|
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Things I Will Tell Mamie Someday
1. That when she poops she looks like Charles Laughton so much so that I often yell to Doug "she's doing a Charles," when it actually happens. Please don't let those be her first words.
2. That she stares people down so hard one old man in the deli said to us "It's like she's reading your sins to you."
3. That she is most happy pantless. I hope that changes later in life.
4. That when I read books sometimes I change the story around every time. Sometimes Goldilocks eats the bears, sometimes Maisy and Charlie smoke pot, sometimes Miffy gets tetanus.
5. That I am secretly happy when she can't sleep in her crib and has to sleep next to me.
6. That her boyfriend Arlo always tries to kiss and eat Mamie's face when he sees her and that she totally sits there and takes it. I am sure this behavior will change.
7. That when I was pregnant with her she kicked the hell out of me. I will tell her this when she is a lethargic teenager who sleeps until noon every day.
8. That she tends to like men more than women, brunettes more than blondes and plastic more than sweet potatoes.
9. That she is the best, even when she is teething and screaming and making wet raspberries at me right after she eats some foul food like jarred spinach.
10. That her father and I are basically winging it. Hopefully the words following this will be "and look at you now, first woman President." Or something equally great like Nobel Prize Winner or Girl Who Ate The Most Hot Dogs.
11. That I love her. I tell her that now, every single day. I don't know if she really understands the concept of love, but I plan to make sure she does.
Post script: So yes. It's all true. Corny, cliche, all that. You love your baby more than you can realize. Even when they are projectile vomiting on you. Or other important people. Or screaming in the supermarket just when it is your turn to buy those very special things you need for that time of month, which is so different now than before you had your kid. But none of that matters because you have this person, this little person that depends on you for everything. And you love it. And her.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
R.I.P. Bun
If you know me, you know I always wear my hair in a bun. Whether I get a new layered haircut or a shorter 'do, you will no doubt find me still wearing my hair in a bun. I will find a way. That's what barrettes are for. What can I say? I love a bun. It elongates the neck, gives a clean line and at the end of the night when you take your hair down it feels so, so good.
But the thing is, after being pregnant your hair does weird things. While you're expecting you don't lose any hair (for reals.) And after you deliver your sweet baby your hair gets really coarse. I started out with thick, long hair to begin with so for me this was not a good thing. I couldn't get a brush through my hair even when I used half a bottle of conditioner. Fine, I thought, I'll just put it in a bun (And a bigger bun, no less. Yay!) No biggie. Then four months later the hair started falling out. Friends had warned me that this was going to happen, but it was weird brushing my hair and seeing tons of strands come out. And the coarseness was now out of control so I figured I'd get a layered cut that would allow me to wear it down more.
Yeah right. My new shorter hair made it even easier to put it in a new, clean bun. So much for letting it loose.
Five and a half months later, here I am with crazy long hair... in a bun. Now, if the bun was still working for me I wouldn't be writing this post, but lately I'm not liking the bun so much. I cannot believe I just wrote that sentence. The deal is my hair is too long, and is weighing me down. My recent illness has made me skinnier (working on the poundage, don't worry) and the long hair is not doing me any favors. So I decided to really go for it this time. That is, cut enough off so I can't physically make a bun.
Let us all say a prayer for the bun that is no more. I have a clavicle-length layered bob now that is flattering and cute and un-bun-able. My hair feels soft and is shiny and I look totally different without the birds nest on top of my head. It's better all around.
So I vow to wear to hair down more often. I promise (even though I write this right now with my hair in a pony-tail.)
Friday, November 11, 2005
Lost and Found
Once upon a time, when I was in college a long, long time ago, I used to go out a lot. There was one small club in Philadelphia about the size of a studio apartment in NYC called the East Side Club and I was there every week at least once. I saw bands like Gang of Four and Public Image Ltd. and Jah Wobble and even Ministry before they were disco. When Depeche Mode played there for $8 we were all outdone at how expensive it was to get in. Those were the days. It was so fun being out and about then in dressed up clothes, when music was really new and not some re-hashed version of something else.
One freezing cold night in January I went out with my friends to East Side. We loaded up in my car and drove into the city (we were all suburban kids). I can't remember who was playing there that night (but I do recall seeing Simple Minds for $3 and barely watching the show...). East Side was a performance and dance club, where you could see all the other cool freaks like you in prom dresses and shark-skin suits, listening to music that only college stations played late at night. It was literally underground, as you had to walk a full flight of stairs down to enter. Anyway, I don't remember much of who was playing but I do remember this really cute guy lurking about by himself. He was tall and lanky wearing a black jacket. He also had that haircut with a long asymmetrical bang on one side (this was an oddity -- a good oddity -- back then.) My two girlfriends were talking to other guys and I recall feeling kinda lonely, thinking that maybe I just should have stayed home that night. Maybe Vincent sensed that because the next thing I knew he came up to me and asked me to dance. Yes, those were the days where people approached you and asked you to dance. It wasn't weird or corny or anything. We were all the same whether we were hardcore, new wavers, new romantics, etc. {A favorite memory of mine is when Bobby Startup, the DJ would play Rapper's Delight at the end of the night and everyone would dance together.) We were all there for the same purpose to listen/see music and just be ourselves, in used clothing that sometimes smelled like mothballs. So we danced and talked and danced and exchanged phone numbers. There was nothing mushy going on but something clicked. I was so happy when I left the club at 3:45AM that I didn't even realize someone had broken into my car. Windows were smashed but nothing was taken. It might not have been such a big deal except that it was like 10 degrees outside, which was going to make the 30 minute car ride home torture. My two girlfriends immediately sympathized with me because they knew my parents would have a fit. The two boys I was taking home didn't get it. "But it's not your fault," they said. "Doesn't matter," I said. "I'm a girl. I'm out late. It's my fault."
The ride home was fun, with the wind blowing all over us, heater blasting to no avail and Theatre of Hate playing on the tape deck. When I pulled into my driveway at nearly 5AM (I had to drive extra slow because of the wind), my mother was waiting for me. She had a feeling that something bad had happened. Mom understood that the bashed window wasn't my fault but seconded the sentiment that my father would blame me. So we did something insane. That is, we made it look like it happened in our driveway. There was enough broken glass in the car to scatter around and so I did that and then came back in the house and slithered into bed with my kohl-eyed makeup still on and my hair knotted into a mass from all the Aquanet. Around an hour later I heard my mother trying to get my dog, Eggroll Kligman, to bark. When he did my mother exclaimed something along the effect of "Oh no, look at the man trying to break into the car in our driveway. What a bad man." My dad awoke "just in time to miss the bad man" and say something to my mother like he is really glad it didn't happen to me when I was out last night. Of course, I heard all of this and was torn between feeling relieved and laughing my ass off. I didn't get in trouble but that's the way it was in my family. Lying is not only easier but sometimes better. No muss, no fuss. Let's lie!
(The only thing my mother told me was that I better park in a garage from now on. As I write this I can only think about when Mamie starts to go out and the lies that she will tell me. I guess I deserve it though.)
I don't think I slept at all that night/morning. And when 10:00AM rolled around, there was Vincent on the phone. We made plans to meet the next week. And then the next week. And so on and so on and so on. We became really good friends. After a year went by, he moved away to Europe to work on a big art project. We kept in touch and when he moved back to New York to work at Interview Magazine, I moved to the city as well. Our time together was sketchy as he disappeared every now and then, for weeks at a time. But we'd always find each other and he'd always pop up with amazing stories (the art project was on Ezra Pound's house, he was hanging out with Matisse's daughter, etc.) and hearing them in his slight southern drawl was both endearing and captivating.
The last I saw of Vincent was in 1985, after he decided to move to Europe for good. Over the years I may have heard from him once or twice, but that was it and there never seemed to be a return address. His presence has stayed with me through one incident in particular which I will never forget. We were in my apartment on Avenue B (my own loft room and my own bathroom for $450 a month) and he asked me what I wanted to do with my life. When I told him I didn't really know he said "That must be awful not knowing." That remark enlightened me and made me feel terrible at the same time.
What's weird is two days ago when our babysitter, Corey told me that he had no idea what he wanted to do with his life, I told him what Vincent said to me all those years ago. Not to make him feel bad, but to say that it got me thinking seriously about my life. For me, at age 28 I realized I wanted to write. I wanted Corey to know that I figured it out and he would too. I had just wished Vincent knew all that. I got wistful for a second and then the baby cried and that was the end of that. Waaaaaaaah.
Until yesterday morning when an email arrived in my inbox. It was 6AM, the baby was up early and while she was still rolling around, I decided to check email (this is what I do. I am typing this now while she naps.) When I saw his name I let out a gasp. So weird to see his name all typed out in my inbox. Yep. Vincent. He said that he practically just discovered computers and decided to google some old friends. He found a link to me which then led to an email in my inbox. I typed him back standing up, excitedly getting the typo strewn words out. I hit Send and within hours we were talking on the phone, catching up. He's in London now, but lives in Italy and travels the world doing art, painting, restoring buildings -- living life. It was fabulous talking to him, especially about how New York used to be, how you could be an artist here. I didn't even need coffee yesterday, I got so hyped up from the conversation. Vincent will be passing through NYC soon and so he'll get to meet Doug and Mamie and tell us more stories of his adventures. I can hardly wait. And this time, he won't be getting away from for 20 or so odd years. (You hear that, Vincent?!)
Two more things: the car break-in incident? My dad never found out what happened. And unless he can read this from the afterlife, he never will. And the remark Vincent made to me about not knowing what to do with my life? He has no recollection of ever saying it.
Copyright 2007
|
