A 36×37 Assignment is Born: Girl Fight

  

This is not me.

We’re five minutes into our trip when I realize I’ve forgotten the birthday card. Luckily, we’re just a few blocks from our neighborhood Target, so I tell the boys we need to make a stop.

The place is packed. And by packed, I mean there are at least five people in every checkout line, and not one of the lines is moving. Each customer is showing varying degrees of anger and listlessness. There’s a thick and sticky sort of tension.

We grab the best card we can find, and then I look at the clock. We have 20 minutes to get to a party that is 30 minutes away. I hate to be late, but the boys are happy, so I get in line without complaining.

Meanwhile, the woman in front of me is really worked up. She checks her watch and sighs, and shifts her weight and sighs, and shakes her head and sighs very loudly until the cashier apologizes.

“This is VERY inconvenient!” the woman says. “I have $200 dollars I’m trying to spend at your store, and it’s like you don’t want me to.”

“I’m so sorry,” the cashier says. “We’re having trouble with our system. It’s not accepting credit or debit card payments above $100.”

The woman scoffs. “Great. Really, that’s great. Because I have nothing else to do.”

~*~

Finally, the woman in front of me places her items on the conveyor belt. Paper towels. Toys. Clothing. Shampoo. On and on and on. The cashier scans each item and processes the total. “That will be $172.96.” She says.

The woman pulls out her credit card.

“I don’t think that will go through,” the cashier says.

“Look. I waited in line all this time. Run it.”

And so we wait. And we wait and wait and wait. “I’m sorry,” the cashier says. “It’s just not going through.”

The woman pauses a moment. And then, she absolutely unleashes. “This is ridiculous! I am going to be late for my appointment! I have all this money to spend, what am I supposed to do? How do I know you didn’t just charge my card? I mean, am I going to wait all this time and walk out of here with nothing and still have a $200 charge on my card? Who is your manager? What is your name?”

The cashier is dumbfounded. She blinks at the woman and doesn’t say anything.

My boys look at me. “Mama, why is that wady so mad?” H asks.

“Because this is bullsh!t,” the lady answers my 5-year-old son.  

~*~

There’s a scene from one of my very favorite movies, where the extremely shy Amelie watches a grocery store owner belittle his clerk. She wishes someone from a nearby window would whisper just one good comeback so she could use it to put the shop owner in his place. Instead, she says nothing (and eventually seeks revenge in private).

(Fast Forward 1:00 to see it here.)

I need a comeback whisperer, too. I can dream up a zinger or two on my own, but I’m always late to the draw. In five minutes, when we’re stuck in the detour traffic that will make us 45 minutes late, I’ll think of dozens of things I could have said—dozens of ways I could have played the scene—to humiliate this woman into silence. Including this:

Me: Alright, that’s enough.

The woman: Excuse me?

Me: You’re lashing out at the wrong people. Please apologize to my son, and then apologize to Stephanie here.

The woman: (Placing her hand on her hip) I have five inches and 60 lbs on you.

Me: (Perfect right hook)

~*~

 Here’s how I actually reacted:

 Me: (stunned silence)

 The woman: I hope you know, I’m going to write to the franchise owner about this.

 Cashier: I’m so sorry.

 Me: (more stunned silence)

~*~  

I’ve had enough of my deer-in-headlights reactions. Today, I saw a man pimp-smack his dog, and it put me over the edge. Still, I took the dumbfounded route again and didn’t say anything. I simply scowled at the man and hoped he got the message.

Now I can’t stop thinking about that dog. Or that poor cashier. Or the dad who slapped his kid in the ice cream aisle. And I can’t stop thinking about that woman.

That’s how a 36×37 assignment is born: This year, in some unnamed place, at some unknown point, I’m going stand up to someone who deserves it. And it’s going to be loud, and it’s going to be embarrassing—hopefully for the other party and not for me—and maybe there will be punching. (But there probably won’t be.)

And then? Then I’m going to write about it.

And I absolutely cannot wait.  

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37  ~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Side Story: Taking the Train to Snoozetown

H and O on the Snoozetown Express

My boys are afraid of the dark.

Night after night, they forego sleeping in separate bedrooms to fidget and fuss side by side in the darkness. My husband and I have tried everything to quell their fears, from night lights and lovies and crying it out to sitting farther and farther from the bed each night. But fear is fear. We’ve given in. Instead of following expert opinion, we snuggle next to their small, sleepy bodies until they finally take the train to Snoozetown.

And listen, if there’s one thing I really need to tell you about, it’s Snoozetown.

I created Snoozetown to help the boys forget about those things they’re afraid of. It’s a lot like Dreamland, only in this particular imaginary destination, ”scary” doesn’t exist. Here, little boys are completely in control, and only happy, funny, silly things can happen.

For example: In Snoozetown, my dairy/egg/nut-allergic kids can walk into an ice cream shop and order giant hot fudge sundaes with mounds of whipped cream and crushed pecans. They can head to the Snoozetown zoo and take a ride on two giant purple elephants with wings, or bring home anything and everything they want from the Snoozetown toy store. There’s no such thing as a nap. Or cauliflower. Or bad guys. And if my sons want to fly an airplane that can instantly convert to an invisible submarine made of candy, well, then they know where they can go to find one.

~*~

Every night, we decide where to meet when we get to Snoozetown. We each offer an idea, and then we vote. Tonight, five-year-old H has the winning idea.

“Wet’s just be whatever we want,” he says. “That’s what I’d wike to do. We don’t have to go to any special part of Snoozetown. Wet’s just pick what we want to be and be it.”

“What do you think, O, does that sound good?” I ask.

My three-year-old nods and smiles into the darkness as he tucks his tiny hands around my arm.

“Ok. So H, what do you want to be?”

“I’ll be a vampire that turns into a robot bat. And when I fwy, I’ll fwy wike this.” He sits up, rests his hands on his hips and flaps his arms like a chicken.

“Fine,” I say in my most serious voice. “Robot bat it is. What about you, O?”

“I’ll be Iron Man in a red suit and a red mask. And when I fwy, I’ll fwy so fast, H the robot bat won’t be able to catch me.”

“That sounds awesome.” I say. “And I’ll be the Prima Ballerina of the Snoozetown ballet.”

They groan. I always “girl” it up too much for their taste.

“What?” I say, defensively. “Do you have any idea how strong dancers are? They’re stronger than any kind of athlete I can think of. Maybe they can’t bench as much as a football player, but they can defy gravity, and that’s incredible.”

“Dancers aren’t strong,” O insists.

“Are you sure?” I ask, pulling my iPhone from my pocket. I press my YouTube icon and search for “Kirov Ballet.”

“Here.” I say. “Just watch.”

I press the play button and show them this:

The dancer launches into a perfect pirouette. “This is me in Snoozetown,” I say.

They watch for maybe a split second. And then they quite simply howl with laughter. And not just any kind of laughter, either. I’m talking about the uncontrollable, can’t-catch-my-breath-are-you-serious kind of belly laughs.

“Mama!!!” O manages to say between rolling fits. “H, can’t you just see Mama??? Spinning wike dat? Wouldn’t dat be funny?”

“I can’t stop waffing!” H answers, holding his sides.

“Come on!” I say. “This is Snoozetown! I could totally do this!”

But they keep laughing. And the next thing you know, I’m laughing, too. And I keep laughing with them until we slow down to giggles and happy, exhausted sighs.

“Dat was great.” H says.

“Yeah, it was.” O says.

They’re right. It was. That was really, really great.

~*~

I know what their pediatrician would say: these boys are far too old to be lulled to sleep at night with stories of Snoozetown and their mother’s arms around them. But I work all day. I miss out on them far too often, and I know it. So if Snoozetown gives me 30 extra minutes with them each day, and it if lets me peer into the windows of their imaginations, and if it allows me to hear them dream and create out loud, then I will take the Snoozetown Express for as long as they will let me.

I think I’d be crazy not to.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37

~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Other Firsts: Getting to 3rd Base with Your Sushi

Blurry teriyaki chicken Bento box

If you don’t eat sushi, people start to dislike you. Have you noticed this, too? 

For me, it was starting to go like this: 

“Ok, where should we go?” 

“Sushi En?” 

“Yeah, Sushi En.” 

“You know, guys, I’m kind of not a big fish fan, raw or otherwise.” 

Scowls. Hardened jaws. The group deflates. 

It’s my fault, really. Thanks to my fear of the epicurean unknown, I’ve excluded myself from the cool kid lunch club. I’m a rube, a member of the unwashed masses, the one in the room who doesn’t know the Boone’s Farm from the Montrachet. 

No more! I’m taking control of this unfortunate social situation. Today, I’ve invited GB, SC and my friend Shannon to SushiKo for my very first raw fish experience. 

~*~ 

First, there are ground rules. I can order whatever I want—raw or cooked, meat or fish or vegetable—but I must take at least one bite of something uncooked and ectothermic. And I need to chew it. And I need to swallow it. Gagging is strictly prohibited. It feels like a tall order. 

Shannon helps me research before we go. 

“Maybe the California Rolls?” she says. “They’re like sushi First Base. From there, you can go more hardcore if you want to.” 

Blurry California roll

“What’s sushi Second Base?” 

“Oh, there are some other rolls that aren’t so scary. Something with tuna or salmon?” 

I start to feel nauseous. She laughs. 

“You’re going to be ok,” she says. “Put on your big girl pants and let’s do this.” 

~*~ 

Here’s how it all goes down: 

Shannon: Philadelphia roll (smoked salmon, avocado and cream cheese), spicy tuna roll (spicy raw tuna and avocado) and a single piece of smoked salmon on rice 

SC: Chirashi (random sashimi over rice) 

GB: Spicy scallop roll, spicy tuna roll, tuna sashimi 

Me: Bento box of chicken teriyaki, a salad, California rolls, tempura, tofu cake and miso soup {Miso! Insert most obvious Full Metal Jacket quote here} 

I turn to GB. “Ok,” I say. “Give me something raw but not disgusting.” 

He pokes at his spicy tuna roll. “You’re going to have to do this in one bite.” 

“Oh, I don’t want to.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“No, no. I need to make up for the Dave Matthews debacle.” I prep my chopsticks and take a deep breath. “Bottoms up.” 

Blurry spicy tuna roll

The tuna roll is spicy, with a mashed potato texture, which would be fine, except that the rice makes the tuna unexpectedly bumpy. Usually, texture doesn’t bother me. It’s bothering me now. I remind myself of the no gagging rule as tears spring to my eyes, and I start to laugh so hard I can’t swallow. 

I don’t know if the sushi chef is watching my reaction. I really hope he’s not. 

“This is the sickest thing I’ve ever done,” I say with my mouth full of food. SC shakes his head, GB starts to laugh. 

I grab my diet coke, take a giant swig and wash down the whole thing. 

“Ok. Let’s see what this Bento box is all about.” 

~*~ 

I try other things, too. The miso is really pretty outstanding. The tempura tastes like oil, but the teriyaki is tasty. As for the California roll, I can’t really think about it without feeling sick all over again. 

I marvel at my lunch companions. When it comes to sushi, SC is unflinching. He makes me think of that guy from my high school who ate 34 live goldfish at Ox Roast one year. I also never knew GB and Shannon had such impeccable chopstick skills. 

Shannon displaying her fabulous hair and chopstick prowess

So the truth is this: I don’t see myself getting to sushi Third Base anytime soon. But now, when somebody asks me to go to Sushi En, I’ll think of the miso and chicken teriyaki Bento box, and commit to an evening of making my friends happy. It’s the least I can do.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37

~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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#6 [FAIL!]: The Backstage Pass

 

Dave Matthews Band - Huntington Park

Well, it sounded like a good idea at the time.  

That happens with me sometimes. I’ll have an idea—I’ll turn it over and over in my hands—and if it feels heavy and shiny and smooth enough, I’ll forget to look at it from all sides. And that’s it then. That’s all it takes. In 30 seconds, I’ve attached that idea to my unshakeable list of things to do, and there’s no turning back.  

Last Thursday night was a perfect example: When one of GB’s buddies asked us to join him and his wife for the Dave Matthews concert, my idiot wheels started turning. Concert—what? Sneaking backstage is on my list of things to do this year! Instantly I turned that glassy rock of a concept around in my hands and only saw the upside. I made up my mind.   

Oh, how my mind was made up.   

~*~   

“Here it is: I’m going to find Stage Security, explain that sneaking backstage is on my 36×37 list, and see how far my natural charm and a crisp green Benjamin will take me.” I clap my hands. I could bounce on this bed I’m so excited.   

GB checks his tie in the mirror and doesn’t respond. In a way, he’s in a tight spot. He knows it doesn’t matter whether he approves or disapproves of my plan—either stance will add fuel to my fire.   

“What.” I say.   

“I’m not saying anything,” he says. I get the sense he wants to state that fact for the record.   

“GB—Matt and Celia don’t even have to know! I’ll excuse myself, have my chat with the bouncer, and if he tells me to get lost, I’ll come back. No harm, no foul! But if he tells me I can go backstage, I’ll call your cell phone, and you guys can join me, right?”   

GB straightens his tie again and puts on his shoes.   

“Right!” I say, feeling doubt bubble up through my system. “Just wait. It’s going to be easy.”   

~*~   

I wake with my stomach in knots. There’s no way in hell I’m getting backstage tonight and I know it.   

This didn’t have to be a problem. If I’d never mentioned my plan, I could have backed out of it. But the truth is, I’ve told everybody—not because I ever thought I could pull it off, but because I knew I’d lose my nerve if I didn’t force my accountability. 

The worst part: All along, I’ve only been half serious. I know it’s an asinine—and dare I say immature—idea. I also know it’s almost impossible to pull off. But again, it’s like a squeaky toy I can’t help but bat with my paws. What if I can make it work?  

I call Huntington Park to talk to the media director. “About the show tonight…do you have backstage passes?” I explain my project and offer to barter: five minutes backstage in exchange for some serious blog love.   

The guy on the other line laughs at me. And then, he deigns to condescend. “No, lady,” he says. “The band said absolutely no backstage passes.”   

“But listen, I’ll blitz Huntington Park in my…”   

“Lady, you’re wasting my time.”   

I drop back my head and stare at the ceiling. I know. I know! I’m wasting my time, too, by talking to someone with no sense of humor or glimmer of imagination.   

~*~   

Two quesadillas, 24 ounces of Draft and three songs into the set list, I excuse myself and head to the East side of the stadium under the guise of using the restroom. I wander around for a moment to build some resolve and survey the scene. There’s one clear path to the stage—the only workable path as far as I can tell—and it’s being guarded by the youngest bouncer on staff. He’s baby-faced; perhaps he’s easier to persuade. Hmmm… 

My iPhone is camera-ready in my left back pocket, my pay-off money is in my right. I take a deep breath, clench my hands and start walking.  

That’s when I notice three other security guards walking his way. They fist-bump each other and joke around a bit. Then they seem to settle in.   

I shake my head. If I had just a fraction of a shot at persuading the first guy, I have absolutely no chance of persuading all four. I give in. Game over. F minus for Assignment #6. I’ll have to try again later in some smaller venue, or add something different to my list of things to do.   

~*~   

I watch the crowd as I walk to my seat. So much has changed in the 10 years since my last Dave Matthews Band concert. The crowd is older now, and I’m not prepared for that. In my mind we’re all still college kids killing time before fall semester begins. 

I’ve said all along I’m ok with 36. And I mean that, mostly. I’m totally down with age and wisdom, so I look forward to growing older. It’s just the letting go of things I’m having trouble with. I wish we could keep certain parts of ourselves and just add on and add on and add on. It makes me wistful, nostalgic, a little sad. And also, inexplicably thirsty. 

One thing hasn’t changed, though. Warehouse is still as jaw-dropping as it ever was.     

 

Once I settle back into my seat and start to relax, I clue into the fact I’m here with the same guy who took me to all the other Dave Matthews concerts, including the one where my awesome Dodge Shadow died in the parking lot, and some ‘shroomed-up guy tried to sell us his handmade hemp pants while we waited for the tow truck to arrive. 

I also remember we’re here with one of the funnest couples we know. I discover that Celia likes to people watch (and critique) as much as I do, and that Matt has almost encyclopedic knowledge of the band’s second album, which everyone can agree is the best one. We laugh a lot–mostly at the sweaty guy in front of us–and it ends up being the best Dave gig I think I’ve seen.  

So I think I’m ok with crossing this “assignment” off the list, accepting my failing grade, and acknowledging it doesn’t count. Mission not accomplished. Which means I still have 31 things left to do, and precious little time left to do them. 

P.S. Hopefully the Maserati test drive will be next–I’m hoping to shore up those details this weekend. You’ll read about it in the next week or so–if I live to tell the tale…

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37

~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Side Story: My Money’s on Nurture for the Win

Sara and Naomi

Thirty-eight years ago, my mother quit her job, packed a bag of soft, tiny baby clothes, hurried my father to a cab, and recited directions to the law offices of _____ & _____.  When she spoke with their attorney earlier that day, he suggested leaving their cars at home; he would drop them off after they signed the adoption papers and their newborn son rested safely in their arms.    

I can picture them now: My mother’s tangible excitement, my father’s rational calm. I imagine him chatting with the cabbie while she gazed out the windows at the passing miles that would bring them one step closer to parenthood.    

When they arrived at the law offices, their attorney briskly announced that there would be no baby that day. The child was born with problems and had been pulled from the adoption process. He told my parents to find a ride home and wait until another baby was available. Then he excused himself, leaving them devastated and alone on his doorstep.      

~*~    

Sara and Dave and I are standing in Naomi’s room. They’ve decorated the walls with pretty prints and nicely framed photographs of their brown-eyed, beautiful daughter. Sara laughs and points to a shelf on my right. “Look at all of those albums,” she says. “They’re full of pictures. We take them constantly.”    

“Wow,” I say. Roughly 20 leather-bound albums sit side by side.    

“I send photos to Naomi’s birth mother every two or three weeks,” she explains. “I want her to feel included.”    

She points again, motioning this time to a set of photographs that hang diagonally above the shelf. The first is of Dave kissing Naomi’s smooth baby forehead. The third is of Sara in the same pose. The middle photo shows a woman I don’t recognize.    

“When we took these,” Sara says, “We asked Naomi’s birth mom if she wanted to participate. She said no, but I encouraged her to stay in case she changed her mind. That’s how we got that picture.”    

I study the photo. Naomi’s birth mother looks happy. She gazes at Sara and Dave’s daughter with clear and unflinching affection. There’s a reason for that; it’s what fascinates me most about open adoption: Naomi’s birth mother will never be a peripheral character. She’s an integral member of this family. Sara and Dave have seen to that.    

I look at the beaming parents standing with me in this room. There’s so much I’d like to say to them—like how amazed I am by their selflessness and generosity and committment—but I only manage this: “You have no idea how much that photo will mean to Naomi one day.”   

Sara nods and is quiet for a moment. “I hope so,” she answers.   

~*~    

For me, parenthood is as much an anthropological study as it is an exercise in love and responsibility. My sons are the first blood relatives I’ve ever known. They look like my husband, but they have every dripping ounce of my personality. They have my mannerisms. They’re loud and quick and spontaneous. It’s uncanny.    

But when it comes to nature vs. nurture, I’ll bet on nurture every time. I may not look like my parents since we have no genetic tie, but I’m still their spitting image. I’m swathed in my mother’s empathy and my father’s pragmatism; I share their love of music and literature and art, their liberal leanings, their fiery dispositions, their positions on God and country. If you were to ask them, I think they’d say they understand me the way they understand themselves.      

When people ask if I’d like to know my birth parents, I have to split my answer: I wish I knew about them, but I’d never want to meet them. Not now. Not at 36. Either they would be disappointed, or I would be. So in my case, closed adoption was the right choice. My parents are my parents. Those mystery people who brought me into this world were simply vessels who made sure my life would be more than whatever they could offer.    

But for Sara and Dave and Naomi, open adoption was the right choice. Naomi will grow up knowing where she came from, that she continues to be loved from both sides, and that she was never a “mistake” and never forgotten. She’ll even know her half siblings. What a gift that is.    

~*~    

I think back to my parents standing on the doorstep of that attorney’s office. They’d changed their entire lives to prepare for a baby that basically dissolved into thin air. Then they waited months for the next call, with no real assurance it would come.    

But it did, and they brought home my brother that December. Eighteen months later, I came along, and our family was complete.    

I think of the role fate played in my history. When my parents initiated their second adoption, they decided they wanted a girl. If I’d been born male, I’d have grown up in a different family, with a different name in a different house in probably a different neighborhood and perhaps a different city, with different friends and different experiences that would have taken me to places I’ve never been. I’d have lived an entirely different life.    

When I think about that—when I think of all the things I would have missed—I can’t bear it. I want this life.  This very one. In this house, with this family, surrounded by the people who have loved me since the day I was born, and the people I’ve chosen for myself, and the people I helped create.    

So when people talk about fate? I just thank God for mine. More than you could possibly know.    

~*~      

[Side note: Sara helps to maintain a site— http://www.celebrateadoptioncincinnati.com—that is full of helpful information, including this list of adoption resources. I encourage you to take a look.]    

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37   

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Other Firsts: Maura and Gus go to Breakfast

My Dad, Maisy and the New York Times

My dad is a fabulous storyteller. If I could somehow sit him at a table with Rudyard Kipling and C.S. Lewis when they were at the height of their literary careers, my dad would still be the best in the room. 

It’s the same with his jokes. When my dad launches a two-liner, the room falls silent then erupts with laughter. His timing is impeccable. He makes himself laugh, too, which is even better. 

He’s bright and well-educated, but he insists most of his knowledge comes from life experience and The New York Times. Plus, he’s a social guy. No matter where he is, he’ll see someone he knows. This comes in part from living his whole life in Central Columbus, and in being an active leader in hometown politics. He’s a man’s man. A regular. A brilliant and affable guy. In my eyes, he’s perfect. 

We see each other a lot, but we don’t really hang out one on one. Today, that changes. 

Today, I’m taking my dad to breakfast! 

~*~ 

It’s almost Father’s Day, after all. If you can’t treat your dad to breakfast this week, when can you? When I call to invite him, I can tell he doesn’t want to go. I have a few theories why: 

• He’s afraid I’ll blog about him. These days, everybody is.
• He’s also chronically worried strangers will think he’s stepping out with a younger woman. If he were to show up with matching “I’m with my dad!”/”I’m with my kid!” t-shirts, I wouldn’t be shocked.
• I think he’s secretly afraid I’ll only want to talk about female stuff—like makeup and menstruation and The View—even though there’s not a woman on earth who would want to talk about those things with her father. Or with anyone. Ever.

My dad. I tell you. I love that guy. 

~*~ 

So we’re sitting in Panera. I tell my dad I mentioned his 1959 Triumph in a recent blog post. We talk about a few other smooth rides from his past—our old Bonneville, his friend Whip’s GTO, his buddy Eddie’s Thunderbird—and the next thing I know, he’s rehashing my very favorite story. 

Rewind to 1962. My dad has just completed basic training with the Air Force, and he and his friend Eddie are on their way to Hollywood, Florida, to visit Eddie’s brother. It’s 2 AM. My dad is 23. This is his very first vacation. 

Eddie’s speeding through the hills of Princeton, WV, when the road takes a sharp and sudden turn. The Thunderbird hugs and catches the curve, but continues straight on until it plunges off a cliff. The car falls nose over back over nose—with my dad and Eddie in tow—until it lands squarely on top of a tree. 

A tree! 

I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. If it weren’t for luck, this story could have ended badly. I try not to think about it. 

“So what happened next?” I ask. I realize suddenly that I’ve never heard Part II of this saga. 

“We stayed there overnight.” 

“In the tree?” 

He laughs. “Nah. Someone in one of the local farmhouses saw us go over, so they called for a local police officer. Nice Italian kid, like Eddie and me. We hit it off right away. Later, when I worked at ________, I ran into a guy from Princeton, West Virginia. I told him this story, and he said he knew that police officer. Said he became a state senator.” 

“Really?” I’m impressed. That’s another thing about my dad. His stories always have closure. 

He folds his arms and nods. 

“So then what?” 

“It snowed. A lot. Eddie stayed all week so the Thunderbird could be fixed. I rode home on the Greyhound Bus.” We laugh, and our laughs are the same. Greyhound Bus. Priceless. We throw our heads back and roar mightily. 

I look at the clock on my iPhone. I need to log on from my home office by 8 AM, so I say we should probably get going. 

~*~ 

Most people who know me would say I’m too nice. I probably am. It’s a problem sometimes. 

But I tell you, when it comes to being treated well, I’m surprisingly demanding. Can I depend on you? Are you honest? Can we trust each other? Do you treat me like we’re equals? If the answer to any of those questions is no, I’ll close the door. 

My dad taught me to ask these questions of the people close to me. He walks the walk, too; when I apply these questions to him, I can always answer yes. There are so few 36 year-old women who can say that about their fathers. I’m overwhelmingly lucky and I’m overwhelmingly grateful. 

Daddy, this year, I’m giving you rose bushes again for Father’s Day. I know that’s not equal to the gift of self respect.

Then again, what is? 

(Happy Father’s Day, all!) 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37 

~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Other Firsts: Jones Meets Carlos

I like to drive a car until it sputters its last mechanical breath.

Just ask my first car, a cherry-red Dodge Shadow dubbed Molson. I drove him until his muffler dropped and his brakes squeaked and he dripped oil and literally sighed when we came to a stop.

Then there was Lewis, a midnight blue Saturn sedan I bought with GB when we were newly engaged apartment dwellers. I drove Lewis until his ignition stuck and his brakes gave out and his windows refused to roll up and down. He constantly smelled like rain. I loved and hated him.

When we bought Jones eight years ago, we were six weeks into our first pregnancy, convinced a Honda Accord would be best for our blossoming family. Safe. Economical. Leather interior to combat future sippy cup spills and melted crayons. I wanted heated seats. Great speakers. So we ordered the works. Compared to Lewis, Jones felt like an Audi R8.

We lost the baby the following week. But I never lost my love for Jones. 76,000 miles later, he has lasted through forgotten oil changes and a popped tire and a long-overdue tune up, and still he has never let me down.

Until today.

~*~

I kiss the boys goodbye, grab my laptop, click across the driveway and swing open the drive-side door. When I turn the key in the ignition, the dash flashes and wanes while the motor whirrs and dies.

“Jones!” I exclaim, then sigh. “Poor Jones.”

I pat the steering wheel lovingly, grab my laptop, click across the driveway, kiss the boys hello, charge upstairs to boot up my computer and work from home for the day.

I e-mail this to GB: “I think Jones’ battery is dead.” Then I gaze at the garage from my bedroom window and let worry crawl all over me.

~*~

GB and I walk to the garage. As we approach Jones, I have a eureka moment and duck my head into the back seat. Sure enough, the interior light is on.

“A ha!” I say. “There’s the culprit.” I mentally rewind through yesterday and remember that the boys accompanied me to the store. They lollygagged in the car as I unloaded the groceries; I’m guessing that’s when two sets of tiny hands fiddled with the light switch.

Now the boys are standing behind me.

“Listen, guys. Nobody’s going to be in trouble. I just want to know who switched on the light. Because when a car light stays on, it will drain the battery and then the car won’t go.”

They look at each other.

“H?” I say. “Did you turn on the light?”

“No?” he answers. He’s very convincing.

“O, what about you?” O widens his eyes and shakes his head.

“No? Hmmmmm…I wonder who did.”

O speaks up. “Car-wos did it.”

“Carlos?” I say. “Carlos did this?”

Both boys nod earnestly.

I want to sit on the ground and laugh until my sides hurt.

About six months ago, I told the boys about Carlos, an imaginary friend I created when I was about four years old. I didn’t really need an imaginary friend back then. It’s just that I liked the concept of having one. That’s how Carlos came to be.

My boys have adopted Carlos together. He sits with them in the back seat on long car rides, catches lightning bugs on warm summer nights, helps them clean up their Legos, and apparently takes the fall when bad behavior strikes.

“I’ll have to have a talk with Carlos,” I say. “As soon as I see him.”

Jones gets a jumpstart from GB’s nameless 4Runner. He’s good as new. Maybe I’ll wash him on Saturday to make him sparkly and smooth. And I need to schedule that tune up…

~*~

It’s fitting that Jones and Carlos should meet. They’re dependable forces, those two. I like that when they falter they’re easily fixed. I like that they’re sturdy and timeless. They’re just like the other males in my life—reliable and protective.

The difference is that Carlos can be passed from generation to generation—a Peter Pan in the imaginations of a long line of little boys and girls. Jones won’t have that luxury, despite all his years of excellent service.

Then again, maybe that’s not true. Maybe Jones will live in my garage the way my dad’s 1959 TR3 still lives in his. And he’ll collect dust and settle into his tires and springs will poke from his cushions, and we’ll grow old together.

That’s what dependability will get you.

~*~ Find me on twitter @36×37

~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Side Stories: My Day of Stupid Things

I wake from my driving coma in time to notice I’ve missed my exit. Somehow I’m speeding under the overpass I usually take to get to my ¼-mile long office building.

Instantly, I’m foggy and confused. The bridge I just zoomed past looks exactly like an overpass on a different interstate route that takes me to some of my favorite shopping. I start to panic, wondering if I’ve somehow veered onto 670E.

I dial GB’s number.

“Do I pass Easton on my way to work? Usually?”

“Huh?”

I sigh. “I’m so tired. I can’t think straight. I don’t know whether I just passed under the Easton Bridge or the Polaris Parkway Bridge. I’m on 71N I think? So that was the Polaris Bridge, right?”

“Maura, you have to get more sleep.”

No. See, that’s not true. I write after everyone else has gone to bed; there’s no way I’d give that up. I do just fine on four hours of shuteye. What I need is more caffeine. Lots and lots of lovely, steaming ounces of it. And then I need to not be behind the wheel of this car. I shake my head. Wait, what day is it? What’s my name?

“Oh, there’s the sign for I-71N. So, the Polaris Bridge, right? I need to turn around.” Great. “Now I have to go all the way to Sunbury,” which is about 10 miles north. I look at the clock. 8:15. I’m going to be so, so, so so so late. Effing eff! Why is everyone going the speedlimit?

~*~

The best parking spots were filled an hour ago. I cruise the parking lot with the stubborn hope someone will leave, and when no one does, I head toward the The Parking Lot of Last Resort. I pull up next to some guy who is swapping his gym shoes for business loafers. He looks at my four-inch heels and says, “How can you walk in those?” then smiles like he’s ready to chit chat allllll the way to the entrance. I’m so flustered I forget to note where I’ve parked in a lot filled with thousands of cars that look just like mine.

When I finally arrive at my desk, I slide my laptop into the docking station, fire it up, grab some tea, and come back to find my computer is frozen. I have a brief but seductive daydream about bashing the monitor with my stapler. Instead, I shut down, dial the technology help desk and sip my tea in sulky silence.  

~*~

At lunch, I choose a bowl of pasta fagioli and the largest piece of corn bread I’ve ever seen. The day is certainly looking up. The fagioli tastes exactly like Spaghettios, and since Spaghettios are secretly awesome, I swivel my chair with happiness until I spill soup all over my suit.  

Et tu, fagioli? Et tu???

~*~

When I arrive home, my head is pounding. My boys bound toward me with smiley, sticky hugs that knock me to the ground. I unwind immediately, swinging their hands as we walk inside.

 “My hammock arrived today,” GB says. This Father’s Day present has been years in the making. Every June, we’ve thought about buying one but we’ve always talked ourselves out of it. This one is bright and red and Brazilian. It wraps around you like a cocoon. I think about a nap.

Suddenly, I can think of nothing else.

~*~

GB is playing with the boys somewhere in the yard. I’m in the hammock, with reams of stripey fabric curving above my head. H runs by and gives the hammock a push. Voices fade and…Snoozetown.

I wake with two sets of little knees jabbing my ribcage. The boys wriggle around in the hammock and settle against either side of me. They chat happily then get down to the very important business of assigning super hero roles. O offers to be Captain America, since that’s who is on today’s pair of underpants. H wants to be Iron Man. They ask me to select my alter ego, and strongly suggest I should choose Pepper Potts. I decide I’d rather pretend to be Wonder Woman because of her invisible jet and rockin’ red boots. They’re disappointed.

They smell vaguely of cookies and summertime. I admire O’s Tom Selleck-style chocolate oreo icing mustache. H plays with my fingers. They laugh the same machine-gun giggle I had as a little girl.

If someone were to ask, I would live this day over and over and over. Just to have this moment again with my boys.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37

~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Side Story #5: The Mother of All Arguments

I hate to argue. I hate it more than talking on the phone or stepping in water with stocking feet or waking up late or hearing racist/homophobic jokes. I do everything I can to avoid an argument, including keeping my mouth shut when I need to, which is really asking a lot.

Unless, of course, I’m bored. And then I looooooooooooooooooves me a big ole verbal throwdown! I love it in the angry way I enjoy flipping off bad drivers, or silently cursing the chick who messes up my order, or shouting at the TV when a referee makes a bad call.

For the sake of this post, though, let’s assume I’m not bored, and that I really just want to live the life of a pacifist, surrounded by people who understand the art of being respectful.

Good. On with the show.

~*~

So I argued with my mom a very dear friend last week. Usually, we get along famously, complete with gossip and lots of snark followed by a stream of girlish giggles. But now and then, our conversations take a sour turn. It’s all normal mother/daughter very dear friend stuff, but on rare occasions, I snap. And by “snap,” I mean I cry giant, noisy, melodramatic tears, and that’s mortifying because if there’s one thing I want to make clear, it’s this: I am not a crier.

We argue the same way: I serve it up, she serves it back. During this particular argument, I lobbed out-from-left-field accusations, and she returned with a nice, sturdy forehand of guilt. It was like the French Open by way of cell phone. Match Point? The moment she hung up, leaving me to hold the receiver and pointlessly curse at a dead line. If I didn’t love my iPhone like a dear, sweet child, I would have chucked it out the window with a loud, frustrated F-bomb as my crass Bon Voyage.

~*~

I regret the entire call. I knew I would. I kept thinking, “Stop. You stop right this instant.” It’s just that I really, really like to win my arguments, and once I get started, ain’t no one gon’ stop me but Kanye. We were already shouting at each other, why not go for broke–amiright?

Still, we were sparring for good reason. Every point in my argument was based on my most honest, angst-ish, “hey, I’m begging for reassurance!” types of feelings. We think we pack away these emotions as we get older, but we don’t. Not really. Deep down, we all just want our mothers’ unwavering love and approval. Oh yes you do! So do I!

Anyway. After a week of avoiding each other like bitchy ex-roomates, I swallowed my most obstinate resolve and dialed her number. I apologized, and within minutes we were crying and spouting “I love you!” and “No, I love you!” like a pair of drunk girls on prom night. My heart overfloweth with daughterly affection.

Now that I have some perspective on the argument, I can admit that she was right, and that I really owed her that apology. She owed me one, too, and I got it.

~*~

My mom is my best girl. When I look at her, I’m eight years old again, walking beside her down shady streets, talking about school and family and daydreams and everything/anything else, wishing I could tell her how lovely she is. I’d do anything for her, because that’s what happens when you have a mother like mine.

We may argue like pros, but we’re better at forgiveness and loyalty and grace. If those are my three most unflinching qualities, I definitely learned them from her.

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Other Firsts: GB Hits the Jackpot

I won something off the radio once. I was home from college one spring weekend in 1994, bored and listening to some random station while alone in my room. The DJs promised the tenth caller a copy of Pink Floyd’s The Division Bell, and that 10th caller was me.

That was an exciting day!

Since then, I’ve won a few prizes at baby showers and scored some swag at business seminars. That’s the extent of any free stuff I’ve received.

Considering this, Saturday was a bit of a surprise.

Before I launch into this particular “first” there are a few things I should note. GB’s grandfather once won 1.1 million in the Maryland lottery. And his father has been struck by lightning. It was just a matter of time before fate turned its eyes to my husband.

~*~

Today, the boys have no say in where we’re having lunch. I mention our favorite breakfast joint, GB agrees, and so we go despite the boys’ persistent fast food pleadings.

When we arrive at the restaurant, the manager walks us to our booth. Bacon is only minutes away, and so the boys are content. I order tea. Smiles all ‘round.

That’s when our server appears and dumps ice water on GB’s lap.

The next few seconds happen in slow motion. GB looks at me calmly, probably thinking—as I am—of the other times his lap has been a magnet for foods and liquids: the time a server dropped mustard on his lap…the time a server dropped ranch dressing on his lap… and while we sit here thinking and recollecting, water continues to drip all over GB’s pants. Then it travels across the table and spills onto five-year-old H. He shrieks. Three-year-old O and I look at each other in confusion.

The server jumps back. “Oh! I can’t believe it! I’ve worked here three years and this has never happened before!”

I wake up from my reverie in time to throw napkins at the problem. GB stands slowly in his traditional zen-like composure.

“I’m so sorry.” Our server says. “I just can’t believe this.”

Side note: The summer I won The Division Bell, I waitressed at a local Italian restaurant. I was a horrible server. Just ridiculous. One night, I spilled four glasses of Cabernet down the front of a businessman’s very expensive suit. My manager held my tips to pay for the dry cleaning bill.

“It’s ok!” I say now to our server. “Accidents happen. You’re ok!”

She nods, but leaves the table red-cheeked and flustered. I turn to GB. “Do you want to leave?”

“My pants are soaked.”

“Let’s leave.”

“No, let’s just stay. It’s fine.”

Well, you half-know how this ends. Obviously, the manager gives us our meal for free. But as we walk out the door, he also hands us a gift certificate—one free breakfast for two.

~*~

Alright, I’ll admit it. It’s a rainy, lazy Saturday. We’re out of food, and we don’t grocery shop until Sunday, so it’s time to scrape up some dinner. For a while, we drive around to find something we all want. We finally pull up to our favorite pizza joint and I place the order.

We kill time until our order is ready. When we pull back into the parking lot, GB jumps out of the car and runs inside.

Five minutes go by.

Then 10.

When he finally walks out of the shop, he is shaking his head.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Did they mess up our order?”

“No, it was free. The cashier didn’t know how to ring me out.”

“She just gave it away instead of asking for help?”

“There was something wrong with their system. Her manager couldn’t figure it out either.”

Hmm. I check the front of GBs pants. Clean and dry. I sigh with relief.

Well. It’s no Maryland State Lottery. But I’d say three accidentally free meals in one day are just as unlikely.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37

~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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