Twelve is No Picnic - and I'm a Bitch

Rugelah has been stressing me. Where is the conscience? The decency? The courtesy? I have been reduced to writing the rules of the kitchen and posting them on the refrigerator because she is so too-cool for the food we buy with the money we earn to feed her face! Everything leads to a pout. I am reading this book on the brain and if you deliberately articulate three positive things about your day you may actually feel better about your self (no it is not a pop-psych book, it is written by two neuro-scientists). The authors do not advocate making up crap that is unrealistic; it is more of a "dinner tasted good so life must be a wee but okay" typa thing.

So I said to Rugelah last night "what are your three things?" and she's all "I only have two." And I'm like gimme a break, but I told her my three anyway. She was very happy about my third one because I went grocery shopping and I got the English muffins she had requested. Nevuthuless, she refused to make it her third good thing because she wouldn't have the opportunity to eat the actual muff until today. Ach. Of course that sounds like a power struggle, because it was one, but I actually managed to seem blase about it.

She is rude these days. Big Brother says something about taking turns and she is aghast. I expect her to make her own breakfast and she looks forlornly at Ball & Chain, who is in My-Little-Girl-Gets -Everything (may I vomit) recovery, and he covers his face with the paper. She finds the English Muffins, sees that they are not white bread (I rarely buy white bread because I am an evil mother), and pronounces "I told you last time that I don't like flavored." Last time? I bought her English muffins maybe once before, back when she was human. Sticking with my blase ploy, and sipping my coffee, I muttered something about there being honey in them. She managed to toast, spread butter, and eat independently. Then, with a reminder, she cleared her plate, spilling only half the crumbs back onto the table.

Stop the presses! No need for me to describe other issues, as there has been a radical turn of events. Holy wrongful stereotyping by rude mother! Dear One Reader - and the dog - Rugelah came home from school, showed me her year book, and apologized! I retract it all, humbly, and admit that I was never as good a person as my dear little Pastry.

I'll keep trying.

Becca, Clouds and Weddings

Now that I posted about Beanpole, Becca is wondering why I have not posted about her. Well, first of all, I have not blogged about anything in eons and am returning now, just after school's out. And, to be utterly truthful, an old college pal wrote me and complimented my writing and I thought I'm a lazy bum and then I decided to blog.

Regarding Becca: When someone is around for years and years and years you might not blog about her, but she has definitely received mention. She is a great writer and one of her essays - a combo of traditional rigorous research, contemporary culture, and a frank voice - was recently published in a well-known magazine that shall remain unnamed. She has published other work, as well. Does that count for me - my friend's publications?

I met Becca in high school. I was the new girl, and she was the serious girl who knew everybody and put herself down a lot. She encouraged me to speak up in class (something about which I did write in our alumni newsletter, so there), and she accepted me as I was, despite my lack of cool. Obnoxious Guy made fun of the elasticized waist on the back of the blazer I wore the first day, but Becca never did that stuff. Nowadays, Becca still knows everybody - she moved away for years, came back, and is fully installed, as if she never left. More importantly, she looks really good. Reference photo above. See what I mean? (Beanpole! She is straight.)

Becca was not at my wedding. It is hard to say "my wedding" after seeing the Sex and The City movie, because the main character is all ego-freaky about her wedding, but if I say "our wedding," it sounds like Becca and I are married, but we are not. (Incidentally, Sarah Jessica's wedding dress was a horror, especially since her boobs were too small for it. Those breast things are sticking out, and let's not get into the teal blue taxidermy on her head.) Okay, Becca was not there! Not at The Sex and The City wedding, and not at mine. Follow my digressions, please. At that point we were not in touch, and she was a high school pal whom I had not seen in ages. I did not want some of the people who were at my wedding to be there, and I wanted other people who were not there to be there, and it was all please-your-parents-ish. If Becca had been there I am quite sure it would have been better, but she wasn't, and I am still married. And both Becca and I had excellent wedding dresses sans the dead bird.

At Becca's wedding I had two clouds of guilt over my head. First, because she had not been at my wedding. And second, because I was seated with the most lovely couple, both of whom (I'm whoming a lot today) were classmates at the pre-Becca school I attended. Since Becca knows everybody, she eventually found them. She had told me that they were "the nicest people she had ever met," and she had traveled with them in India. Mrs. Nice-People was a former friend from sixth grade. I was new to private school, and she was a sweet, long-legged and friendly kid who sat with me. We were good friends - I remember sleeping on her top bunk - until The Popular Girls started paying attention to me, at which point I promptly dumped the now-Mrs. Nice-People. At least that's how I remembered it. Sitting there, next to them, as a shallow-child-turned-shallow-adult.

So I'm at this wedding with Ball & Chain, who is happily oblivious to my guilt-clouds, and downing kosher appetizers. (There was Jewish-wedding guilt, too, but that's another story.) Mr. Nice-People is thrilled to see me because, well, he's just thrilled to see me. We had only been in that class together for one year, as he arrived as a freshman, and then I left. He kept saying "I can't believe it! Lucy van Pelt!" or something to that effect. Mrs. Nice-People seemed much more believing and definitely less interested. I was sure she was remembering what an awful girl I had been, and I kept wondering how to say something about what an awful girl I had been. I randomly recalled two coincidental meetings with other members of her family over the years, both of which were awkward: Mom (part of Mom and Dad when I had known her) at a lesbian potluck when I was lesbianing in college, sister dating the fiancee I had ditched and then evil-eyeing me at a party at his house. Anyway, when Mr. Nice-People said goodbye to me, we hugged, but then he did not completely let go, and holding on to my waist with both hands, he looked into my eyes and told me how great it was to see me. I could see Mrs. N-P in my peripheral vision. It was was guilt cloud number three, but admittedly a small thrill.

There are other stories I could tell about Becca or Beanpole or Mrs. Nice-People, as women seem to be most of the main people in my life, and we all kind of come and go, like something out of Gertrude Stein. Recently I had a painful exchange with my dear sister. Becca once described to me the essence of her family, the way - no matter what - family stays together. She said she would tolerate anything from her sister because she was her sister. In high school, we would have scoffed at that type of loyalty, or an admission that friendships come and go. "Friends 4-Eva." But I think Becca was on to something. As my family tries to get up after a few awful swats, I am more conscious of the connection. Becca's insights help.

Big Brother and Beanpole

It's time I wrote a little something about Beanpole, my new friend at work. I can call her Beanpole because she calls me the most atrocious of names. I had not heard that particular reference for maybe thirty years, and then only from my expert older brother. He was expert at being a faster, bigger, smarter older brother, and that's what set him apart from the amateurish brothers who sometimes pestered my friends. Laughing at a sister? That was nothing. With Big Brother, one never knew when the bed would be filled with minuscule sharp crumbs, when kids at school would tease about a private mortifying event at home, or when one's name might be turned into a subject of disgust. The satisfied grin on his face made it that much more horrendous. And a tiny bit funny, I'll admit, thirty-five years later.

Back to Beanpole. She also likes to tease, but now that I'm an immature adult, I enjoy a good tease myself. Plus - and this is what bonds us - she is an absolute yente (busybody), and she knows a lot about what goes on. Despite my short tenure there, I also keep my little ears open, so between the two of us we are quite an encyclopedia of knowledge. Since her students become my students, there was an initial awkwardness about whether each of us was up to snuff. But then when she told me that she has no grade book and that she cares more about the kids than the academics, I realized that we are cut from a similar sensitive/lazy (you decide) cloth.

Beanpole is a lesbian. She looks around ten years younger than me but she is not. I have a theory about lesbian vagina - historically unfettered by the trauma of childbirth - that may be a moot point soon, as many lesbians are giving birth. My childbirth experiences did not devastate my vagina, but it did not help matters either. The ridiculous stretch, the perineal disfiguration, the golf ball/hemorrhoid, the subsequent back injury, perhaps the rapidity with which I shot those mucus-heads out, all, in hindsight, or perhaps in cunt-sight, aged my twot. It's a good twot, but it needs to be taken out and walked every day. It needs exercise, and it suffers from cramping when I menstruate.

But wait. I was not referring to Beanpole's vagina looking younger than mine; I actually meant her face and general demeanor. What would age her? No kids, no husband, no childbirth, no saggy belly. Doesn't it make logical sense, though, that if one's female parts are youthful that one's other parts would be in good shape too? And if you are reading this and thinking it's all crap and I would be fine if I just exercised, well, you are right. and I'm quite sure I'll start tomorrow. However, this little piece is about Beanpole, despite the detour into my - figurative - vaginal non-virginal canal. Hey- no fair! Beanpole sounds phallic but she is very much a female. That was some unintentional vaguely disturbing Freudish-type stuff that we shall now pass over.


The bit that is fun is Beanpole's unsquelched enthusiasm. Perhaps it belies her youthful glow, as it were. She asked me to help her move even though I have not known her for very long, and she laughed when I feigned offense. She raves about her dog as if he is a long-lost love, and she is something of an eager puppy herself. The friendly digs she seems to have borrowed from Big Brother make her that much more familiar. A bigger, faster, taller person who gives me grief! How refreshing!