculously conservative, maybe blaming the world’s problems on some minority group, referring to said group with a derogatory Yiddish slur. I’ll call him Archie Bunker while reminding him we don’t live in the dark ages, he’ll call me a bleeding heart liberal, and I’ll respond with a simple, “Thank you” knowing full well he didn’t mean it as a compliment.
I find the routine of it all reassuring. In a world where there is little to count on, I know that Dad and I can have the same disagreement about politics and the state of the world no matter who’s running the country; or in Dad’s point of view, no matter who’s ruining it.
But lately, a funny thing has happened to my Dad. At 76 he’s turned, how can I put this delicately, open-minded. I figure my Mom’s been keeping something from me.
Mom, have you been putting Prozac in Dad’s oatmeal? I ask in all seriousness.
“No, but your sisters both just called and asked the same thing,” she replies as if she’s the last person in on a joke.
Well, then what have you done with my Dad? And who was the man on the phone? I ask her imaging my Dad tied up in a chair “9 to 5” style, while being forced to watch large images of Liberals ruining the world.
“Funny,” she says. “Both your sisters just asked that too.”
I give Dad a few more tries, sure that maybe our last few phone calls had been a fluke. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well and didn’t have the energy to be contrary. I mean surely he knows that children create their own social and political consciousness because of, or in spite of, their parents’. If he’s going to go on and continue listening and discussing, I might have to change my world-view.
After a few more calls I find Dad relatively easy to talk to, even interested. One time, after telling me that he knows how my husband I voted on a certain issue and I respond, “No you don’t because you never asked” he pauses, thinks for a second and then tells me I’m right. I call my Mom again.
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY DAD! I ask, but she insists that phone Dad is my Dad and that she hasn’t tampered with the witness.
My relationship with my Dad is analogous to the Homeland Security Advisory System. At various points in my life, we’ve hovered in between Red and Orange, both states of emergency. We’ve gone through periods where we didn’t speak for months to attempts at closeness that usually fail after the first, “What?” or “Huh?”. Over the past few years, we’ve co-existed at a guarded Blue, accepting and agreeing that what we do best is disagree. And we’ve disagreed our way through my 20’s, into my 30’s, through my wedding and the birth of my first child. We’ve disagreed our way into a state of bliss.
But now the man who used to say to his three daughters, “Women and Chinamen should never get behind the wheel,” is considering voting for the first viable African American Presidential candidate. The gung ho 18-year-old who fought in Korea, wept on a recent flight upon seeing two GI’s on their way to Iraq, commenting to my Mom, “I can remember being their age, I know what they’re headed to.” The once die hard Republican, now so disillusioned by a delusional President has been backed into a corner, forced to do the unthinkable, forced either not to vote or to vote for a Democrat, a black Democrat no less. Dad’s been forced to change the way he thinks which has caused me to re-think.
My view of the world, my bleeding heart has been shaped by my Dad’s closed heart. His generalizations on the world, formed in part by his own exposure to the worst of everyone as a kid growing up in the Bronx, caused him to develop a protectionist’s way of thinking. I was never a wild kid, didn’t get piercings or tattoos so I rebelled by being open-minded. Liberalism was my smoking, being a Democrat my teenage pregnancy. But with less to rebel against, I question my own beliefs wondering what I really believe in now that I don’t have to bite my nose to spite my Dad.
Phone calls with my Dad continue to be brief. With so much to agree on, there’s less to talk about. I must say I miss sparring with Dad; the discourse was our connection. But it’s also nice to know that even at 76, an old Dad can learn a new trick. Dad called the other day to tell me he’d re-considered not voting after I “Chewed him out so badly.”
What? I respond.
“I’m going to vote for your guy, just like you said I should,” he says again.
Huh? I say in disbelief.
He repeats himself then asks about the weather.
It’s fine Dad, 80 degrees and sunny, I tell him before looking outside to notice it's actually a cloudy LA day.
Dad and I are at a Low Risk Green. Everything’s fine. Everything's sunny.
It’s fine Dad, 80 degrees and sunny.
He’s also interested in politics, his in particular. Conversations with Dad consist of 20, 30-minute political monologues I stop listening to one minute in. To say Dad is conservative in his beliefs would be an understatement. Phone calls with him often leave me wondering if “close minded” should be the Third Party.
Dad and I have been disagreeing about politics for years, decades in fact since I moved to 80 degree Los Angeles from my native suburban San Francisco. We’ve been having the same conversation for so long that I take great comfort in the repetition. I’ll remember I haven’t called in a while and pick up the phone. Dad will answer, sound cautiously happy to hear my voice, the caution only released when he realizes I haven’t called to ask for money.
Quickly, we’ll pass over the weather in favor of politics. He’ll say something ridiculously conservative, maybe blaming the world’s problems on some minority group, referring to said group with a derogatory Yiddish slur. I’ll call him Archie Bunker while reminding him we don’t live in the dark ages, he’ll call me a bleeding heart liberal, and I’ll respond with a simple, “Thank you” knowing full well he didn’t mean it as a compliment.
I find the routine of it all reassuring. In a world where there is little to count on, I know that Dad and I can have the same disagreement about politics and the state of the world no matter who’s running the country; or in Dad’s point of view, no matter who’s ruining it.
But lately, a funny thing has happened to my Dad. At 76 he’s turned, how can I put this delicately, open-minded. I figure my Mom’s been keeping something from me.
Mom, have you been putting Prozac in Dad’s oatmeal? I ask in all seriousness.
“No, but your sisters both just called and asked the same thing,” she replies as if she’s the last person in on a joke.
Well, then what have you done with my Dad? And who was the man on the phone? I ask her imaging my Dad tied up in a chair “9 to 5” style, while being forced to watch large images of Liberals ruining the world.
“Funny,” she says. “Both your sisters just asked that too.”
I give Dad a few more tries, sure that maybe our last few phone calls had been a fluke. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well and didn’t have the energy to be contrary. I mean surely he knows that children create their own social and political consciousness because of, or in spite of, their parents’. If he’s going to go on and continue listening and discussing, I might have to change my world-view.
After a few more calls I find Dad relatively easy to talk to, even interested. One time, after telling me that he knows how my husband I voted on a certain issue and I respond, “No you don’t because you never asked” he pauses, thinks for a second and then tells me I’m right. I call my Mom again.
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY DAD! I ask, but she insists that phone Dad is my Dad and that she hasn’t tampered with the witness.
My relationship with my Dad is analogous to the Homeland Security Advisory System. At various points in my life, we’ve hovered in between Red and Orange, both states of emergency. We’ve gone through periods where we didn’t speak for months to attempts at closeness that usually fail after the first, “What?” or “Huh?”. Over the past few years, we’ve co-existed at a guarded Blue, accepting and agreeing that what we do best is disagree. And we’ve disagreed our way through my 20’s, into my 30’s, through my wedding and the birth of my first child. We’ve disagreed our way into a state of bliss.
But now the man who used to say to his three daughters, “Women and Chinamen should never get behind the wheel,” is considering voting for the first viable African American Presidential candidate. The gung ho 18-year-old who fought in Korea, wept on a recent flight upon seeing two GI’s on their way to Iraq, commenting to my Mom, “I can remember being their age, I know what they’re headed to.” The once die hard Republican, now so disillusioned by a delusional President has been backed into a corner, forced to do the unthinkable, forced either not to vote or to vote for a Democrat, a black Democrat no less. Dad’s been forced to change the way he thinks which has caused me to re-think.
My view of the world, my bleeding heart has been shaped by my Dad’s closed heart. His generalizations on the world, formed in part by his own exposure to the worst of everyone as a kid growing up in the Bronx, caused him to develop a protectionist’s way of thinking. I was never a wild kid, didn’t get piercings or tattoos so I rebelled by being open-minded. Liberalism was my smoking, being a Democrat my teenage pregnancy. But with less to rebel against, I question my own beliefs wondering what I really believe in now that I don’t have to bite my nose to spite my Dad.
Phone calls with my Dad continue to be brief. With so much to agree on, there’s less to talk about. I must say I miss sparring with Dad; the discourse was our connection. But it’s also nice to know that even at 76, an old Dad can learn a new trick. Dad called the other day to tell me he’d re-considered not voting after I “Chewed him out so badly.”
What? I respond.
“I’m going to vote for your guy, just like you said I should,” he says again.
Huh? I say in disbelief.
He repeats himself then asks about the weather.
It’s fine Dad, 80 degrees and sunny, I tell him before looking outside to notice it's actually a cloudy LA day.
Dad and I are at a Low Risk Green. Everything’s fine. Everything's sunny.
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