Birthday Jerk

I forgot Chrystal's birthday. That's okay, you say. We're all adults, who really cares? Let's see, if I had remembered her birthday more than just one year out of the thirty I have known her, it might be a bit more okay. If she did not remember my birthday every year, it might be a bit more okay. Chrystal and I have always been friends. There was never a stretch when we were out of touch, or when our friendship was in question. That's just weird. She was in Canada for college, I was in Pennsylvania. She studied math, I studied sociology. She attended my high school graduation, my college graduation, and everything else. The night before I was married, we took a bath together, and she shaved my legs.

There is a lovely museum-quality (it's actually from a museum, so I think that makes it museum-quality) calendar on my wall with birthdays on it. I proudly watched Chrystal's birthday approach with great enthusiasm. It was listed under an etching of a gardenia, or some other hoity-toity flower. This year I would remember! What would I buy her? Well, nothing, that's what! I bought her nothing. And as the day approached, I ignored her birthday as I rifled through the pile of clothes just under the museum-fucking-flower-quality calendar.

She called me a few days ago. June 22. Whaddayadoin, I asked. She said she was on her way back from dinner at The Four Seasons, a way swanky restaurant and hotel. I was like why do you spend so much excellent time with your family? What's so great about them? And then she told me: it's my birthday. I didn't have the heart to let the whole day go by without telling you. I was crushed, really. Another year, another one missed. Do ya notice who the jerk is in this scenario and who the kindhearted person is? If you missed it, I am the jerk. Arg! I could have sent flowers at that point, but did I? Take a guess!

One year, back when Chrystal Husband One hadn't yet revealed his lack of parenting IQ , I threw her a surprise party. It musta been fifteenish years ago. I was making up for lost birthday time. Everyone loved it. Chrystal was happy. People drank beer, sat on the couches, and talked graduate school. Chrystal smiled a lot and we joked about my rehabilitation as birthday friend. I basked in the glow. I was a good person back then, and Husband One gave me all of the credit I deserved. Western Mass was lovely that June.

Then there were all the years that followed. I confused the 22d with the 23d. I called several days late. I forgot completely. I called on the 22d about things completely unrelated. I called on July 23d to say Happy Birthday. Do I forget other birthdays? No, not usually. It's not my forte, but I remember my sister, my brothers, my kids, my husband, certain friends, my parents, etc. okay there are probably others I forget, but certainly not with such vigor and routine. There is one friend who has a birthday on May 23, and I suspect that his 23 and her 22 somehow became mangled in my mind and it was never the same after that. Also, Chrystal is Chrystal, and the very consistency of our long friendship makes it a rather shabby omission, to say the least.

Back to this year. I was contrite. I had forgotten her birthday, yet again, in a year when she has been so tired with her many responsibilities that it would have been extra-helpful for me to remember. I did not remember, though. I, jerk, forgot. She seemed to be amused, and I truly felt bad. So we made a tentative time when I could take her out. Perfect! She called to confirm today and mentioned tomorrow night. Tomorrow night is the one night when I absolutely cannot take her out. I am going to a small event for which I have already made the commitment. Chrystal is going away for a conference, and I, Jerk, the supposed best friend, will have ditched her for perhaps the twentieth time. I am Ass. Or Jerk. You choose.

Vegetables Are Not Funny.

I read a book about an owl. I have told this story so many times it's ridiculous, so I will shorten it, like this: I read a book about an owl and then I decided not to eat animals. I do not mind if you eat animals. I do not mind removing the shrimp from the moo-shoo. I have nothing to preach about and I am not converting to a new religion. It's just something that happened when I read about the owl's feelings. Yes! I said feelings, and then I looked at some chicken, or watched a dumb commercial, and I thought that looks disgusting and I don't wanna eat it.

I had the same reaction to blue cheese, only for my whole life. I looked at it, smelled it, and I thought, gross, it's not even food. I don't care if other people eat it, I just do not want it. Naturally, The Men in the household think this is hilarious. (My apologies if you are mother to a boy. One day he will be A Man.) My son (referring to the vegetables, not the manhood) says "it's a phase." I say maybe it is. How should I know? Maybe I will miss sushi and start eating fish again or maybe one day I will want meat but I don't right now. So for awhile Ball & Chain kept putting big hunks o' meat or fish in front of me as if I'd change my mind instantaneously or maybe just to see what I'd do? He stopped that when I had green beans and potatoes one night for dinner, without complaint, and his salmon sat in the pan uneaten.

Still, they think it's funny. They tell very bad jokes about dead animals. I come from a family of butchers and I have eaten liver, chicken neck, giblet, and all sortsa other stuff. It's not like the jokes about meat are going to make me queasy. My great uncle useta greet us at his butchery with a bloodied apron, a big smile, and a friendly lollipop. What a sweetheart, really. I didn't think about the apron because I was used to it. A buncha pigs stuck in a cage and suffocating on their own methane? Well, that might make me a but queasy.

Today they were wondering about shumai, the Japanese dumpling. What if it has pork? Won't I miss it? Not right now. How tedious. What makes vegetarianism so funny to people? Have I inflicted it on my family? No. Have I served tofurkey? No, but we all like tofu with stir-fry. Rugelah has never liked chicken and Ball and Chain as always pretended that it's a phase. She just turned 13! The gal does not eat the chicken! There seems to be a perpetual family moment when one decides to take vengeance and move the joke one step further, or leave the joke be, and hope it dies. Not like an animal, like a vegetable. I am not sure whether to serve tofurkey for real, or simply wait to see when the next animal-slaughter joke lands in my plate. Hmmm.

Hair Removal is Not Fun, and Not Private

I decided to look at all of my old blog links. One link led to another and there was a column about body hair removal and my pubic area is utterly traumatized - my pubic hairs are uncurling right this very moment - because this robot-face lady wrote:

So whatever you like to do is fine. Really, it is. Do what feels good to you. Experiment. Have fun! But for heaven’s sake, keep it private.

She was referring to removal of pubic hair! Do what feels good to you?
1. What feels best is to leave it the hell alone, actually. I would prefer that my ancestors had not been hairy women, but there you have it, and it would feel good to me if my pubic hair was minimal and I could just avoid it. What feels good to you, Robot Face?

2. Miss Robot Face says whatever I like to do is fine. Some women actually do leave their pubic hair totally alone! Does she really think that is fine? No, she does not. She gives several painful options: American, French, Brazilian. How hairless do ya wanna be? Does she have an actual vulva going on or is it robot vulva, too? She referred to the hair "down there." I think she meant her cunt.

3. For heaven's sake, keep it private? Why? Why does it have to be private? I think I'll go talk to the old guy across the street and tell him I chose Brazilian! Or maybe I'll mention it to my mother-in-law. She'd love to hear about that. Perhaps Robot Lady means I should be careful, lest anyone actually see that I have pubic hair in my pubic region. Oops that wasn't lady-like. I meant my cunt. No worries, Robot Face! As the nice torture lady is rubbing hot wax on my thighs I will tell her not to look, because it it very private to me. Maybe she will read a magazine or talk on her cell. I don't mind a few layers of my labia removed just to keep it private.

4. Let's get to the "fun" part. Have fun, she tells us. I will remember that. Basically, I can go to the beach and have strangers see my pubic hair, which I cannot manage because, well, I can't, we live in the uptight U.S., or I can go get waxed, which is very painful and unpleasant. When someone pours hot wax very close to my cunt and then tears off bits of my hair with it, I do not feel happy. It is not fun. I sort of hate myself for doing it and I wish I were a hippy or a Swede with no hair.

5. As protest, I am thinking maybe I should grow a vulva beard and braid it or maybe get some hair extensions "down there," and start a new trend for hairy and proud women. It would be very public. Pubic, and public. Maybe it could be a performance art piece and I could get a buncha non-robot women to join me in the protest against the corporate wax-investing anti-cunt movement.

6. Or maybe I'll just wax again this summer, but it will not be fun and I will talk about it openly as I cross my legs in protection of my traumatized cunt.

In Bed with Bug not so Bad

I am sick as a dog. I feel like horse shit. Why do we always compare ourselves to animals when we feel lousy? I wake up and I fall asleep again. This is the first time in recorded history - that means that I can remember - that Ball & Chain is actually accepting that I am ill without using passive-aggressive maneuvers to imply that I am just wanting attention. It has never mattered what the illness has been - ruptured cysts, ruptured disc, migraine headache - a bit more than the usual litany of middle-aged complaints, but nothing too terrible. Nevvuthuless, he has always managed to sigh, to outright complain, to kvetch (a nagging complaint) about the disruption in his plans, be they ever so small. Never mind that I could not move, or that I was vomiting, or that everyone else at school had the flu, too. When I had it, it was an exaggeration.

But I digress. It's the day before Father's Day, and Ball and Chain is actually quite sympathetic to the little bug the little doobers seem to have given me as a parting gift at the school year's end. He sees me doing nothing on a beautiful day and he realizes hmmmm, most days she's fine! He does some laundry and he realizes hmmmm she's done the last few loads. He may have noticed that I do not have my usual beauty pageant presentation. The fact is we are cultural opposites. In my family, if someone had a cold, it was pull out the thermometer, push the fluids. In his family, if I tell his mother I'm sorry she's sick, she protests that she is not sick, even as she blows her nose repeatedly and hacks all over everyone.

Years ago, Big Kid was seriously ill. Then it was scary. We both knew how sick he was and I took him to the hospital while Ball & Chain stayed with Rugelah. That sickness lasted a long time. Yet somehow we have reverted to our old neuroses. Every once in awhile, one of our kids has a symptom and we both do sit up and pay attention, or sometimes I sit up and pay attention and Ball and Chain wakes up a bit and realizes. We were lucky then, even though other people thought we were unlucky. And now, instead of falling into a hole of cryptic sentences to protect my kid's privacy, I will say I am really not so sick at all.

My New Pal Can Write & She's Funny, Too.

CG works with me and now she blogs. She is very funny in person and also in text. So for my one reader and the dog, I recommend Cystic Gal.

Flarp on Me

Stop! I am here to tell you that I spoiled my daughter rotten last weekend, rotten like a tomato with flies all around it, rotten like a princess who keeps getting more, and I stopped myself as I was stuffing a gift bag and I turned to my excellent friend from Chicago and I said Fred, we'll call him that, he'd love it, Fred, what the hell am I doing? I already gave the kid one party, and now I clean up and I give her another one? Who the hell am I? And Fred did not really know what to say so he kept stuffing bags. We had had an everyone who has loved Rugelah party earlier and we were shifting to little teen friends surprise party. My identity as a mother who really does not give tons o' shit to her kids, or put up with tons o' shot from her kids had temporarily gone down the drain.

And then Rugelah came back home with best friend aka Secret Agent, her friends surprised her, she was all happy, they had a hilarious time with the flarp (play-dough-type- stuff that makes fart noises) in-between serious discussions about world politics (I kid you not) and karaoke. Big Kid had fled to a friend's house, natch. (That's short for naturally and it felt ridiculous writing it.) Why did I plan what was basically two parties for my precious little crabby Rugelah who is not so little anymore? She had a hard year? She did, but no harder than anyone else's. People were coming anyway before she cancelled her Bat Mitzvah? Sort of. I'm a maniac? Yes, that would be it! Over-the-top ridiculous parenting? Bingo! Now my kid has enough crap to open her own 5 and ten.

Here's another hypothesis: maybe I thought that her resistance to having the wealthy children of our little village to our home would somehow - no, I did not realize this at the time! - be neutralized when she had the little doobers over and she realized that they do not give a rat's ass that we live in a regular house as opposed to a 15-room manse with a pool, and they all just adore her for exactly who she is, at least when they can come to her party. I was insane. How much did I spend at the 5 and dime? What do you care? It was very cheap - a real 5 and dime! Isn't it bad enough that my people from Chicago teased me mercilessly for paying $3.65 for each jar of flarp and then later had more fun with it than any of the teen girls?

I will repent, I will. I am never buying her anything again. She has already made her thank-you note list. She is selling her hair to that cancer-hair place. No, okay, I made that up. Her hair is not long enough for that (of course- I permitted her to get a hair cut - another extravagance!) and when she was younger - Locks for Love! That's what it's called, she heroically told everyone that she was growing her hair out for Locks for Love and then when it got long enough she thought it looked so good she changed her mind. I should have just cut the hair off right then, and I never would have been in this predicament. To be fair, and honest, Rugelah was very happy at both parties. She was quite gracious, actually, not only to her kid-friends, but to the adults. She thanked me several times and threw in a bunch of big long-armed hugs. She is all arms and long, long legs, so it is an excellent hug.

Thus I confess. I threw years of solid chore assignments, concrete consequences for bad behavior, t.v./computer limits, and unlimited use of the word "no" to the wind, and with it, a solid chunk o' change, perhaps just to see what it was like to over-indulge my kid. She seems to be okay. For me, behind the scenes, it was a bit ridiculous - if I consider all of the unnecessaries - sorta fun to see all the girls screaming, singing, and yelping at one another, and weird to think that some people spend money like that all the time. It's definitely not the kid who messes those things up, though. It's the adult, wandering around the 5 and dime like a drunkard in need of a dose of flarp.