| The birds and the bees...buzz buzz buzz |
I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I was essentially raised by a wonderful and charming triumvirate of women- my mother, my aunt, and my grandmother. After my father ran off and my mom was left with two kids under the age of two, no job, and lots of bills, my aunt and my grandmother took turns taking leave from their jobs and driving down to Missouri from Ohio so they could spend a few weeks with us. They'd take care of us while my mom was working during the day and going to grad school at night. Once my mother got her degree (I was about five or so) their visits became fewer and farther between, but they both still came down for major events and holidays (like Halloween and antiques shows) and just to visit. In short, as a child I was lucky enough to have an endless supply of loving attention punctuated by a healthy dose of crazy.
I mention this just because it is leading up to my latest embarrassing incident. I know, you guys have been missing them. In any case, this is a doozy. (Blogger spellcheck doesn't recognize that word. Any suggestions?)
My grandmother and my aunt recently drove down to my mother's wee cute little house to help her clear out the rest of my stuff from my former bedroom. (After a long and weepy conversation that lasted three years, my mother finally accepted that I am not moving back home anytime soon.) The master plan was to get rid of all but a few of my precious and adorable childhood possessions, and then turn that bedroom into some sort of guest room with a New England Bed and Breakfast theme. At least, the southern Missouri conception of such a theme. But I digress.
Anyway, I chat with my family on a very regular basis, so I would get intermittent updates on the progress of the Big Dig.
"Today we framed that poster you made of Life On Jupiter..."
"Your mother cried when she found the Audrey Hepburn doll you made for Costume Design..."
"Oh! We saved your Unicef box from 3rd grade for you. You know, in case you want it for later."
And so on.
On the third day of the project, I got a weird little voicemail from my aunt. She said "Hi, sweetheart. It's me. Um. I have a story for you and I have to tell you soon because everyone else is going to pretend it never happened but I KNOW it did and...well...we'll talk about it when you call me back but CALL ME ON THE CELL and don't be surprised if I call you Kathy. That just means that they're in the room, okay? Love you. Bye bye."
At first I was sad, because my aunt had clearly gone senile since I spoke with her that morning. But I went ahead and gave her a call anyway, in case she wanted to will me something on her way out.
"Oh HELLO Kathy! HELLOOOO KATHY!" she said, upon answering. Then, to the other two, "It's KATHY. I'm going to take this on the porch."
Once her location was secure, she said "Sorry about that. I didn't want them to know it was you."
"Yeah, I figured that. What the hell is going on?"
"We were cleaning out your closet earlier...your CLOSET. Perhaps you KNOW where this is GOING."
"What?"
"Your CLOSET."
"Are you asking me if I'm gay?"
"No, no. Listen. So were were cleaning out your closet today...and we found something...that belongs to you."
"O-kaayyy. That makes sense to me. That my stuff would be in my closet."
"Yeah. So it IS your stuff, then? You weren't holding something for someone?"
(Quick mental scan- what could they find there that they would want to belong to someone else? Drugs? Porn? Firearms? Hm. Not recently. Nope.)
"No, not that I know of. What are you getting at here?"
"Well, we found something. To be more exact, your grandmother found something. On the top shelf."
Suddenly, in some poor cobwebby cavernous part of my brain, a little light began to shine. "Ohhh." I said.
"Yes. She found something and...and she wasn't sure what it was..."
The light got a little bit brighter, a little bit stronger. "Christ on a cross..." I said weakly.
"And then she accidentally dropped it on the ground."
The light started to burn my retinas and give me a twitch. "Shit. Shit shit shit shit."
"Yes! And when she dropped it, it started buzzing."
"God!"
"And the buzzing startled your grandmother and she fell off of her stepladder. She sprained her ankle."
"WHAT?? WAIT JUST A GODDAMNED MINUTE! Are you telling me that Grandma sustained an injury because she got scared because she discovered a vibrator in the top of my closet?"
"YES! YES! That's what happened! And everyone is pretending it's because she got dizzy!"
"Oh no! This is awful! Jenny, you don't understand. That vibrator was given to me as a joke."
"Listen, it's okay. I mean girls today are more comfortable with that kind of thing than we were..."
"No, that's not it!" The thing was, that vibrator WAS given to me as a joke, because it was the biggest, grossest, darkest, most anatomically correct vibrator I'd ever seen. A friend planted it in my bag once in college before I left to go home for Christmas break, and when I discovered it whilst unpacking, I laughed and then hid it in my closet. You see, I'd read far too many Seventeen Magazine and Cosmo stories about embarrassing events involving sex toys to leave that thing out and about and vulnerable like that. Next thing I knew my dog would be carrying it out in her mouth at our Christmas party or something. No chance. So I hid it in my closet in, oh, 2001? And there it stayed until the fall of 2006, when my grandmother found it, dropped it, and nearly died because of the sudden and unwelcome discovery that her granddaughter was a crazed nympho who prefers to pleasure herself with vibrators the size of a grown man's thigh complete with wiffle ball nuts.
"Don't be embarrassed! Your mother wrapped it in some paper towels and she's saving it for you. She says she will send it to you if you want it. But I have to tell you- everyone is reticent to discuss it."
"I can't believe this. I really can't believe this."
"Grandma told Grandpa she got hurt falling down the stairs. She didn't give away your secret, don't worry."
"No!" I protested feebly. "It's not my secret...it was a joke. Just a joke."
"In any case, I have to go. But I just wanted to catch you up on this. How are you doing? How is work?"
"Work...fine. It's fine. I...I can't believe this happened."
"Gotta run, tootsie. We love you! Bye bye!"
"Tell Grandma it's not really my vib--"
Click.
And once again, I glide with dignity into another day. |
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| Thanksgiving- Not Just For Turkeys Anymore |
I am lucky enough to have some very foreign friends who live in England. Today, in honor of the upcoming Thanksgiving festivities, I am going to answer their questions about this uniquely American holiday. PJS readers, please meet Laura and Tim. They will be quizzing me on behalf of the United Kingdom. Don't worry- I won't give away any of our country's secrets. Laura, Tim- you may begin.
So Thanksgiving. What's it for- something about Pilgrims?
It started as a holiday shared between the Pilgrims and the Native Americans, before the Pilgrims helped screw them over, kill them off, and perpetuate stereotypes about them. That all came later. Now, it's a day that is spent with friends and family where we eat a lot of food and then fall asleep watching TV or volunteer to walk the dog so we can sneak cigarettes and talk on our cell phones to our friends.
What do you eat?
Excellent question, and one with a varied history. See, we eat what we like to think the Pilgrims and Native Americans ate, but they didn't really eat this stuff, because they were poor and nobody had invented caterers yet. We enjoy: turkey, stuffing, potatoes (mashed and sweet), weird green bean casserole that is very slimy and creamy and gross, vegetables, lots of carbs, cranberry sauce that is carefully sculpted to look like the inside of a can, and pies aplenty. Some people eat ham but they are heathens.
The Pilgrims and Native Americans ate: wheat, barley, peas, lots of fowl (like duck, which makes you fat) including swans, deer, fish, and wild turkey. For dessert they had some sort of puddingy thing. But not like Jell-O. Like rice pudding. Without the rice. And everyone drank beer.
Is it bigger than Christmas? Do you get the day off?
It's not bigger than Christmas because it is way harder to commercialize, but we definitely get the day off. And usually the day after too. Because nobody can zip their pants yet, and a very lucky few of us get to make our living without pants.
Also, we get the day after Thanksgiving off because it is known as Black Friday- the biggest shopping day of the year. Our country needs us to shop! Unless you are one of the four people who celebrate Buy Nothing Day every year. These folks believe in using informal protest (aka abstaining from shopping) as a means of protest against rampant mindless consumerism. However, they're obviously communists. And probably poor.
(My other favorite thing that anti-consumerism protestors do is called Whirl-Mart. They gather at some horrid retail giant like Wal-Mart or Toys R Us and they slowly, slooowwwwllly push empty shopping carts through the aisles, blocking angry bargain-hunters from getting their PlayStations. Isn't that funny, as long as it isn't happening to you?? I love it.)
Are there any Santa-type figures?
While there isn't a Santa Counterpart for Thanksgiving, all of the Santa representation really starts to unfold after Thanksgiving, as that is the true start of the holiday shopping season. So you can't go very far without seeing them. And Santa is the star of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade- he gets the biggest curtain call. We do, however, have Al Roker.
Do you all go to town with the Thanksgiving Decorations?
This varies from person to person. In my home, we have had live turkeys milling about since Easter. Just so we're ready. We're festive and fun, though- not everyone is like us.
Why can't you just have Christmas?
BeCAUSE. This is DIFFERENT! This is a holiday about togetherness and taking things from people who are nice to you! It's about gluttony and Stove Top and having a day off of work and making fun of vegetarians and "tofurkeys!" And if you can't understand this then it is no surprise the Pilgrims fled from your religious intolerance so many years ago! Thank goodness THAT is no longer a problem in today's world. You're welcome, everyone.
When is it?
Well, this one is a little tricky. See, it used to be on the 4th Thursday in November, and then FDR realized he could do the economy a favor and provide us with an extra week of holiday shopping if we moved Thanksgiving to the 3rd Thursday in November. It was just a clusterfuck from there on out. Now it is usually celebrated on the 4th Thursday, which is often the last Thursday of the month, but this year we have 5 Thursdays...so...um...carry the two...and if there is a leap year...whatever, fuck it. Canada thinks its in OCTOBER. Or should I say OCTOBRE. Dummies.
Can we come?
Sure. But have fun flying here. It's a fucking madhouse to travel from here on out. Maybe make like your Pilgrimy friends and take a boat.
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| Are you there god? It's me, Meg. |
Dear Diary,
Oh shock! Oh gasp! You'll never believe it.
So, I called my father today to wish him a happy birthday. Some background here, diary- basically, my parents have been divorced for 23 years and my father and I don't get along super well, nor do we communicate with much frequency, but I figured everyone deserves a call on their birthday. I know, such generosity of spirit surprised even me.
So I give him a ring, we chat for a minute, and then I have an experience wherein I begin to understand the source of my self-sabatoging mouth. See, right in the middle of my awkward "So hey! It's your birthday! Aren't you a jolly food gello...I mean a jolly good fellow! Ha ha!" he screams out "I'm trying to get something started with a lady!"
Silence.
"Like a business venture?" I asked. "An internet start-up?"
"She's a girl. She's coming up here to see me. Next week."
"So she's your girlfriend."
"Well, no. Not yet. I mean. Not that I know of."
"How did you meet her, online or something?"
"No! (Father's best friend) has been wanting us to meet for years. So we finally started emailing and stuff. And she sent a picture, and I sent one back, and she still wants to come anyway. Ha ha."
I vaguely remember at this point my brother being asked to drive several hours to see our father recently- so that he could take a portrait of my father and his dog. Using my brilliant gumshoe tendencies, I surmised that this was the GlamourShot my father sent his lady.
"So you've never actually met her."
"Right! Who knows, her picture is cute but she could have three legs or something. Then what?"
"Then you don't rule her out right away because you're not really in a position to be that choosy." (I'm not deliberately being unkind here- my father is a very, very hard person to get to know and love. I still struggle with it, and I've had decades of practice. He's also a little repellant initially, in a lot of ways, so if someone actually wants to get to know him better, I feel that he should be pretty accepting of them, three legs or no.)
"Yeah. That's true."
Silence again, as I ponder how my father has a more active dating life than I do, and that this woman could theoretically end up as part of my family.
My father cleared his throat, and then said "She seems smart. She's a paralegal. Well. That's what she is for NOW. She really wants to be an office manager. That's her dream."
I bit my tongue at this point because COME. ON. Whose true dream is to be an office manager?? That's dumb.
Instead, I said "Ah. That is very interesting."
"Her name is Becky."
"Oh yeah? That's nice. What are you guys going to do when she comes up here? Are you going to show her the town?"
"I don't know. Maybe we'll-"
"I'm sure you'll think of something!" I cut him off quickly, because I realized I was terrified that he'd start talking about all the times they planned on banging.
"Yeah."
We chatted for a few more awkward moments, and then I hung up and called my brother. The little Benedict Arnold had KNOWN for at least a week about this. He didn't tell me. Isn't he a shit, Diary? Yeah. I thought so too.
We discussed things that we should never say if we happened to meet her. Things like:
"I don't care what your name is as long as you keep your paws off my inheritance." (Editor's note- we don't have any inheritance, I don't think.)
"Are you going to be our new mommy?"
"You're in your fifties and unmarried? What's wrong with you?"
"On a scale of one to ten, how important is it to you that we don't steal things from your purse?"
"Our father keeps his food buried in the backyard. Did you know that?"
"My father and I have the same ex-boyfriend."
And so on.
Of course, I won't do that really. I hope this whole relationship works out very well for him.
Plus, I still can't forgive myself for the time I ruined that relationship of my mothers. I'll tell you that tale another time, Diary.
Love,
Me
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| Add my ma to your buddy list |
So my mom just got an e-mail account on Gmail. And with it comes that little googletalk IM feature. So she's started IMing me during little breaks in her day. I just love it. She used to treat every instant message like a little letter:
Dear Meg hi it is mom. boy, is it sure hard to spll corrrectly and punctuate well on this. i am trying vrey hard because i know you hate typos.! i am nott sure where to go from here but i love you very much you are my peach love you xoxo love mom. ps- sorry for the typos. i am a good speller. i taught you how to spell. rememmder?
Today, this:
10:10 AM Mom: Hi Sweetie, I am sorry to ruin your morning but I have bad news. bad luck for you and Ben, I discovered I've turned into my mom!. If you want toknow the horrific details, I'll leave you with this clue- think grandma's bike joke* to annie's parents. Yep. That bad. Completely without warning. It's like dozing off and finding out you've been possessed by the pod people. Wow. I would kinda hate to be you and Ben right now, because I've had a lifetime of this- I don't know if you reaslize how embgarassing things are about to become. I made one of those remarks like my mom always does, like I do now, I suppose you'd have to say, in front of Ben's boss.
Me: when was this?
tell me all about it. How deliciously scandalous
Mom: you are funny. you won't tink it's delicious or scandalous when I do itto you. I couldn't tell you before this a.m. because my mom was there and she would have heard me say "I'm grandma now", and because even though this may hve occurred before, this was my first "aha" moment, where I went."OHMIGODI'm mymom!"
Me: This is so fun
Mom: fun for you, not for me. Next I guess I will be switching the gender of our pets (my grandma does this)
Me: Can't wait
I'm going to get lots of pets and give them gender-ambiguous names to speed up the process
Mom: You ARE supportative. Do you think I should look into the new 24hour gym that opened up in Greentree?
Me: you said supportative! totally not a word!
Ready for hours of entertainment kids? Chat with my mom. She's more fun than a trampoline.
*Grandma's Bike Joke: My tiny Irish grandma, who is the epitome of class until she has a few drinks, has a habit of grabbing the arm of the person next to her at a party and slurring this joke in their ear:
Grandma: Didja hear the one about the lady biker?
Party guest, startled: Um, what? No, no. I did not.
Grandma: She pedaled her ass all over town! Hee hee hee.
Guest: Eww. |
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| I'm going to be somebody's bitch! |
Yesterday I was rushing home after work because I had a very exciting evening planned. More on that later. I had a few errands to run and I convinced myself I could complete them all and still get home, shower, change, and leave on time. And you know what? I did it. I went to the drug store (to stock up on drugs), the bank, the post office, and the UPS store. I got everything done and was patting myself on the back for being a model of efficiency. As a reward, I decided to swing by my local Spangly Clothes That Are Too Young For Me store to see if they had anything fun. (They did.)
I looked briefly at shoes, and coats, and baby t-shirts that say stupid things, and I was perusing handbags when my phone rang. I gabbed a bit and then suddenly noticed the time, and with a quick wave to the 14 year old store manager, I darted out and headed for home.
Burdened with packages and shopping bags, I made my way upstairs to my third-floor apartment, ended my phone conversation, and dropped everything on my bed, simultaneously pulling off clothes so that I could jump in the shower. All of a sudden, I saw something that made me stop, mid-strip, and clasp my hands over my mouth. Snuggled inconspicuously between my Duane Reade bag and my gym duffel lay a sneaky stowaway- a white leather sling bag from aforementioned Spanglies R Us.
Ladies and gentlemen- I had inadvertently shoplifted.
It had a security tag on it and everything, and yet nothing beeped or alarmed or whatever when I left. Had it gone off, I would have been very shocked and probably would have blushed a lot, but at least I wouldn't have gone home a thief.
I was horrified. But I was running late and just couldn't rush back to return it. I had to go out and I had to leave pronto. I bustled about getting ready, and at the last minute, I went ahead and decided to accessorize myself that night with the pilfered purse. Nothing else was matching my outfit! I had no choice. Shut up.
I met up with La Chanteuse on the train and after our air kisses, the first thing she said was "Wow, nice purse." Instead of just saying "Thanks!" I of course spilled every single bean and showed her the security tag. Then I showed everyone else that we met that night. I couldn't shut up about it.
I really can't decide the best way to handle this. Obviously I have decided that I like the bag. Plus I've toted it all over town so I'm obligated to pay for it. But how should I reconcile things with the store? I'm pretty embarrassed, so mayhaps I'll just run by, stick an envelope with fourteen dollars in it underneath the shop's door, and then keep running. Or maybe I can sneak it back in and leave it on a shelf, then walk by, exclaim over it, and purchase it. Of course, I could always go directly to the register, explain myself, apologize, and try to make amends there.
Help? I'm not sure how they'll react. And I can't go to jail. I'll look like this:
Any suggestions?
PS- That picture was taken when Bill and I went to the Water Taxi Beach last summer. We got bored and broke into a construction site. I thought I was going to be trapped in there for a while, but everything worked out okay. Here is a picture of me, a few minutes later, as proof. Ignore my man jaw.
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| A Supportive Work Environment Is Vital To One's Success |
The setting: Anesthesiology Coffee Lounge.
The Players: Dr F (lady), Dr G (man), and Dr B (man). Meg is making tea in the background. She remains mute throughout the scene.
Dr F, eating a donut: And I asked to take the earlier case, but you know her. She just put me wherever she felt like.
Dr G: You know, you're getting fat. What's going on?
Dr F: I am?
Dr G: Yes, you are. Is it because you've been eating so many donuts lately?
Dr B: Yeah. You are kind of fat now. And you have been hitting the donuts pretty hard.
Dr F: Well, that's true. But my resident eats four donuts every morning. And she's as thin as a rail. And I work out more than her. So I thought maybe I could eat four donuts every morning too.
Dr G: She's bulimic, jackass.
pause
Dr F: She IS??? (Looks down at self) Oh, GOD DAMMIT.
Dr B: Ha. You moron.
Aaaand scene.
These are your healthcare providers, America. |
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Name: A Lover and a Fighter
Home: New York, NY
About Me: "It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information."
-Oscar Wilde
See my profile...
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