Did I Really

say "I'll be riding tonight" yesterday? I did, of course, and upon re-reading it, I am stunned that I wrote something so very absurd. How ridiculous. I was channeling a college guy in Arizona, maybe, or just writing something that would look embarrassing later. I am purposely not deleting because it is so ridiculous and I can be a doofus and demonstrate that it is okay to appear foolish and live to write about it.

Back when I wrote that, I looked like a regular forty-ish gal. Now, on Chrystal's advice, I look like a punk wannabe and it does not work. My hair color was too light, she said. Make it darker, like your natural color, she said. Use this and that crap from the store she said. And after an apparent channeling of Lucille Ball on one of her most hysterical days, I neglected to read the side panel and I ended up with purple hair. No, I am not exaggerating. Both children laughed. Even I laughed. I washed and washed and washed it. I thought it was better, but yet another friend said to put brown over it. I did that, too - this is all month-long color, nothing too damaging - and now I look even more witchy. Fair skin , dark hair, circles under my eyes even more visible. I'm already rehearsing the easy laugh for tomorrow when I return to work looking like I had a mid-life goth crisis.

I told Rugelah: "This is what vanity gets you." At the time her face was contorting this way and that, in an attempt to express her thoughts about the red stain in my hair.
"But you're not vain," she answered.
"I'm vain enough to color my hair," I told her.

I look like an ass, or rather, a dumbass. It's a bit Ronald Reagan, with my wrinkles and other skin flaws more pronounced. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? I may need to visit a salon so I can be presentable again. Or maybe my hair will be a family science experiment. What exactly does nutmeg to auburn to light brown highlights actually look like? I wish I could see that I am embracing the very idea of looking foolish and managing it, but it was much easier when I was using lame language on my blog. Looking stupid, now that's harsh. Did I really? Yes, I did. Gimme a broomstick, pierce my tongue, my cheek, my brow, I'm ready to ride.

Eating, Fake Television Eating, and Sexy Food

I ate so much I sorta made myself sick. Sick because my intestines were crammed full, and sick in the figurative sense, as in disgusting myself. But it was all so good. An analysis of food and television is in order. Of course, this will not be a comprehensive analysis; it will be from a more engaging and Lucy-ish perspective. Yummy and entertaining!

We all know in the old days, people pretended to eat on t.v. Why? Maybe they were worried about food in the actors' teeth? Or perhaps it was the concern that food doesn't film well. Thus the use of wax or white glue or something on cereal commercials. Perhaps that's an urban myth? What does it mean to watch television and eat, and watch people eat? Not much, but it could be a proper analogy for the show, and logically, and excellent analogy for actual people. But it's not even an analogy. Like if you drink coffee from a diner mug whilst watching Seinfeld, there is no analogy, you're just sticking yourself into a diner with them, or pathetically paying homage to an actor (in a re-run, no less). Eating crappy food while watching crappy television - that's appropriate. There's nothing left in the house so you're stuck with something like a can of old soup, and there's nothing on t.v., so you're stuck with an infomercial, or even worse, the Unfunny UPS guy sitcom re-runs, and his perpetually annoyed wife. How did they ever get Jerry Stiller to agree to that? Television imitates life, and life is like television, especially at the mediocre moments, and people eat, or not, in both places.

When I first stayed over at a girl we'll call Priscilla Harrington's house - we'll call her Priscilla Harrington but we won't name her house - I was aghast at the small servings her mother gave us. It was a fraction of the amount we gobbled at my breakfast table, which made me realize how big and uncouth we were. We always had seconds and thirds and we argued over the toy inside. These folks discussed the day's activities, an apparent imitation of a scene they had watched on television. Priscilla's family was preppy and put-together. In later years, her sister developed an eating disorder, but I digress.

Take the mushroom. People who like mushrooms are foodies. People who don't like mushrooms are either young children or unable to get in touch with their sensual side. When Will and Grace go with their dorky friends to The Olive Garden, and the friends rave about the food, you just know that Will and Grace have had risotto, and they are aghast to even be seen at the de-classe establishment. They have tasted of something a little sweeter, if I may. I'm betting the Olive Garden is tasty, but I am not raving about the chain-restaurant-frozen-shrimp flavor.

Another show on which people actually eat is Malcolm in The Middle. I didn't watch it much when it was on for its regular run, but the repeats are hilarious for any person who has ever been a parent or lived with boys. For people who have done neither, it probably seems like a perverse and cruel take on the American family. And they do eat. With their mouths full. Dad also feeds the boys as if they are puppies, throwing morsels into their mouths. They may not be foodies in the mushroom sense, but they do eat a realistic amount of food.

Back to not-television, and my mostly-excellent culinary experience this week: Halvah, which was sub-standard (tahini paste Middle Eastern candy that is crumbly and almost-buttery, akin to a scone but with no ingredients in common); papaya and avocado salad with arugula; and chocolate hazelnut mousse. Also: fresh and still-warm -from-the-machine/cooker maple syrup. Shrimp curry, and naturally, mushroom soup.

I do not associate eating and sex simultaneously but I do associate them. The very idea that an oyster is meant to be an aphrodisiac, and the fact that they are pulpy and salty and smooth in my mouth, definitely puts me in the mind of something smooth that feels good. This cannot be experienced on television. Also, a great meal seems to have been the predecessor to much of the great sex that I have had, but I think that gets back to the sensual food and sex connection. I cannot fathom, however, the food-sex combo. Like I'm not hungry for the oyster when I'm hungry for the meat, if I may be a bit less refined than I claimed to be a few paragraphs ago. I may have written awhile back that I have no interest in licking any food item off of any body part. I would be open to it, I suppose, but really I don't need it. It seems like the overlap of two things that are not meant to be together.

There was a scene in the movie, Blaze, years ago, with Paul Newman and a voluptuous dark-haired actress - in which they shared a watermelon as she rode him, and they laughed and talked as they fucked. He may have worn a cowboy hat. That was memorable - my first exposure to sex as a fun activity. But not anything that would make me want to chow down while getting down. It seems when I write, that I get back to sex a lot. Perhaps I am not so different from your average male: a lotta talk about feelings may be included, but it's the sex she really wants. Or maybe I'm just menstrual - which affects me similarly to ovulation - and I am a wee bit more interested than I am at other times. Some days sex is like that can of old soup. Prediction for this day: I may eat something tasty, I may watch a movie or a re-run, but I will be riding tonight.

Pathetic Insecurities & Biology

My head is all over the place because first my little tiny vulnerable son went to California on a big bad airplane and I had to put away all thoughts of scariness that I cannot even write here because that will bring the thoughts back. Also, Ball & Chain is going through some process of dealing with the use of alcohol and I am the unconventional partner yet somehow still vulnerable to being blamed for something that has nothing to do with me. And my job is lovely except for Lou Grant is so unpredictable I never know when he will bark at me and it is unnerving. Plus I was a scheduling nightmare this week, overlapping all sorts of things and causing many people to be rightly irritated with me. Perhaps the use of commas would have been appropriate back there, but I am not in a comma mood. Maybe if I was a bit calmer! (Yikes.)

What is my life, anyway? I have several people who love me unconditionally. Notice how I skipped right over my life and went straight for how other people feel about me. These people are related to me by blood, if you will pardon the expression, or even if you will not pardon it. Other people may care or not care for me but they are not in my fabric of who I am because it takes 500 years and a lotta bullshit for me to trust people. I notice them, adore them, I listen to them, but they must witness an unnamed number of bad weird episodes of This Fucked-Up Lady, and live through them, to be eligible for me believing that they care about me. Bad grammar embraced.

Does it help that I went to fancy schools and ended up a mere teacher? Does it help that I'm a writer who is too lazy or too busy to submit her work? Now I have demonstrated that my head is, indeed, everywhere. What to do with the information? First: I plan to clean my room. That's always a solution. Once people wake up I will call Miss Kitty on the phone. She is an excellent sister and our experiences are parallel to the extent that I sometimes feel like a twin, although I do not know if I have ever mentioned that to her. Oh and back there when I said "mere teacher," not all teachers are mere teachers, but I am because I go from job to job and because I am me, I am feeling quite mere today.

This morning's blog was going to be about linguistics, actually, and link to a New Yorker article. I wonder if I will write about that later? Instead I am going to say right here right now and even these words are delaying it but I would definitely like to have a partner like my high school boyfriend, who doted. Could someone please appreciate me? Verbally? Am I the clone of women everywhere, under-appreciated and nagging about it? Or stereotyping myself? Why am I so verbal when my partner is so non-verbal? Please do not tell me about the studies that show men talk less than women. The reason is that they are stupid, and withholding, and too busy reading the paper. My high school boyfriend just knew how to make me happy, get himself laid, and get a head.

This is who loves me, and by the way, I have been doing this exercise for years, and I am putting my children last so it doesn't seem like I rely on that love, or depend on it, even though I think I might, and I am lying to myself. Right, here they are: Mommy, Miss Kitty, Daddy, Baby Brother (whom I miss terribly), Cousin Darling, and Big Kid and Rugelah. Mabel loves me, too, and she is a blood relative and I am not required to explain how that works, so I won't. And Chrystal is not theoretically a blood relative but she might as well be. Sheesh, that's a lotta people. Who am I to complain? Be glad for what you have. Or, alternatively, how pathetic that one must list those who value one for one to feel any value at all. The people on my list are intelligent, too, so that must mean a little something about me. Also, while we're being both honest and dishonest, I do very much love Ball & Chain. He thinks I should know how much he loves me but since I don't I think he should do something about it, for crissake.

Now is the point where, in regard to narrative, one would expect me to link back to what I think my life is. Despite the intent, I do not have an answer. I can describe what I do, or who I love, or what I think, but I have no idea what my life is or the purpose. I get the mother part. And then, and then. My life is a series of losses and gains, maybe a sort of football game despite the fact that I loathe the sport for its symbolism. (How ridiculous, then, to use it as a symbol.) My life is an exemplar of devotion a la my Jewish nun moments. No, my life is that of any hectic American woman living in hectic 2007. Bullshit, all of it. I have only one clue. Lately I notice that I have more habits like those of my mother at my age, and more of her physical idiosyncrasies. So I am following her imprint on the world, and to some extent, my life is like my mother's life. Biology is a little trump. And now, like my mother - every night - I am off to take a bath.

Let It Out, Hold It In, and Eat

It is wicked late and I am still working because I am so diligent, and also I didn't really start until ten p.m. Passover passed. I sat at the table and cried so hard I could have parted any color sea you want. Then I drank a lotta Peach Manischevitz. Peaches are my fave food and this stuff was heavenly. When I ran out, I guzzled white wine. Instant sedative.

It is not easy to cry hard at a seder table. You hafta shut up, or shveig, as we say in Yiddish. You cannot make a scene in front of the children. Even if you have made a scene in front of the children before, if your mommy is stoic, then there is some expectation that you should have your shit together, so to speak. And the kids deserve a little happiness.

Let the tears stream down, and be proud that you just bought that waterproof mascara. Look up long enough to see that your beloved sister-in-law, Mabel, is also imitating a crying statue. Notice that your sister, Miss Kitty, is doing fine. Wonder how long that will last. Be so fucking glad that your kids are not right next to you. Follow along with the seder, and be cautious as you look at the Haggadah you made years ago.

Dry up a bit, wipe off your face, eat some parsley in salt water. Realize that you love your husband and consider sleeping with him sometime soon. Keep eating. Eat, eat. The next morning, come downstairs to find that breakfast is over and most of the food is gone from the serving dish. Eat the leftover matzoh brie off of all the kids' plates.