Monthly Archives: January 2012

Love Is A Pain In The Foot

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I always end my phone conversations with my grandmother by saying, “Love you, Nana.” Her response is to hang up the phone abruptly. I attribute it to her flagging hearing or the fact that she was raised by a woman who thought scrubbing her hands with lye until they bled was affection. Toward the conclusion of our last chat, I readied myself for the collision of her phone with the receiver, but was caught off guard when she asked, “What do you think about the romance?” I wasn’t sure of which romance she was referencing since she has born witness to a great many in her 94 years. I discounted any of the couplings happening in popular culture since it wouldn’t be Nana’s style to comment on the dating habits of Jennifer Lopez. “What romance?” I countered.

“Your brother’s girlfriend.”

I was stunned. First of all, my grandmother has never ascribed the title of boyfriend or girlfriend to any person romantically linked to one of her grandchildren. The guy I dated for four years in college was always introduced as my study partner until we moved to Australia together, at which time he became my travel companion. My own husband was my tax accountant before we married. More to the point, I was bowled over by the news that Shaun had a girlfriend and that Nana knew about it before I did. As she shared the facts she had, a dull pain began to radiate through my foot.

I broke my foot the last time my brother brought a girlfriend around. It wasn’t her fault, but it did happen as a result of her presence in our home so I can’t completely dissociate her name from the pain of my fifth metatarsal snapping like a brittle twig. Shaun was in high school then, and he had fallen hard for a lass named Suzie. You would think a girl with a name as plain and muted as Suzie wouldn’t be in the business of bewitching men, but whatever pizzazz she lacked in title she made up for ten-fold in personality. She was boisterous, loud, and prone to ending each bout of riotous laughter with a slap of her hands to the knees. Except not to her knees. To my brother’s knees.  See, a part of her body was in constant contact with a part of his. It was grotesque if you were looking on as a sister, as I was, but it was the stuff of Oedipal night terrors for my mother. Every time Suzie sat on his lap or massaged his scalp, my mother would shoot me a panicked glance as if they’d begun copulating on top of the dining room table at which the rest of us were still eating dinner. When Suzie accompanied our family on a beach vacation, my mom spent every night posted at the window of the room we shared, peeking through the shades, wildly determined to catch Suzie stealing out an open window to join my brother in his room.

Because my mom was so fatigued during the day from her night watchman duty, I was made to chaperone their daytime outings and directed to sit between them as often as I could manage, a task only possible for someone the size of an Olsen twin, and even then only the one with the body image problem. Whenever I protested, my mom – a distant Catholic at best – would invoke religious rituals, piously moving her hand through the signing of the cross, pleading that I put a little room for the Holy Ghost between them. And with that plea, God had become a part of this hormonal equation, and I couldn’t refuse or I would find myself eternally damned to proctor the sins perpetrated between Suzie and Shaun in the fiery clutches of Hell. After three days of following their every move, my attention waned and I outsourced my job as warden to a cousin, which would have worked seamlessly had she not been so easily duped by the conniving ways of horny teenagers, as eight year olds so often are. I must have been so verklempt by my emancipation that, once home, I leaped in the air, and landed in an unfortunate fashion. My mother watched my body crumple to the floor, clutching my mangled foot in my hands. Tears streamed from my eyes as the bruise crept up my foot.

My mom drove me to the hospital at a screaming velocity, lips pursed and fingers wrapped tightly around the wheel. With every minute we waited in the exam, she stared at me with narrowed eyes, only opening her mouth to fume, “They are probably doing it right now, and it’s your fault.” I figured it wasn’t the time to tell her that I’d overheard Suzie say she was taking birth control to regulate her menstrual cramps.

Years later I confirmed that Shaun and Suzie had in fact consummated their relationship while my mom and I were detained in the hospital. To this day, I’m not sure my mom has ever forgiven me. I catch her staring at my foot with a venomous glare every now and then. And, it’s weird, I swear I feel a twinge of pain in that same foot every time my brother has relations with a woman, which can be really inconvenient given our time difference.

Now that he’s in a romance, as my Nana said, I’m going to have to keep my foot on ice.

 

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How Every Day Begins

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5:20am Dress silently for the gym in the dark.

5:30am Toddler appears in the doorway of his room, sniffling, says, “Why are you doing this to me?” Please, kid, only my inner thighs get to ask that.

5:32am Attempt in vain to convince son that his father is as genetically and emotionally invested in him as I am, which might be more evident if he weren’t comatose at this moment.

5:35am Lay beside child in bed whispering, “Was it not enough to make me fat, now you must keep me fat.” over and over.

5:42am Commence Silent Log Roll Out of Bed into Crouching Tiger, Hidden Mother once child is asleep. But he is never asleep.

5:45am Jettison plans to exercise and return to bed with child.

5:47am Grim realization that I’ve lost another cup size by sleeping in a sports bra.

7:30am Feed everyone breakfast except for myself because I am now obviously fasting.

7:47am Feeling sluggish, mind hazy, consumed with thoughts about food that I am not eating. That I will not eat. Because food is my nemesis. Along with that woman who refused to scan my groceries because I had two more items than the eligible amount for Fast Checkout.

7:52am Consider that juicing might be easier than fasting.

7:54am Stare bitterly at the smoothie ingredients I assembled: tomato paste, nutmeg, and expired yogurt.

7:56am Determine that low-carb might be easier than juicing. This is about sustainable lifestyle modification, after all.

7:58am Consider that shaving more regularly may help to shed weight and reduce drag.

8:00am Contemplate the advantages to fasting: fewer dishes, reduced grocery bill, less-fat fat pants, time to ponder life’s great mysteries, like what ‘hooking up’ really means.

8:07am My resolve is crumbling like a cookie. I want a cookie. I need a cookie. I would kill everyone in this room for a cookie.

8:09am I need a spiritual leader to guide me through this valley of shadow and death and cookie wanting. I bet they’re expensive. Maybe a sensei is cheaper. Or a life coach. She’ll tell me I need a job. Maybe a choreographer. She’ll dress me in a leotard. A dealer. Yes, a dealer.

8:20am What is the age recommendation on this puzzle? If three year olds can master this then my neurological function is surely impaired by this state of asceticism. Whatever, kids, I couldn’t finish it before I was fasting, don’t ask more of me now.

8:23am How did Mia Farrow fast for nearly 2 weeks? After a dozen years with Woody Allen, everything else probably seems expedient.

8:26am I have an inexplicable urge to eat this hand cream.

8:38am Why, my husband, are you asking what is for lunch? How can you possibly be inquiring after lunch when you still have remnants of breakfast on your face? It’s not as though you’re on a motherfucking fast without an herbalist and a person to massage away your free radicals. Wait – just hold still – you have a crumb of English Muffin on your collar. Just shake gently – GENTLY – so it falls into my mouth. It doesn’t count if I collide with it.

8:50am I know you’re just an American Express customer service representative, but you’re supposed to offer personal service, anytime day or night. I just need someone to talk to for the next 72 hours. Please, don’t hang up or I will transfer my balance to — Hello?

8:56am No amount of You Tube videos will get me through this. All I can think when I see this deer and this dog who have become best friends is that I want to dip their legs in a satay sauce.

9:02am The Today Show will distract me. Oh, Christ, the Hoda and Kathie Lee section. I’d sooner die of starvation than watch this absurdity.

9:03am Watching Kathie Lee talk about the importance of eating kale chips and having personal space while I eat Gorgonzola with a spoon.

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I Look Like I Live in a Halfway House

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I cut my own bangs. The result can be described in two words: Witness Protection.

I should be pleased to look like a different person as I’ve been on a quest for a new appearance for some time now. I’ve played with the length, dabbled with layers, and transitioned from the blonde hues to the brunette ones on that disturbing hair color wheel every colorist tucks in her apron. All of these adjustments were calibrated against looking exactly like Jessica Biel, or Jessica Alba, or just Jessica who has good hair at the YMCA, but each trip to the salon ended in disappointment as I exited looking much the way I had entered. I would trudge to my car wondering why it is so difficult for a trained beautician to transform my hair into the sort of ethereal coif that makes people pause in places they shouldn’t, like while jogging or over a public toilet partition, just to point out how wonderful my hair looks.

I have never been interrupted so that a stranger could interject a spontaneous compliment about my hair. I’ve been told on several occasions that there is some kind of inorganic material in it or that from behind it made me look like someone else. I’ve been told to stop twirling it and pay attention to the goddamn traffic signals. I was once asked at a concert if I might tie it back because it was blowing in the face of the person behind me. No commentary vis a vis my hair has included a single flattering adjective unless we consider the time in 2nd grade that Erik Booker barfed on my hair to which the nurse clucked, “What a shame; I bet your mother just washed it last night, too.” While dampened by her disapproving tone and crinkled nose, there was still the suggestion that my hair had been clean, which may not be the most effusive of compliments, but I’d be perfectly happy today if a person stopped in his tracks to remark on the cleanliness of my hair.

My brother was bestowed most of the family genetic jewels, but good hair was my auspicious gift given as compensation for an ass that absorbs not only the fat that I consume directly but also the collective fat consumed by everyone at my table. My hair is thick and straight and requires scant maintenance other than color applied to its graying roots. I don’t brush it nor blow-dry it. It usually falls neatly around my shoulders until I notice sediment in it and promptly whisk it into a ponytail. The tips remain blunt for a long time, which prompts everyone to ask if I’ve had it cut recently.

The problem is that it always looks this way whether I want it to or not. If headshots were taken of me at a toddler’s birthday party and a black-tie gala, the photos would be identical. No matter the measures taken to give my tresses elevation, decoration, cultivation, it reverts to its preferred state hanging straight around my face. Elementary school girls always thrilled at my permission to braid it during circle time. Halfway through they’d beg off the job, pleading I take the dessert in their lunchbox or their boyfriend instead. At the prodding of friends and family, I agreed to have it professionally tended for my wedding. I’ve watched women have their hair sculpted into updos before, and my own experience was nothing like it. This was like watching a crew of sailors batten down the hatches. There was rope, and vinyl, and swearing involved. As they swung the jib of hair into place, I even heard the faint rumble of thunder. By the end, I was handing the hairdresser bobby pins and fruit snacks to keep her blood sugar stable. Moments before gliding down the aisle, my mother frantically pulled out the reinforcements as the ship was going down one way or another. If you were to scroll through video footage of the ceremony, you would see the dramatic arc of my flattening hair overlap with that of my husband’s expanding underarm sweat rings.

Having reached my breaking point with my hair the other day, I stood facing my reflection in the mirror, with a pair of work scissors poised to cut just above my eyebrows. The two toddlers huddled at my ankles, interjecting protests on the basis that I strictly prohibit the cutting of one’s own hair. I gathered a fistful of hair in my left hand and screwed up my courage to send the sharp blades across my forehead, assuring myself this is exactly how Nicole Richie cuts her bangs. I registered the sound of clipped hair before my eyes took in the image of it. I stepped back from the mirror, awed by the transformation. “You look weird,” my son whispered as he fingered my face, making sure it was still his mother underneath the fringe of hair. It wasn’t the compliment I was seeking, but it felt oddly reassuring to look weird to someone so accustomed to my presence.

There’s a mystique to bangs. A little danger to bangs. People are unsure about who you are and where you come from when your eyes are enshrouded by a curtain of hair.  They assume you have an eclectic taste in music and have ridden a motorcycle. They imagine stamps in your passport and illegally imported spices in your cabinets. They presume your name is something like Veronica.

Or maybe they think you shouldn’t be left alone with pinking shears. I can’t be sure. But what I do know is that bangs are a hell of a wrinkle concealer.

 

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Shake It Up

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My husband bought one of those dumbbells that needs to be shaken in order to sculpt muscles. It’s called the Shake Weight, an intuitive moniker that tells you all you really need to know about it yet everyone describes the apparatus by its peculiar function. If you tell someone that you bought a Shake Weight, they’ll ask you what it is, but if you identify it as ‘that dumbbell you shake’ people nod with recognition. You can see in their eyes that they’re recalling the advertisement featuring a middle-age Caucasian male model who we are subliminally led to believe was a CPA who weighed 98 pounds and ate TV dinners alone before shaking his way to the iron-like physique we see before us. Every male member of a different race develops muscles through rigorous exercise or toiling in a field, but not the white man. He can only add heft by purchasing a fitness apparatus marketed on late-night television in between commercials for Astrologist Experts and Lonely Singles In Your Zip Code.

I noticed my husband, G, watching the infomercial one night while I was writing. My concentration was interrupted by a joyful voice emanating from the television. I peered over my laptop screen to see the Shake Weight model proselytizing to the masses with his glowing testimonial. I glanced at G on the opposite sofa, ready to share a laugh, when I noticed he had a cloudy glaze over his eyes. He stared unblinking at the screen, his hand wrapped around Pirate’s Booty, frozen before reaching his mouth. He silently admired the newly bemuscled man and his friend in a bikini that we’re meant to believe he is sexually involved with. It was obvious that G was being lifted into the As Seen On TV mother ship through a tractor beam of poorly shot before-and-after photos.

While I was fixated on the terminology employed by anyone peddling fraudulent merchandise, things like ‘satisfaction gauranteed’, G was falling prey to an unspoken personal narrative:

My name is Stan. At least it was before I started using the Shake Weight for 6 minutes a day. Now my name is Tom Brady. Not the Tom Brady who throws footballs, but the Tom Brady who has pectoralis definition and sleeps with a long-legged blonde from some country other than America. I used to sit in a cubicle and make my own seven layer dip that I would bring to work on denim Fridays. I used to make $29,000 dollars a year and couldn’t afford to buy the hookers that my only friend at work, Sayid, recommended to help boost my confidence with women. But then I found the Shake Weight and started vibrating my way into a whole different life. I left my job and began traveling around the world with nothing but a pedometer and a Shake Weight in my carry-on bag. I climbed the Pyramids, traversed the Great Wall, and scaled the Seven Summits all while giving my biceps the best workout they’ve ever had. Once the videos of me using the Shake Weight while scuba diving at the Great Barrier Reef went viral, I began a very lucrative career as a motivational speaker and Shake Weight spokesperson, consulting to the Fortune 500 CEOs in need of definition and strength building, which is basically all of them. When I’m not shaking my forearms, I’m giving women all of races and creeds the best orgasms of their lives.

“Are you going to buy it all in one convenient low price or break it up into 4 easy low payments?” I snidely asked, shattering the telepathic conversation between G and the television.

“That’s just like to you rush to a snap judgment without even trying something,” he replied.

“You’d better hurry then because there’s only 20 left.”

He didn’t actually purchase one through the ready and waiting telephone representative, but he did find one for sale at our local sundries store. I can only hope that he didn’t have the pharmacist assess his blood pressure first to ensure his heart was ready for exercise. He has been using it several times a day, mostly in front of the television, where I assume the Shake Weight model appears during time outs in NFL games to soldier him through the six minutes. I’ve tried it myself but the movement is far too unnatural for my rickety joints and it makes me feel like the homicidal employee at a fast food restaurant whose job it is to squirt the sour cream gun. It hasn’t brought spoils, and travel, and optimism to our lives, but it has ushered in a lot of humor. Because nothing will make me laugh more than seeing my husband look as though he is masturbating at 7am while the kids watch.

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