This is the final post of the series that examines topics from the perspective of the characters in the upcoming novel, The Paths of Marriage which will be for sale starting 1 October 2014.
“A Straight Coming Out Story” is written from the perspective of the character, Alpa Deva.
The losses came quickly for me. My Dad, the rock of our family, had gone into the hospital with swelling in his legs and pain in his hip. At most, we thought that they would say that his heart disease had worsened and that he needed his other hip to be replaced. What we didn’t expect, was the diagnosis: metastatic cancer with only a couple of weeks to live. Continue reading
Right now Gawker has a post up about a 15-year-old Staten Island girl who committed suicide after essentially being slut-shamed by her high school football team. As is becoming the macabre norm, the young girl took to Twitter leaving hints of her state of mind before carrying out the act two days later. “I cant, im done, I give up,” she said. What is going on? And why does it seem like “bullying” has taken on a whole new genesis in the last two decades? Continue reading
I am a well-known crazy aficionado. My husband calls me a “crazy anthropologist”. I love to get close to crazy people and study them like a scientist. It’s a little hobby of mine. It’s pretty safe to say that I am well-versed in various kinds of crazy. Usually, I have to go looking for the crazy, but yesterday, God gave me a gift in the form of one of the biggest loons I’ve ever met. I was sitting at my son’s soccer practice, listening to some people yammer about building a deck when all of a sudden, this woman burst on the scene with her three children. One ran onto the field because he was late for practice. Continue reading
Sure, kids are cute.
I mean, look at them. With their dolls and trucks and…whatnot. Look at them, in their overalls and their little dresses and curls and skin as yet undamaged by the sun and all this shit we insist upon spewing into the atmosphere. I just don’t want to clean up after them. Continue reading
I’m about to spill a lot ink giving suggestions on how to dress for your first meeting with your girlfriend’s parents. You can ignore everything I will say, if you follow these two rules.
If you are a fellow homodeviant, these rules apply to you too. The female pronouns just make my job (haha) easier. Continue reading
When I was working as a nurse in obstetrics everyone would comment, “oh how happy your job must be!” And it generally was, until things went badly. And then it was miserable. Nothing prepares you for the death or injury of a newborn and the grief of the parents and staff that follows.
Physicians and nurses may also fear a lawsuit – but hospital staff are rarely criminally prosecuted for their actions or inactions, but not so of home birthing midwives. Slate.com tells the story of Karen Carr, a midwife in Virginia charged with involuntary manslaughter in the case of a newborn who died under her care. She has pled guilty to two felony charges as part of a plea bargain. Continue reading
Living with Mom and Dad in the Ancestral Family Split-Level was quite an experience, and law school was boggling. When I moved back home after college, I was unprepared for the efforts of my Old People to stay young.
I don’t know if it’s a Scot thing or a Milanese thing, but we all tend to sing when we think we’re alone and are doing a domestic task. Mine tend to come from VH-1’s Top 20, and Mom and Dad tend to Motown, since in 1961 that was the thing.
The central staircase of a split-level separates the living areas by function, which is cool. It also enables one to spy on what’s going on on other levels without being seen.
So, when I came home from work and discovered that my Jamiroquai CD was missing from my car, I was a tad startled to hear it blasting from the stereo in the dining room.
Mom.
She had her friend Pam in the living room and was dusting. There was wine – a huge bottle of Pinot Grigio. She sang “You know this spooky is for real!” and Pam folded up on the sofa in a pile of giggles. I stood there on the stairs to the den with my jaw unhinged as Mom pranced around with a can of Pledge. Canned Heat with lemon freshness. “I threw my caution to the wi-hi-hind! Oh. Hi. I borrowed your CD. Do you want some wine?”
“Mom, I think you’ve had enough for both of us.” The crazy bitch was actually speaking LOLcat.
Finally, I tottered out to the terrace and called my friend Bill. After telling him what was up, I asked if I could move in with him. “My Mom sings ‘Stairway To Heaven’ when she dusts.” he informed me. “You’re better off.”
Then, the next day, I was watching HGTV in the den with the kitty, and Dad was working in the garage with the door open just a bit. It was just enough to hear him yell along with Boston “I closed mah eyes and she slipped away-ayyy-hay! She slipped away-AY-HAY! It’s moar than a feeeeeling (moar than a feeling) when I hear that old song play woo-ooh-ooh-hoo!” The cat cocked an ear in that general direction, then shook his head, like “Christ, make it stop.” My sentiments exactly.
I peeked in, and there he was at his workbench – making a goddam birdhouse, so that the goddam blue jays have a haven from which to dive-bomb our outdoor meals.
“Are both of you batshit?” I asked him.
“Maybe, a little.”
“Great. That looks terrific for me and my future.”
“Heh-heh-heh.”
Don’t get me wrong. If I had boring Old People I’d be bored and more than slightly irritated. I just wish they were a little less musical about it.
And I’m so glad I live 20 minutes away now, with my Cap’n. Though he thinks I’m a bit kooky when he catches me singing Colbie Callait to the cats.
One vastly overlooked career path for mothers looking to re-enter the workforce: rock star/celebrity handlers. Although toddlers may seem so cute and innocent (mostly when asleep) the parallels to the archetypal out-of-control artist are uncanny; and perhaps enough to make even Pete Doherty blush.
Artists of all stripes have had historical struggles with the bottle or the needle and as their handler you’ll be expected to help them score and definitely provide damage control once they’re high. OK, most toddlers are only addicted to bottles of the BPA-free variety. But they are often high on life, and the frightening part of this is you can’t pack them off to rehab for that. As a matter of course toddlers tend to stumble, slur, and drool under the influence of absolutely nothing at all, and find endless amusement in things like spinning in place till they hit their heads on the kitchen floor. Like girls gone wild, they’ll disrobe at a moment’s fancy. Often in public. Nor have they ever seen a fountain or body of water that doesn’t irresistibly beckon. And unfortunately, like the most hardcore drunks, will often wet the bed and slumber on. Not to mention you’re also already familiar with the stealth puke, which happens with alarming frequency, and will come in very handy with budding Mama Casses and bulimic starlets.
Toddlers don’t need the aid of foreign substances to channel Britney and cut off all of their hair with blunt scissors, but there are the times when sugar definitely contributes to the daily mayhem. Anyone who has ever witnessed a group of under-5’s mainlining undiluted juice boxes will have experienced the frisson of terror that one might encounter say, when addicts meet very pure heroin. No one can tell me sugar is not a drug and I’ve seen the ugly things toddlers will do under the influence: the shriveled foil hull of a verboten chocolate Easter egg discarded behind the sofa, the tell-tale blue tongue of the secret jelly-bean huffer, the incessant whine of the Oreo addicted. Even when you’ve forsworn all snacks of the evaporated-cane-juice variety, there will always be a playground groupie who will help junior cop from some unsuspecting mom. The playground fanbase feeds the sugar junkie’s already inflated ego, finding his antics charming and funny. They don’t get to see the ensuing meltdown once your homeboy gets back to his crib. But if you do have to score drugs in your new gig you’ll know how to play it to get maximum advantage. Like a lollipop will get your kid through the supermarket checkout line, a handful of Vicodin will get your client through the interview. Just don’t be caught holding and keep it out of the tabloids.
Like miniature Jackson Pollocks, toddlers are the ultimate free spirits. Gargantuan ids trapped in tiny bodies yearning to break free, expose their innermost souls, jam Legos into the DVD player. Everything is art, if you cannot see the beauty in random piles of salt or juice as medium and the kitchen floor as canvas then you might as well be the Man. It is a fine line to walk, however, as you already know. In your new gig you’ll want to strive to be more the Patti Boyd type of muse, even though you’re Yoko at home. Also, when the work is pure crap (it is little-known and overlooked fact that even Basquiat had a brief, and misunderstood, macaroni period), you already know how to assuage the most sensitive of egos. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the Grammy, but hey, good job! I got you a sticker, I mean, a hooker!”
One of the first battles waged by toddlers in ther epic quest for self–expression revolves around clothing. Once they demand to dress themselves they, like rock stars, are known for their quirky sartorial sense—the intensity of a four-year-old girl’s relationship with sparkle is enough to make Lady Gaga look Amish—and often the end result, replete with the requisite bruises and scrapes that come with a burgeoning sense of balance, is pretty much the way Amy Winehouse looks on any given day. You already know how to roll with the flow here and you won’t even have to make public excuses that your new charge was dressed by Dad that morning.
Like toddlers, rock stars and artistes are often known for their lack of social filters, they’ll say whatever they want and be adored and despised for it. As the handler, you’ll be doing damage control here too. Fortunately you’re also prepared for this. When your new charge gets into the inevitable tiff with Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan, you’ll know what to say to smooth things over. Well, honey, Paris didn’t mean to steal your Greek shipping magnate boyfriend, can you say you’re sorry for running her over in the parking lot? Baby, remember friends share so can you give Lindsay some of your eightball? She shared her Oxycontin with you last week, remember? Let’s use our sharing and our inside-the-VIP-section voices.
You will have no trouble relating to the lads as you are already intimately familiar with Newton’s little-known fourth law of motion: an inverse equation whereby the smaller a person in motion is, the more items they suck into their tiny vortex.
Let’s face it: P-Funk’s real mothership is pretty much any Suburban on the road with baby on board. Diapers, wipes, tissues, snacks, bottles, formula, drinks (in the princess cup), antibacterial gel, Epi pen, hats, mittens, scarves, coats, boots, crayons, books, toys, car seats, DVDs, changes of clothing, portable potty, sling, stroller, rain cover, sunscreen, bug repellant, blankets. Ah, what the hell, throw in a forty-foot inflatable pig, go on. Just don’t be smug because your last trip to Target didn’t disrupt flights out of Heathrow and the roadies will embrace you as one of their own.
A two-year-old in the middle of the terribles can make Courtney Love look like Martha Stewart. Doubters may wonder: how can something so small do so much damage? Think Ebola, my friend. They may be pint-sized but they are preternaturally determined to have their willful way–not to mention freakishly strong. For instance, anything that can fit, and a few things that can’t, will end up in the toilet (and that’s not even with the hotel dicks on your trail). So maybe your fancypants college degree didn’t quite prepare you for picking dried spaghetti off the ceiling, but at least in your new gig you’ll be paid for having to deal with the chaos, and, even better, paying off others to clean up the mess. Just carry a wad of $20s like you carried Wet Ones and use them with the same frequency. Clean up, clean up, everybody, everywhere!
Just remember a mom would never let you expire on the toilet (I’m talking to you, Colonel Parker) and if you did you can be sure we’d at least put in you in clean underwear before the press got wind of it. Don’t be fooled: beneath that snot-swiped sweater beats the heart of a rock ’n’ roll warrior.
Dancing has been called many things – sex with your clothes on is one. But that doesn’t explain why you can still do it with your parents or a friend or your sister and it’s not weird. What does explain that is that dancing is one of the most fun things people ever concocted.
WASPs ain’t inclined to boogaloo. Or boogie. For us, a boogie something for which you need a tissue. We’re not wired in such a manner. We waltz or two-step and that’s kind of it. Fortunately, I’m half a guido. So I do have a few good moves. Most of them are featured in the video above.
Let’s start with Madonna’s “Holiday”. I’ve never been at a family function where this was played and Mom Crocker didn’t come over, grab me, and proceed to Tear. It. Up. Neither of us gets through it without hysterical giggles. And there’s history there.
In 1983, I was 16 and the proud owner of Madonna’s first album. On vinyl! I hosted my own birthday party, and convinced Mom and Dad to go out. But, like all smart parents, they left late and came home early. My friends were – are – nice people, so there were no real worries. I found out more about this later.
Seeing Mom and Dad come downstairs in their going-out finery was nice. Mom had on this gorgeous pink silk suit with a cream-colored blouse and pink linen stilettos, and her hair was up in an amazing chignon with a marcasite barrette, and she looked like a lovely Dynasty Mom. Dad was in a Mad Men-era navy suit with shiny shoes, and had stolen one of my skinny ties from my closet. That should have been my clue. This Dad was a much-changed Dad from the Saturday- morning- with- a plate- of- waffles version.
A dinner comprised of all hors d’ouvres is The WASPy Way, and an East Williston tradition. So, at 8 or so, about 30 nicely-dressed kids showed up. No one was going home hungry. The horror unfolded shortly after. Mom and Dad greeted everyone and swept off into the foyer.
But there’s a lot of house, and once you see someone in the foyer, it’s kind of not always clear to a busy teenaged host that they’ve actually gone. I was pouring drinks and passing little party dogs in pastry and in general having a blast.
My friend Devin told me “Your folks are outré”, about 10 minutes in. The living room had gotten quiet, I noticed. Everyone seemed to be watching something hilarious unfolding in the kitchen.
Madonna’s “Holiday” was on the stereo, and my parents were dancing.In front of the dishwasher.
For some reason, my parents LOVE Madonna’s first effort. This has survived nearly 30 years. I’ll never know why and I’m not sure I want to. This was obvious as they shook it before the KitchenAid. There were 14 people peeking in from the butler’s pantry and 10 more from the foyer. Mom’s skirt, in the fashion of the time, was narrow at the knees, so she hiked it up a bit and every girl yelled “WOO!” Dad did a THING called The Bristol Stomp. I was afraid he was having a stroke.
“Holiday-ay!” yelled Mom.
“Cele-BRAY-ayte!”, said Dad.
“We need a holi-DAY-ay!” they sang together.
I about died of red roaring shame. Because the one thing worse than having overbearing parents is having cool ones. Or ones who think they’re cool and are kind of a little off. My friends were laughing, some with them, some at them.
But every time we’re all together at a family event, Mom fiddles with the music, pops in a Madonna CD – she must wedge three copies into her bag right after she puts her earrings on. Then she finds me – she can always find me no matter how I hide – sashays over and asks me to dance while my father points and laughs. I pretend to be annoyed. She knows I’m not. She’ll be doing this when she needs a walker to ambulatory.
Leave your funny, tragic, wardrobe-malfunctioning stories in the comments, but I just remembered one more.
++++++
2004. My college friend Dominic was marrying his beloved and asked me to be an usher. After the short ceremony, we piled into the limo for the long trip to the ersatz Water Mill catering hall. (Ever been to one of those on LI? They ALL look like The Sopranos’ abode. Marble tile! Brass n’glass! Flowers tormented into out-of-season blooming!)
There were seven guys in the limo, including a big, burly guido who I didn’t know. I promptly forgot all about the fact that my own beloved was on his way to the reception in his own car, and commenced a mental affairette in my head with the burly guido man.
Let’s call him Big Joe. A LOT of drinkin’ was going on in that limo! Big Joe put away about a fifth of scotch himself. But he was so big and hot I overlooked it. Some nugget of genius had brought Doritos. Dorito orange cheez paste is tough on a tuxedo. Big Joe ate a whole bag, and I got to dab at his shirt and lapels with seltzer water to remove said orange cheez paste. At this point I was looking at him and chewing ice cubes.
At the reception, I collected myself, calmed down, and acted like a good usher should. This involves working the room for lonely ladies and asking them to dance. So, I’m on the dance floor with Dominck’s cousin Francine. The bass is loud, as it always is. The song was a favorite classic: Jamiroquai’s “You Give Me Something”. Francine’s really into it, and so am I, and we’re doing a little waltzy thing I learned in high school.
Then I spot Big Joe and he’s looking a bit worse for wear. And at a moment of quiet… he FARTS. It was a blast like the trumpet of a horny elephant with a little wet squeak at the end. Francine grabbed my hand. “Did you just hear…”
Well, everyone did and there was no dog to blame it on. Then came the stench. Low tide. Dorito cheez, scotch fumes, eggs, maybe a soupcon of rotten meat.
The dance floor cleared like the upper class decks on the Titanic, leaving Big Joe swaying at its center. That’s pretty much a confession in my book. His erstwhile dance partner was in parts unknown, probably Kalamazoo. People were muttering some pretty terrible things about Big Joe.
Francine looked like she might barf, until I started laughing with actual tears, which got her started. The hapless DJ segued into KC And The Sunshine Band’s “That’s The Way I Like It”. Francine was laughing so hard she cried off her makeup. The oblivious bride wandered by and said “You two are sure having fun…” I said “Oh honey, we’re having a BLAST!” Francine pulled me to a now-empty table where we sat so she could convulse in peace. We watched as the reek spread to people who hadn’t heard the actual Trumpet Of Doom.
Every song lyric became a double-entendre.
“Yowza, yowza, fuckin’ yowza!” she howled. “I thing Big Joe just pooed!”
“You can feel it! It’s electric!” I gasped when they played The Electric Slide.
“I bet he’s in the can, Shaking His Groove Thing!”
“Pardon me boys? Was that the Chattanooga choo-choo?” More tears.
This went on for 20 minutes, until our respective spouses teamed up to find us. Mr. Francine was none too happy to be abandoned at a wedding where he didn’t know anyone and finding his wife yukking it up with a Gay. My own Cap’n had heard what happened from the bride herself, who was so angry she wanted him to accompany her as she asked Big Joe to sober up in the bridal suite. None of them thought this was funny at all.
I walked Francine to the lobby restrooms so she could fix her makeup, followed by our husbands and the still annoyed bride, who had dispatched the maitre’d to the still-empty dance floor with a can of Glade.
“Just a second.” I said. Paused by the table in the lobby, I wrote in the Guest Book: “BIG JOE’S ASS”.
Top picture Flickr.