Suburban Kamikaze

An X-rated picture is worth a thousand words

Just as I am putting the finishing touches to my first feature-length porn screenplay, there is this:

The industry that has given us such celebrated works as All that Jizm, American Booty, and Asswoman in Wonderland, is "focusing even less on narrative arcs these days" according to a front-page story in today's New York Times.

The Internet, it seems, that scourge of so many other word-related adult activities, has also killed off the porno script.

The demands of technology and the seven to 13-minute attention span of the American dirty movie watching audience, apparently, have conspired to render plot and character development obsolete in the world of adult entertainment. 

I have to face it: Dirty Laundry, my moody, XXX-istential period piece about a bored housewife in post-partisan Midwestern America, has been hung out to dry. 

The months of my life devoted to careful study of the dialectal eccentricities of pizza boys, cable installers and scultped pool maintenance specialists have been for naught.

My timing is so, so bad.

You know who you are

What a year this has been for Chicago moms!  Their teeth have never been whiter. They've unlocked the secret to killer abs and wrinkle prevention and they're earning upwards of $63 an  hour working from home! Is there anything they can't do?    

What accounts for this embarrassment of success, I cannot say. But the wisdom of middle age cannot be ruled out as a factor. I know this, because the women in these amazing success stories are almost exactly my age!  It's spooky really, how they show up on the borders of my computer screen with their inspirational pitches for beauty and career assistance.

The ads become more insistent, the profiles more personal day by day. 

"Chicago-area moms, ages 45-46.5, needed to respond to crassly manipulative advertising campaign now! You know who you are.  Sitting there sighing with your glass of cheap red wine perched next to the keyboard waiting for the phone to ring so you can sell your qualifications to the 22-year-old editor of some crappy business-to-business publication whose Facebook page is probably decorated with tattoos. Or kittens. Finish your novel already! Nora Roberts has written 16 in the time it took you to come up with a title for chrissake!  Wouldn't you like to have whiter teeth? 

Photo: Chicago mom Dara Torres has unlocked the secret to killer abs.

A midsummer night's drama queen

The girl was ready. She had just a couple of questions.

What happens if they go to stir the oxygen cannisters and there is an explosion?

That was Apollo 13, I tell her. Not a flight to New York.

Snakes on a plane? she wants to know. I have to be honest with you, I say. That is always a possibility. Do you remember how to suck the venom out?

I have no cinematic analogy for what I am feeling. I don't think I will be able to breathe for the next two hours. She has never flown without me.  She's only playing the disaster scenarios for laughs.  I am the one scared to death. She can't wait to get to New York, where she will spend the next five days taking over the town with her very best co-conspirator.

For two days she has been leaving little goodbye notes for me all over the house. I wish you were coming with me, she says. Do not die while I am gone. She tells me I must sleep with her two stuffed rabbits while she is away. She wants the whole family to accompany her to the airport.  She is positively Shakespearean in her efforts to manufacture the most dramatic send-off possible.

Where does the little dramatist spend her first night in New York?  Shakespeare in the Park, naturally, where she watches Twelfth Night and gets to have her picture taken with "Viola," who happens also to be the star of a movie every 11-year-old girl in the country has seen at least twice. 

Guess where I am now? she asks me later. I am in Times Square!  She is out of breath with excitement. Could it get any better? I ask her.

It probably could, she says. 

She is not missing me at all.

Photo:  Three drama queens in Central Park by Rick McCawley. 

How to Explain Sex Toys to Your Children on the Spot Without Panicking, Obfuscating or Careening Wildly into the Shoals of Too Much Information

Well?

Oh. You thought I was going to explain ... ?

This is a little awkward. You see, I was hoping you would know and -- you're new here, aren't you? Or perhaps you have not been paying attention?

I can't imagine what I could have said or done in the past to indicate a source of useful advice here.  The fact is, when it came up in my living room recently,  I found myself panicking. Then obfuscating. And finally, careening wildly into the shoals of too much information.

The soon-to-be sixth grader and I were watching a PG-13 rated movie that seemed safe enough.  A mediocre romantic comedy like a dozen others the girl has seen without incident.  I like to screen movies in advance when I can, but occasionally if the movie jacket indicates something relatively tame, I will forgo this ABSOLUTELY CRITICAL STEP in favor of watching it with her, which, if you are the type of parent prone to panicking, obfuscating or careening wildly into the shoals of too much information, is actually worse that simply letting your child watch it alone.

In my defense, I can only say, that up until this moment, I truly did not see myself as the kind of parent prone to panicking, obfuscating or careening wildly into the shoals of too much information. In fact, I am now embarrassed to admit, I even imagined that I was an enlightened sort of parent on these topics. "It's just biology," I may have said once or twice over cocktails with the slightly condescending air of someone bemused by the inexplicable squeamishness of others. You know who you are, you prudish, myth- and ignorance-propagating others.

Then comes the scene where a grandmother ties a set of what are referred to as "thunder beads"  around her neck, thinking them a necklace - to the great amusement and shock of the other guests at a bridal shower demonstration of what are sometimes coyly referred to as "marital aids."

"What are those?"  the girl asks.

PANIC:  "What are what?" I say. The scene drags on.

"Those," she says. "The thing the grandmother has tied around her neck like a necklace."

OBFUSCATION:  "Hmmm? I wasn't paying attention. I didn't really hear."

"Thunder beads," the girl says. She shifts her attention from the television screen to my face with the perfect instincts of a child who suspects she is being misled.

MORE OBFUSCATION: "I'm really not sure,"  I say. "I have never heard of 'Thunder Beads'." I give myself one point for truthfulness, even if it is a hair-splitting sort of truth.

"Yes, but what do you think they are?" she says, demonstrating one of the pitfalls of Take Your Daughter to Work Day in a family full of journalists.  

Her newsroom skills are impressive. She rephrases the question, hones in on the ambiguity in my answers and pushes me to the wall. She is relentless.  "I have never heard of thunder beads," I repeat. She allows an uncomfortable pause to build into silent pressure, until finally, I find myself CAREENING WILDLY INTO THE SHOALS OF TOO MUCH INFORMATION.

The discussion that follows includes the following: masturbation, orgasm, batteries. I cannot tell you exactly how I managed to bring it to an end, except to say that there was very little in my soliloquy to recommend my skills as a parent, as a native English speaker or as a sexually-literate adult. 

Later, I recount my ordeal to Mr. Kamikaze, who is as sympathetic as always. "Jesus," he says, "you were one stammer away from describing double penetration."

That is ridiculous. It never even came up. And I have learned my lesson, which is this: As a parent you must anticipate every possible question, compose eloquent, age-appropriate explanations and be ready to give them at a moment's notice, possibly from 3 x 5 index cards that you have prepared in advance.

I am just kidding of course.  I have only prepared one card. It says: Go Ask Daddy. 

Does this irony make my ass look big?

I have been pondering New York Times writer Cathy Horyn's fashion advice for days and I still can't decide what it all means.  

"First go the knees, then goes irony," Horyn writes in the Styles section.

She's not talking about miniskirts or high heels or long hair, or any of the other clichéd ideas about what can and cannot be worn into middle age and beyond. She's talking about dressing "ironically."

"Sometime around age 50, women start to let go of certain ideas about themselves and fashion," Horyn writes. "Up until then you wear lots of silly or brash things and if you are reasonably fit and attractive or consistently daring, it doesn't really matter."

I have (technically) years to go before I am required to forswear "fashion's clever twists," according to Horyn's research, but sadly, I have no clue about how to use them.  I had no idea the clock was ticking on my ability to wear knee socks with high heels, goofy hairstyles or vintage hats - and yet, I can't help but feel I am closing in on my peak irony years.  How ironic is that?

Worse is the recognition that I have never had any inclination whatsoever toward wearing things like that; I don't own a single vintage hat for example.  I can't really take credit for the accidental ironies; the red underwear under the flouncy dress on the first day it was warm enough to walk around Chicago with any skin showing. "Finally!" I said, just before my dress blew up to my armpits the first time, "I can see my own skin again."

They call it "the windy city" but "the city where you're going to need a little bit of weight in your hemline" would have been more helpful.

Leggings might be the obvious solution, but I don't have a lot of time left for anything so obvious, so conventional, so sincere.

Any ideas?

Photo: Ladybug tablecloth weight from Always Brilliant.com.  Discontinued.

It's really not such a mystery, Betty

"Mean Betty truly wants to know: Why can't they be more CLEVER and DISCREET about their infidelities? Is that really too much to ask? Whether it's that pathetic anti-prostitution crusader Eliot Spitzer being caught with a hooker, or this latest yokel Governor Sanford with his caliente mistress down Argentina way - one really does have to wonder how they managed to land themselves in office in the first place." - BettyConfidential.com

I hate to be mean, Betty, but the answer to your question is pretty obvious.

They land in office because we pay more attention to Jon & Kate, Angelina & Brad, Britney Spears or just about any bit of B-list celebrity gossip than we do to the people who run our country, our states, our cities or even our schools.

They don't have to be clever or discreet because most of the time they don't get caught. They know we're not paying attention. And let's face it, we're only paying attention now because the guy got caught with his pants down. The stuff that he did with his clothes on does not have the same hold on our 10-second attention span, though I can pretty much guarantee, Betty, that more people got screwed.

There is a price to be paid for our national obsession with celebrity gossip, scandalous sex and 5-minute makeovers.  Because while it might be fun to engage in a little drive-by badmouthing, it surely does not encourage any sort of thoughtful debate of the stuff that matters. Meanwhile, the journalists who actually do the work of trying to hold some of these dumbshits accountable are being told their services are no longer required. You want to know why Betty? Because it's so much easier to just click on some gossipy website and read the recycled version, extra snark please - and hold the attribution.  It's not your fault, Betty. You never claimed to be The New York Times.  And god knows how depressing that can be.

It's just that I worry that the public officials who decide everything from what our fourth-graders will be required to learn to how much it will cost us in taxes to pay for the legal bills they run up  fighting our efforts to see how they are spending our money, won't take us seriously anymore.

Your readers are outraged that Jon & Kate got a lot of free stuff. But what would happen, I wonder, if you told them that in Wheaton, Ill., a school district so hard up for cash that it considered cutting fourth-grade orchestra, workbooks and intramural sports programs, spent $62,000 fighting to keep its $380,000 a year contract with its school superintendent secret? They fought the case for four years, Betty, all the way to the Illinois Supreme Court - before being told that, uh, that's public money you're spending, morons; you can't keep it a secret from the public.

Can you imagine how pissed off your readers would be to learn that?

Still, government goes on in secret all over the place. The Wheaton Warrenville school board struggles to "maintain financial stability" in the face of "significant financial challenges" that may or may not include paying its lawyers to keep things secret.  What else don't we know? Raise your hand if you know how much you are paying your own schools superintendent.  Anyone? Who will bother to find out when the newspapers are gone and we are left with nothing but gossip for our news?

Want to know who's really getting fucked, Betty?  We all are. And we probably deserve it.

Photo: Jon and Kate Somebody doing something. Who Cares?

Bad Mommy Diaries

What, I was supposed to take her word for it?

She's 11 years old. How was I supposed to know that the world from about five feet forward had gone all blurry for her?  Because she said so?

Finally, however, after months of watching her squint into the distance, I manage to winnow my to-do list down to the last 350 items and come across this one:  Have the girl's vision checked, you moron.

Turns out she needed glasses. Stylish, two-tone frames and a whole new point of view. She looks fabulous. Everything, in fact, looks fabulous - a point she makes repeatedly.

"I can read that sign! I can see that!" she says. "Everything is SO clear."

She can hardly believe her eyes. I can hardly believe I am allowed to keep these children.

Payback is your mother

The call that Boy Esquire had been dreading finally came.

I won't lie to you. I couldn't wait to tell him. To see his face go pale and hear him stammer.

Was it cruel? Maybe. But please. Spare me your sanctimony.  The boy does not deserve your pity.

I wait for the right moment. "Take the garbage out," I say. "By the way the volunteer coordinator has asked me to help out with the dance."

"What?" he shrieks.

"The garbage," I say.

"No," he says. "What about the dance?"

"You know," I say. "The 8th grade graduation dance."

The dance is the pinnacle of the middle school social calendar. There are rumors of girls with $300 dresses and 14-year-old boys learning to tie their own ties. Before this night is over, we will have inhaled our weight in Axe body spray.

But whatever hopes were riding on his new size 10 black dress shoes have come crashing down around his feet like the glass from a picture frame struck by a football thrown in the house after repeated warnings.

 "Chill-ax, it was an accident."

"Mom," he says flatly. "You can't."

"I already told them I would," I say. "They need parents on the dance floor. Did you remember to put the recycling out?"

"Mo-om." He is braying now.  "Tell them you're busy."  A bead of sweat, like the condensation that drips onto the book he is using as a coaster for his milk glass, forms in the shadow over his lip.

"Take a chill pill Mom, it's  just a book."

Eventually I will tell him that I've only signed on to help set up tables, inflate balloons and fill little bowls with M&Ms and goldfish. As part of the decorating crew I will be long gone before the music starts.   

But for now, it's like a little graduation present to myself.

"Chill-ax," I say. "I am a pretty good dancer."

The underachiever's guide to gardening

 

Here is Phase One of the backyard bunny garden we are creating.

Phase Two is where Mr. Kamikaze comes out and wants to know did we dig out a proper bed of gravel and sand leveled to within 1/32 of an inch before we ... something... placed the stepping stones using a guideline to ensure proper ... and something about compacting?  And were we careful to something something ... and who can stay interested long enough to hear what comes after that?  We are making memories here, not building a pool deck.

The underachiever's guide to beauty

If you think the experts on television makeover shows are harsh, you have never suffered under the appraising glare of an 11-year-old girl.

From the beauty mark she has dubbed a "lunch-lady mole" to my choice of shoes ("all wrong"), nail color ("eww") or the slipshod attention I pay to my hair, my personal beauty consultant does not mince words.

But despite my repeated failure to rise to the level of glamour to which she aspires, she is constantly vigilant for fresh opportunities to intervene. I come out of the shower to find her laying out clothes on my bed. I duck out from under the hairbrush as she swipes at my head. I decline her offers of a makeover as often as I can.  

She is pretty sure she has me at a weak moment when I agree to take her to the library despite a cold that has left me bleary-eyed, red-nosed and pale green in color. "Ugh," I say, looking in the mirror. "Give me a minute so no one calls the health department."

"Let me," she says, grabbing an eyeliner and moving in.  "No thank you," I say, carelessly daubing concealer into the blue crescents under my eyes. I repeat the underachiever's beauty motto:  "Good enough."

She sighs. I have disappointed her again. 

A half hour later we sink into a low couch at the library with our books. Then I see the sign: "Young adults section, 12-18 only."

"I'm not supposed to be sitting here," I say.

 "Me either," she says.

"You could pass for 12," I say. "But I don't think I could pass for 18."

She looks closely at my face as if to gauge the truth of this. 

"I told you to put more makeup on," she says.  

Photo: Is that what you're wearing?

The mother of invention

It is school spirit week at Ain't We Got Fun Elementary and the fifth grader calls me with a last-minute flash of inspiration.

"On your way home," she says, "you have to stop and get me some red face paint.  I need it for tomorrow."

It is almost 8 p.m.  Despite the breathtaking ability I have demonstrated in School Spirit Weeks past, I am doubtful about my ability to procure face paint at this hour.  I prepare her to be disappointed.  "I really don't see how I am going to be able to find face paint tonight," I say.

But you cannot match a fifth-grade girl for willpower and resourcefulness. Particularly when something as critical as winning the Class Displaying the Greatest Square Footage of School Color contest is at stake.

As the most competitive girl in the most competitive class, she has no intention of losing out to any fourth graders. She has prepared for contingencies.

"Okay," she says. "I found a recipe on the Internet for making your own face paint. All I need is solid shortening and red food color."

I call her from Walgreens a half hour later. "They don't have any red food coloring," I say. 

The girl is unfazed. She has a plan C.

"That's okay," she says. "I looked up how to make red food coloring. Bring home some beets."

"And if I can't find beets?"  I ask her. "I suppose you know how to make beets?" 

"From seeds," she says. 

Duh.

Luckily, I found the food coloring.  Here's the recipe:

Last Minute Face Paint for School Spirit Emergencies

1 and 1/2 tablespoon solid shortening

3 tablespoons cornstarch

food coloring

a bit of water, if needed to thin mixture

Photo: Results may vary

Because you can't throw underwear at the symphony

For years we had to content ourselves with nothing more than longing looks cast over the heads of a thousand strangers. 

From Miami to West Palm Beach to New York, I could only look on from a distance insurmountable by all but the most creatively launched underwear.  He could see nothing past the first few rows.

But I never gave up hope that one day I would be close enough to hurl my own underthings onto the stage where he would scoop them up, admire the rows of pink and blue bunnies and squint into the crowd in the direction from which they had flown. A connection would be made.  A song written.  A bathtub filled. Something like that.

Years went by. The last time I saw him was in Miami. He was so far away I had to use the binoculars to see him on the big screen. 

Then last night, with very little warning, I found myself practically holding his hand.

It began with a broken blender. Defying all expectations that winter would continue forever, a patch of sunlight had appeared in Chicago over the weekend. But in my enthusiasm for making mango Margaritas, a blender was shattered...

And that was how I found myself backstage at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra having the following conversation with the handsome English rock star whose music is the soundtrack for the soft porn movie all women carry around in their heads.

Me: "Do you have any applications for middle-age groupies? Because I could really use a job." 

Handsome English Rock Star: "Excuse me?"

I am just kidding. It actually went like this:

Me: "Have you ever signed an iPod? I have a Sharpie." 

Handsome English Rock Star: "Sure."  He takes the iPod and the Sharpie, holds the pen out for me to pull the cap off  (rock stars do not uncap their own pens, apparently) and signs with a flourish that covers the entire back of the iPod.

" Hey!" I say. "Leave some room for Tori Amos." 

Sting looks up. "I'm joking," I say.

He points to a teeny little space in the corner. "Tori can sign here."

I am not sure how Tori is going to feel about this.

Later I take this picture:

   

I am joking, of course. We are just good friends.