Some things never change.

I touched down in San Diego with my parents yesterday and the first thing out of my mothers mouth was, "OH! We need to go to the store to buy some of that powder so we can, you know, poop!"

The bands back together! It's always good to know I can count on "regularity" being a part of my weekend. Right after "laughter" and "possible girth increase due to too much food." But I brought my Official Eating Pants, so all is well.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

GREAT Sauvignon Blanc, by the way.

Mom: I’m so sorry about the wine.
Me: Why? It tastes fine to me.
Mom: Well, the label is a bit scandalous, you know.
Me: You mean the naked women? Psh. I don’t think that’s going to give anyone a boner over dinner.
Mom: JENNIFER. WE DO NOT SAY THAT WORD.
Me: Really? I do all of the time. You should try it.
Mom: How am I related to you? I actually tried to tie a ribbon around them so we wouldn’t have to look at their bosoms.
Me: And what happened?
Mom: I don’t know. It wouldn’t stay on.
Me: Just look at it as an anatomy lesson of sorts.
Mom: I don’t really want to look at anyone’s anatomy over my pork chops.
Me: Well, we’ll put the bottle in front of one of the men, then.
Mom: NO! It will make them think lewd thoughts!
Me: I’m not sure the women on the label are representative of anyone’s particular “type". Though most men DO like a woman with a tush, and they seem to abound here.


I felt confident no one was going to start fornicating over the main course because of some rubenesque women frolicking along a label. Perhaps it was all of the wine I had already had. Hard to say. Regardless, we brought the bottle to the table, where immediately one of the men went, “BOOBIES!” to which my dad replied, “WHERE?” And then, to my mother’s mortification, we entered into a ten-minute conversation about everything that she tries to avoid speaking about in her life, namely sex or the mention of hoo-has (which is polite code for VAGINA). The men were enthusiastic. My mother wept into her shirtsleeves. I pulled my shirt up over my head and waved my arms around to distract everyone, which didn’t work. There were naked ladies on the table, after all.


And yes, this is a normal family gathering at my house. Next time, there will be film.

Who doesn't like whales?

A while back Marc and I were eating dinner and Marc mentioned that he needed to get his oil changed. A large portion of his brain is devoted entirely to being responsible so this wasn't surprising. He then eyed me over his salad. "When was the last time you had your oil changed?"

Sometime in ought nine? Bush was still President, I think? Because that was the last time.

A very small part of my brain used to be devoted to responsibility, but the battery in that part of my head got weak and the whole thing started beeping so I smashed it with a hammer.

"Also," I went on, "my steering wheel has become loud and my brakes have started making a noise."

"Like a squeaking sound?" he asked. "When you brake? That's the signal it's time to get them checked."

"Yeah, no," I shook my head. "It's more like a 'GRRREEEEOOOOORRRRREEEEEOOOOW' sound." I crinkled up my face in a menacing manner in an effort to communicate the exact pitch of what comes out of my car each time I use that pedal. Marc looked at me aghast. You'd think after almost ten years, he would be used to the continuous disappointment that I bring to our relationship.

(Really, it's not that big of a worry, the noise. I just do everything in my power to avoid activating the brakes. It's a pretty small car so I only need about one hundred or so yards to coast to a stop.)

This of course started yet another rant, I mean diatribe, I mean conversation about why my car is Old and Needs A Proper Burial, all of which I listened to with a glazed over expression on my face while really I was thinking, "I wonder if Sawyer will take his shirt off on Lost this week?" Marc finished and went back to eating his meal, I'm sure wondering how exactly I manage to get through the day without a minor understanding of How Things Work & When They Need Care. I don't know. I guess as long as a tire doesn't spring loose and go bouncing across the freeway, I'm cool.

I eventually did go and get my oil changed and the brakes looked at, though the steering wheel still puts a stop to conversation each time I have to make a sharp left. I didn't consider this an issue until the other day when my mother was in the car with me (an event which I had prepared for by cleaning the insides furiously, first). We were off, somewhere, and when we reached our destination, she turned to me and said, "You must really hate to talk to people." That's true, yes, but I didn't know why she had made this particular observation and so asked. "Well," she replied, "with how loud your steering wheel is, I can't imagine anyone can get a word in edgewise, what with it sounding like you have a herd whales mating under the hood."

So, I suppose what's she's saying is, it's time to get that fixed.

The post wherein I confess to eating too much chocolate

Sweet tap-dancing Moses, it's been a week. It's Friday afternoon, and a project that was supposed to take two days - TWO DAYS - is now on Day 6. It should also be noted that I have consumed more calories this week due to stress than I have in ages. Thank God I now have a lovely backyard to swan about in as I'm not going into polite society until I've worked the chocolate off of my ass. So if you need me, I'll be over here, curled up in an unflattering pair of dog-hair covered yoga pants. You know, that pair that's been pre-stretched for such situations.

I would put up more pictures today, but the workers are still in the yard, and they didn't come prepared for a photo session, so you'll have to wait until Monday when I shall post our yard in all of its patio-laden glory. Next step, plants. Seeing as I kill everything that I touch, I'm leaving that area to an expert. Which is to say, my mother. Things thrive under her care; they are too frightened not to. What she lacks in stature, she makes up for in German-ness, which sound dubious at best, but if you meet her, you'll understand how the Germans made it as far as they did during WWII. It's not the master race, but it's an efficient one. Trust.

Have a great weekend, all! More Monday - and Happy Mothers Day to the Mom's that read this. May your daughters not grow up to have a not-so-secret blog wherein she regularly uses her family for content. Or, at least do enough to give her GOOD content...it's the least you can do.

In case anyone wonders where I get my penchant for efficiency from.

Me: Whew! I'm just back from a run...I cut it short because of this insane heat.
Mom: Child! What would possess you to run in such beastly weather? (I assume this was said as she adjusted her pince-nez and took a sip of Earl Grey)
Me: Well, I can't afford liposuction, and I'd like for my butt not to start heading south towards my knees.
Mom: Don't say "butt". Say "bottom". It's more civilized. Couldn't you just wear a girdle and forgo the running?
Me: I think the girdle would be more uncomfortable than the run.
Mom: Depends on the girdle. Why are we talking about this? Let's change the subject.
Me: Want to hear a conversation that I overhead about transvestites the other day?
Mom: No, that's uncouth. Let's talk about how much fun it was to irritate your father by wearing my new flip flops the other day. I do so love doing that!
Me: Irritating Dad or wearing flip flops?
Mom: Both! It's wonderful, being able to do two things at once!

Dutch Blitz. If you don't play it, I can't know you.

So I’m back. From vacation. Home. Whee. It’s cold here. It was not cold there. I am decidedly grumpy about this, this coldness. I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and found that my toilet seat had, somewhere between 11pm and 3am, turned to a block of ice. This was surprising. Also, unpleasant. I’ve been avoiding peeing since I got home from work today because I should not have to HOVER OVER THE TOILET SEAT IN MY OWN HOME for fear that my ass will suffer from frostbite. My bladder is unhappy about this. But my ass is warm, so the bladder can just suck it.

Let’s see. I didn’t do so well with the not drinking thing, but I did behave. I didn’t, for instance, drink so much that I walked into the closet in the middle of the night, thinking it was the bathroom. No, I did not. Though someone DID and the next morning wasn’t feeling so well and relayed to us his adventures amongst the hangers and clothing while on the hunt for the potty. Next time, bring supplies, my mother said.

Those two cases of wine she sent down? Almost completely gone. There is a program for people like us. Or we should teach a program. Depends on your stance on wine consumption, I suppose.

I returned home with much less hair. My niece Heidi was looking awfully cute with a stacked bob. When asked who had sheared her thusly she pointed to my sister and so I dragged Candy upstairs and she administered the same cut on my head and now I look fabulous! and chic! and cropped! and possibly my hair is now cooler than I am, or I’m not cool enough to have this haircut – one of those. But - I’ll try. I think I’ll have to start wearing short dresses and dropping French phrases into my speech to match the hair. That will last for approximately one day, after which I’ll get very tired and retire to my room with a case of the vapors.

We spent much time playing cards. Dutch Blitz, which is a version of speed Solitaire, though played with Rook cards and an infinite amount of people. It is dizzying and fast and brings out the worst in us. Candy and I hurl insults at one another across the table while my mother tells those playing that since she gave us life, she could just as easily extinguish it if we don’t SLOW DOWN. Holly hums. Heidi mutters. Steph sits in the corner observing, yelling, I HATE THIS GAME! yet calling out help to those who need it and Anna, my brothers girlfriend (hi Anna!) who braved a weekend with the entire family and had never played Dutch Blitz before would cheerfully say “I got ZERO this round! I’m so happy I’m not in the negatives!” while Candy would moan “I ONLY GOT 50 POINTS!” Out of a possible 56. Candy always wins. She is scary fast. We need to hobble her.

Truthfully, though, I thought I would have more to report. There was so much laughter and general joy, but the stories are of the sort that someone who doesn’t speak the language of our family would just say “Meh, y’all are weird”. So I’ll spare you. I’ll tell you the story of the near assault on my person in the security line at the airport tomorrow. Because GOD FORBID I should travel without somehow making an ass out of myself in front of the TSA agents. I have my doctorate in General Foolishness. Truly.

To San Diego! Again!

Tomorrow, I’m heading down to San Diego. I’ll be attending the first gathering of my entire family since my sister moved there over a year ago. This means that 18 people will be crow barred into one house. My mother sent down two cases of wine last week in preparation – or rather, for survival – of said gathering. She is terribly bright. She knows that while we all have an enormous amount of love for one another, alcohol only makes that love grow and flourish and keeps potential manslaughter type situations at bay.

Of course, I’ll be wine free due to it being on the list of things which are STRICTLY VERBOTEN!!!, which really includes anything that might be fun in life. I suppose, if nothing else, my stark sobriety will give me ample clarity to report back as to the family’s antics, which will be many. We are a funny people, and also verbose. I should really walk around with a tape recorder all weekend so as not to miss anything.

Just as a preview, this is a portion of an email that my dad sent to all of us siblings at the end of last week to give us an update on his health. We like to share these things with one another, you see, and find it quite normal to talk about stool samples over dinner. Though, with my moms fierce and undying love of her fiber supplements, this should not come as a shock to any of you who are veteran readers of this blog. Enjoy. The CAPS and “quotes” are all intended. My father, being the expressive sort, cannot be contained, even by a font:

…ALL the "VITAL SIGNS" are very normal. Heart, Lung, Kidneys, Liver e.t.c. all fully functional [though the BRAIN test was not performed] = I am still a walking and talking specimen. For NOW; Cholesterol and High blood pressure control pills remain at the same dosage; ADDED 2 IRON pills / day as a supplement to my otherwise perfect diet (especially the liquid parts).

After our return from San Diego, Mother will join me for a DUAL COLONOSCOPY at her favored Dr.; as he is by now very familiar with "inside view" of Mothers' digestive system from H-Pylori episode…Mother - reading this over my shoulder - reminded me not to forget to mention the "POOPING Samples" I have to submit for testing…I should have stayed FULLY EMPLOYED, so I would not have time for all of this nonsense.

Dad

I asked if their dual colonoscopy counted as a date and if they would be able to hold hands during the procedure. He never answered that question. Odd.

I must, I must, I must increase my you-know-what...

There was once a time where I was built like a 2x4. Straight up and down with about as many curves as Hwy 5. I remember shopping with my mother, wanting to buy a pencil skirt and her saying "Well, love, you'd need hips for that to work." Hips. Things I did not have. Nor boobs. I went to college, still possessing a boyish, athletic shape and decided that I would just have to deal with my figure, envious of my girlfriends who filled out jeans and sweaters in ways that I never would. I was the tall, gangly one. My boyfriend called me Runt and I made people laugh - the funny girl with the blond hair. I accepted this about myself.

So it was with some surprise that I realized my body had caught up with my wishes a few years ago. Things Had Been Happening under my unsuspecting nose - one day I tried on a dress and realized that my outline was more hourglass and less column like. Why I was so grossly late to blossom, I do not know. Perhaps Jesus had been buried under a black-log of prayer requests and my hopes had been lost in the shuffle of more important things, say, like, starving children and the imminent threat of WMD's.

However, leave it to my mother to put a damper on celebrating my newly acquired cleavage. I was over for dinner the other day and while eating what she called "the lovely fish stew" (the details of which I will spare you) she said "You know, I've been meaning to tell you something," a phrase which, if you know her, will stop you cold. "You should really be putting your bosoms away" she said, picking a small bone out from between your teeth. "Excuse me?" I choked, trying to swallow down a particularly large piece of fish and potato all at once. "Well, I've noticed that you've grown in certain areas, and while you look lovely, you should probably think of wearing things that are more concealing. You know. For the men." I knew where she was going with this, but since pressing my mother is like a sport to me, I pressed. "How do you mean?" I asked, innocently. "Well, you know. They can't help but look THERE. And when you have BOSOMS then that is all that they will be looking at or thinking about."

To clarify, I am no Pamela Anderson. Her massive rack is like a round house kick and a jab to the baby hole compared to what I'm packing. However, according to my mom, anything that qualifies as a feminine lump ought to be concealed under copious amounts of fabric. I answered my her by saying "But just think, mom, of the power we would have if we could harness that sexual energy!" To which she raised her eyebrows and said "Psh!" a sound that meant, quit being impertinent...and put on a turtleneck.

I washed down the remaining soup with my wine and spent the rest of the evening pulling at the neck line of my sweater in an effort not to offend my mother with my obscene decolletage. I kissed her goodnight and left, thinking on my way home about how funny it is that at nearly 33, my mother still thinks it's her duty to remind me to be Proper and live with Decorum and to not Lead Others Astray. She, it would seem, has more faith in the powers of my rack than I do. And here I am, just thrilled to finally be able to fill out a shirt without the assistance of a padded bra.

When it's good to be fake

So it would appear that the holidays are truly upon us, or, as I like to call it, the season wherein we all flirt with poverty to praise the Baby Jesus. I’m constantly asked what I want for Christmas, but since Obama is about to take office and I just bought some sweet new boots, I’m really out of suggestions. How about the Nobel for literature? That would be nice and also easy to wrap.

I struggle annually with whether or not to buy a tree. My parents were anti-tree. They also didn’t let us believe in Santa Claus, so draw whatever conclusions you would like. It might explain my apathy in general towards the season, though I do hold a tender spot in my heart for spiked egg-nog. Shocking, I know.

But back to the tree. I was drinking the café au lait that my manservant delivered to the foot of my bed this morning and pondering what to do about Christmas foliage. Being of the eco-sort, I’ve never loved the ritual of bringing in a tree only to watch it slowly die over the course of the month (see above: parents, anti-tree). But on the other hand, I like the idea of making one’s house festive for the season (see: adoration of shiny things). I also LOVE stringing lights. LOVE it. I cannot explain this, as it’s everyone’s least favorite job, but I will gladly come over and do it for you.

Last year, I solved this dilemma by purchasing two small, living trees with the intent of, keeping them alive! And then using them again next year! And they will become our family trees! Alas, I didn’t take into account the fact that I’m unable to keep anything that is supposed to grow, thriving (see: why I do not have children). Seriously. I have killed cactus. Cacti? It’s embarrassing, but also something I have accepted about myself. Unaccountably, I have two plants that my mother gave me that have survived two years of wanton neglect, interspersed by frantic watering when I remember that they are there. Everything flourishes under my mothers care, and I belive the plants live in fear of her coming over and berating them for not living up to her standards. Grow! She says. And things do. She is scary.

This year, I decided to do some research regarding fake trees. YES. FAKE. I know, I know…my house won’t smell like Christmas! And it’s not the same blah blah BLAH. But guess what? I don’t have to water the damn thing or vacuum up dropping needles or eventually deal with hauling it out to the curb where all of the other dead trees end up after New Years. I am a SCROOGE, whatever (see: things I know to be true). Anyhoo, after trotting through several stores yesterday, I found a DARLING one. So cute. It’s a wee bit Charlie Brown’ish, but in a good way, so tonight, I will deck the halls, or at least my living room, and be happy in the knowledge that when New Years comes around, I can just put this puppy in a bag and haul it out next year for round #2 (see: German Efficiency™).

I am a vessel of holiday cheer, ‘tis true.

If you don't have anything amusing to say, shut up

So have you noticed? That I totally fell off of the wagon this week? That my daily blogging went to hell in a hand basket? Even though I only had a week to go, the pressure of getting something posted every morning finally wore me out. You know what I found? That if I’m forced to write something, it will most likely be shit. I can’t tell you how many times I was over here, clawing my face off, trying to come up with something to post. “How can I make a story about folding my laundry amusing?” or “Should I tell everyone how I’ve been beset with a terrible bout of sciatica this week? How I’ve been falling to the floor, clutching my leg and yelling ‘MY ASS, OH, MY ASS!’?” So you see my predicament - my life is simply not interesting enough to document every 24 hours. I was literally drowning in bad content and so decided, in the spirit of the holidays, to just stop and spare you all my humiliation. Plus, there was no cash prize at the end, or diamonds, or a pony. And what's the point without a pony?

NaBloPoMo was an interesting concept, but I think there is enough crap on the internet without my adding to it. For those of you who stuck with me, you are champs and will reap your reward in heaven - or at least, that’s what my mom always told me when I would endure something boring or painful that had no immediate benefit. We’ll just take her word for it, and if you’d like, I’ll treat you to a glass of wine and we can rejoice in my decision not to flood your brain with my inane made-upperies.

In other news, I am beginning an immediate fast after what was a fierce bout of grappling with a turkey. The turkey won. So did a few bottles of wine, for which I’ll blame my mother, since she “over ordered” on this last wine shipment and we had to “help her” consume the excess or else there would be no room in her wine cellar. And we are, if nothing else, a group who does not shirk from our familial duties. And so, while we are all paddling around in the sloppy hell of withdrawal from both food an alcohol, I bid you all a good weekend. Posting will resume, per usual, on Monday. If I feel like it.

I shall fear no evil, not even the consequences of my love for punk rock

On my way home from work yesterday, I was enjoying the local classical music radio station. On a particular strip of 85North, that is the only station I receive, a strange feature of my malfunctioning radio that drops and catches signals at whim. I think it's fun...you never know what you'll get when you turn it on. And if nothing picks up, I can always whistle.

Regardless, a certain piece by Bach came on, one that my mother used to play over breakfast, often. We would eat together as a family each morning, then read the Bible and have prayer time before leaving for school. I think this assuaged my mothers fears that we might somehow stumble off of our righteous path - if we were bathed in the Holy Spirit before leaving the house (in His blessed name, amen) we were less likely to succumb to worldly temptations. We would, at the very least, have a heightened idea of just how close we were to stumbling into the fiery grips of hell (especially if I was having wicked thoughts about that cute boy in Algebra), what with Proverbs ringing in our ears before first period.

I was in high school when my parents took a particular interest in our musical preferences, having found my collection of Nirvana cassettes, thereby increasing their concern for the status of my soul. We had been raised on hymns and classical music, everything else was considered sinful, something that might lead to S-E-X or, at the very least, masturbation. My mother found a book on the sins of rock music and insisted on reading a chapter along with our Bible reading. (We found this mildly hypocritical considering my father had been in a polka band before he had ever met my mother and had a long running repertoire of popular music he could play on his accordion.)

I had a friend who used to pick me up in the morning. She had come early one day, and my mother insisted that she join in our devotional time. Mom was always excited to perhaps bring someone over to her side of life where all things were righteous and clean and no one ever touched themselves in that way. I feared, after my friend witnessed the spectacle that was my family, that I would become a complete social outcast, but she said nothing on the way to school and started coming earlier every day, listening attentively as my mother would read from the book and then Bible, even helping clear the table before we left for classes.

I asked her about it one day. She was a lapsed Catholic and quite verbal about her disdain for organized religion. Her reply to my inquiry as to why she had continued subjecting herself to my parents proselytizing was simple "Your mom makes great coffee." She then went on to ask why we never read from the Songs of Solomon. I explained that there were references to bosoms and S-E-X, so, you know, we ignored that book. Since my mothers vocabulary didn't include the word sex or any references thereto, I was sure her brain would explode and leak out of her ears if our breakfast devotions included praise of pursuing the pleasures of the body. You might as well stick her into a bathhouse orgy and tell her to act normal.

My parents efforts to keep us on the straight and narrow were, however misguided, appreciated in hindsight. While I think their methods may have been extreme, I sit here, as an adult, with the Golden Rule planted firmly in my gray matter, and I can recite passages of the Bible on command, which is always a neat party trick. I love punk music, my brother is a DJ and we've both had our share of S-E-X, but I'd like to think that those mornings, while we went through the motions so as to respect our parents, that we absorbed enough goodness to carry us through adulthood without leaving behind too much wreckage.

All of this from listening to Bach on the way home.

Kylie's Nature Programming

Mom: So Kylie has a bed in almost every room in this house, doesn't she?
Me: Yes. And she views anything that has a horizontal surface as a potential bed. I'm surprised we haven't found her napping on the coffee table yet.
Mom: She sleeps in your bedroom with you, right?
Me: Yeeeeees? (curious as to where this was going)
Mom: Well, what does she do when you and Marc are...well, YOU know...
Me: No mom, I don't. (because I'm evil and wanted to see if she would say HAVING HOT SEX)
Mom: Well (struggling), what does she do when you're having...a TENDER moment?
Me: OH! You mean like HAVING SEX? Well, when we're HAVING SEX, she usually watches and then rates us based on our endurance and creativity during SEX. It's her version of Mutual of Omaha*.
Mom: That was NOT necessary OR lovely. (hitting me on the arm)
Me: Hey, you asked.

*How RAD was Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom? Do you remember Marlin Perkins? And how he always introduced the show in that room with the really awful wood siding? My childhood living room had such siding. Also, whenever we would watch that show, my mom would turn it off when the animals would have sex. It wasn't lovely. Neither is the fact that I would dare do so the same room as my dog. Take note.

The silver lining

I'm just back from getting my hair cut...which is exciting only because I went in with the intent of chopping it all off. I go through this every year, which makes me think it's some sort of seasonal disorder, but it's still on my head, people, in all of its long glory, so no need to panic.

I love my stylist. She is a super sarcastic, funny, spitfire of a woman. She was telling me about her recent vacation to Alaska with her mother and all of her siblings...it was the kind of vacation in which many of her descriptions started with "We were SO HUNG OVER but we went bear watching and managed not to get eaten or maimed. But I threw up in the bear viewing hut on the tour guides galosh." Sweet.

Her mother came in near the end with photos of the vacation, and my stylist handed them to me as she looked through them...which is awkward, isn't it? When you don't know anyone in the photos but are expected to "ooo" and "aaah" over them and ask leading questions that you don't care to know the answer to?

But then she passed me a photo and goes "These are my three brothers." And there he was...the boy who asked me to senior prom who I said yes to but then had to cancel on because my parents decided that prom was the devils party and a boy might GRAZE MY BOOB with his hand ON PURPOSE. Or KISS ME. Ergo, I had to go through the humiliation of saying, a week before the prom "You know, I can't go. My parents are trying to turn me into a social pariah and are succeeding. Can I borrow your math notes?"

It was ugly. He ended up going with some other girl, and I stayed home, crying, for about a month, plotting my parents ugly and painful demise. My mom, meanwhile, told me that I should pray for contentment and perhaps listen to some soothing hymns. I got over it (and started listening to punk music, go figure), but seeing that photo brought back such a rush of memory; I felt my face turn bright red.

My stylist looked at me and said "Are you OK? I know it's hot out, but you're totally flushed!" I just laughed it off and handed her back the photo, deciding not to reveal that I had caused her brother some serious irritation 15 years ago. Especially since I'd like my haircuts NOT to resemble something that was backed over by a lawn mower. Let's keep that hair even, shall we?

It's just as well. The dress I had planned on wearing that night was pretty hideous, so besides avoiding having my boobs groped, I'm spared the historical documentation of my poor fashion tastes. See? There's an upside to everything.

Giving you the slip

My Mother has been trying to justify her packing for this trip to San Diego all day. As I mentioned before, she brought nothing but pants and then two slips, which are largely useless given she brought no skirts or dresses that would necessitate such under-things.

My sister and I have been suggesting uses for the slips...wind socks...buffers for the corner of the coffee table (since a few of us bear bruises from unplanned contact with the sharp edges)...a fetching sarong for my Father as he gets out of the pool. Dad even offered to wear them on his head as sun protection. But Mom ignored such remarks, stating that she needs only a trip to Eileen Fisher to solve the problem of the slips...she will then shop for a skirt, thereby putting the slips to use, saving them from sitting dejectedly in her suitcase all week.

"But I WANTED to shop!" she told us this morning in an attempt to justify the slips. This statement would be easier to believe if any of us three girls that sprang from her loins actually enjoyed the task of shopping. For us, it is a task to be endured. We shop solo, quickly and with a goal in mind. We all like HAVING clothes, but the hunting/gathering part is akin to getting a colonoscopy. We have faulty, female DNA, and that's that.

I suggested that perhaps we should be daring and try something other than Eileen Fisher, perhaps a designer that encouraged waistlines and used darts that would offer a shape other than BOXY. We were passing by a Banana Republic at that moment and Mom said "Do they have skirts in here?"

"Of course!" I replied, "Some pretty ones that come down to the knee!"

"OH NO! They HAVE to come down to almost my ankle" she said in horror, imagining, I'm sure, some local boys suddenly succumbing to immoral behavior at the glimpse of her calf. "Yes, Mom, someone might have SEX if they see even a HINT of your leg!" I said in mock terror.

She smacked me across the arm, blushing at the mention of "sex" and I thought how funny it is that two people, one as conservative as my Mother and the other as laid back as my Dad came up with children who are such various combinations of the two of them. While none of us shrink as violently as she does from bedroom talk, we do have the tendency to be too open with our opinions, laugh easily at others, are fluent in sarcasm, are forgetful and are all prone to justifying our bad behavior.

At least it's nice to know we have two people we can point at and go "It's THEIR fault I'm like this!" though, I wouldn't have it any other way. I'll take the crazy bits since I'm fortunate to love those who gave them to me. I'm lucky.

To San Diego we go...again

I found my way back down to San Diego again this weekend. So I'm bracing myself for family time which will include inappropriate conversations about our colons, too much wine and an inordinate amount of laughter. I'm already in for it as I told my mother (who is also here) that my stomach was off to which she replied "Oh, I have something for that...talk to me later." She also packed three pairs of pants and two slips (but no dresses) so I think I'll take care of my own intestinal issues since clearly her head isn't working properly.

I have my pen poised eagerly over my notepad, however, to be sure that I catch everything. More later, as the family dramatics unfold.

Scrutiny

Me: I’m watching What Not To Wear right now and having a vision of what it would be like if mom were on this show.

My sister: Can you imagine? Clinton would be all “SHOW SOME LEG! DEFINE YOUR WAIST!” And then Stacy would say something about how “the girls” need to be in a better bra.

Me: And the mom would be all “The proper term is BOSOM, and besides, it’s not lovely to refer to those on the air.” You should have heard her at Steve’s birthday party…someone said “Boobs” and I thought she was going to hit them over the head with her practical shoe.

My sister: Was she wearing a straw hat at the time, to protect her face from the sun?

Me: No, but she did ask me if I had loose stools when I told her that I had a headache. Dad, in the meantime, was trying his best to give off the impression that he didn’t know either of us.

My sister: It positively makes her glitter to have this kind of conversation. I’m glad I’m not the only one being subjected to bowel scrutiny.

Me: How do all of our conversations go here? I mean, can’t we be a normal family and talk about football or play Monopoly?

My sister: But you always cheat at Monopoly.

Me: True. That game is just too long…cheating is my survival strategy.

My sister: That and tequila.

Me: Now you’re talking.

Ladylike

I try to spend a lot of time with my mother...if nothing else, it provides essential details on what particular quirks of hers might be manifesting themselves in my character. So, it's sort of like doing preventative research. For instance, she has taken, lately, to wearing a lot of loose, linen dresses. While they suit her, I found myself writing in my notebook "ALWAYS WEAR SOMETHING WITH A DEFINED WAIST. ALSO PRAY THAT YOU WILL NOT GET BUNIONS" as my mother, that day, poked her foot out from under her voluminous frock and said "Look! They're Prada!" And indeed, they were, though also something that you might use as a means to squelch any ideas of sex as the shoe in question was both flat, wide and somewhat unisex in design.

Recently, we were up in San Francisco, celebrating my brothers birthday with some of his friends. I had escaped to a corner to relax for a moment before diving into the social fray when my mother approached. "I heard one of your brother's friends say that horrid word...you know...that one I don't like!"

To be clear, there are a myriad of words that my mother disapproves of. She used to read all of my books in high school before I could get my hands on them and would cross out - with a Sharpie - anything she deemed inappropriate. This could be something as racy as "fuck" to as questionable as "evolution". You just never know what might set her off. So a statement like the above was dubious at best.

"Well, who said what, mom?"
"YOU know...THAT word."
"You're going to have to be more specific."
"Well, the PROPER term is BOSOM."

NOW, we were getting somewhere.

"Did someone say 'boobs', mom?"

At which point, my father walked up. He was several glasses of Absinthe deep and lit up at the mention of breasts.

"WHO'S BOOBS ARE WE TALKING ABOUT?" he said enthusiastically.

Suddenly, going home seemed like the best idea. Because I don't know that there is ever a good time to discuss boobs with one's parents. Is there?

Drive me crazy

So, I've often been accused of being an agressive driver. I prefer to think of myself as efficient, but whatever. I blame my habits on city living, genetics and the incessant voice of my father in my head, who taught me to drive, or rather screamed me through it. It sounded something like this "Don't you DARE ROLL BACKWARDS on this hill! When I was in the army they would put my WATCH behind the rear wheel on an incline and say 'DO NOT ROLL BACK'...do you want me to do that WITH YOUR NEW PURSE?" Just plain MEAN. But apparently, I learn well under hostile conditions, as I can drive any stick shift without stalling, and, indeed, will not roll back on a hill. This via sheer fear that my father will somehow find out and verbally flog me.

Anyhoo, I admittedly have the bad habit of tailgating. Often, I do this without really realizing it, but will suddenly find myself able to see the hairs on the back of the drivers neck in front of me and think "You know, I don't really need to be THIS close" and I WILL back off. Or get closer until they take the hint and move into the other lane, which is really the reaction I was hoping for in the first place.

My brother was a passenger with me the other day and we had the following conversation:

Steve: Geez sis...back off.
Me: Well, if he would just MOVE, I wouldn't have to tailgate him.
Steve: I like how you sound like dad...justifying your bad behavior.
Me: It's TRUE. If someone is practically inspecting the contents of your trunk, the polite thing to do is get into the other lane.
Steve: Or, YOU could be polite and just slow down a bit.
Me: I prefer my method.
Steve: Well, I prefer to live.
Me: You're no fun.

Though, I have to say, this conversation was playing in my head Monday as I was driving home and realized that I was a weensy bit close to the truck in front of me. So I backed off, and wouldn't you know it?! right then the ladder loosened from the truck bed and came skittering towards me at lightening speed. Using my cat-like reflexes, I had just enough time to swerve around it before it would have gone underneath my car. Perish the thought as to what might have happened had I been on his bumper when the ladder came free.

SO, I think that might have been enough of a message from the universe to stop tailgating...or at the very least, not behind trucks wherein the driver might have been too lazy to tie down objects that could cause sudden death. Decapitation by ladder...I can't imagine that would be a good way to go.

On Prayer

I used to think that my mom was a direct conduit to God. Even now, though her super powers are somewhat reduced in my adult eyes, I think she has a more direct pathway to the Divine than the average person. I remember being little and sobbing about some five year old ache, her answer to my childish problem being “Well, you should pray about it” to which I replied, “No mommy, YOU do it. Jesus listens to you better.” Perhaps seeing her prayers answered and being somewhat dubious as to my own spiritual path, I started assigning my concerns to her as I aged, figuring that God must listen to her with greater concentration because of her German accent. You just don’t mess with that.

In my adult years, I’ve embraced a different spirituality that is somewhat removed from my mothers Calvinistic Christianity. I’ll only mention that my mother lost hope for my soul years ago and once in a while, when I’m on a tirade or mentioning sex in her presence, she’ll lay her hand on my arm and say, gently “I’m praying for you” which I appreciate, because I know her daily conversations with God are fruitful and I think it keeps her sharp to have what she would call a “difficult” child. I do what I can to keep her out of the rest home.

So the other day, we were at dinner in San Francisco and Gavin Newsom walked into the restaurant. While I was struck by the greasiness of his hair (which is truly something to behold...does he not have a stylist to perhaps update that?) my mother immediately went into a stage whispered rant about how she disagrees with his politics and threatened to go over there and give him a piece of her mind. While my father frantically waved for the check, hoping to usher my mother out before a scene erupted, I reminded her that she didn’t vote in San Francisco, therefore not counting as one of his constituents, ergo he might not really give a hoot.

This stopped her for a moment. Long enough for my dad to pay and for us to start moving towards the door.

We thought we were in the clear and were sort of bear hugging my mother as we left in the hopes that she wouldn’t get a word in edgewise before we made it outside and to relative safety. We failed. She’s only 5’3, but managed to reach around and past my 5’8 frame and holler out “I’M PRAYING ABOUT YOU!” to Mr. Newsom, whom I’m hoping didn’t hear…

…but in case he did, he should know that he is totally, TOTALLY screwed. My mom gets it DONE with the Big Guy. You see I have a suspicion even God knows she’s not worth arguing with.

Making waves...

My dad to my mom after she had spent 15 minutes berating the bartender for his political views (namely, that he’s not a Republican):

“Now, why did you have to go and pick a fight with the bartender? People know us here!”
“I don’t know…he was the closest! And my feet hurt.”
“What does that have to do with you calling him an idiot?”
“I was cranky because of my bunions…and someone needed to tell him he was stupid. It just worked out that way.”
“Well, we’ll have to bring our own wine from now on…”
“That’s fine. I don’t want a Democrat serving me anyways.”
“We live in California. It's fair to say everyone’s a Democrat.”
“Well, then I’ll tell them they’re all idiots and we’ll eat at home in peace.”

And people wonder why it is that I spend a fair amount of time with my foot in my mouth. It's called GENETICS. IT'S NOT MY FAULT.