Whozzat?

Best Friend B has a glorious female offspring with bouncy blonde curls and an extraordinarily sunshiny personality.  Baby N is funny and sweet and curious and unabashedly friendly.  And Baby N is also slightly self-centric as is fitting a girl of her age.  At twenty months, she is thoroughly convinced that the world, quite rightly, revolves around her.  And so whenever we take walks together or venture out into the world or even sit quietly in a restaurant, she will point to any nearby stranger and asks, “who’s that?”

 

“Ask” may be too gentle a word in most cases, for in truth, Baby N is truly demanding an answer.  If ignored, “who’s that” may be repeated several times and in fact, may even be shouted directly into the offender’s face until an answer is proffered.  Sometimes the stranger is entertained.  After all, Baby N is truly adorable.  And sometimes the stranger is simply taken aback.  Baby N’s demands can be jarring.  Its not often one sees a child so young who is also so adamant. 

But Baby N is a determined young lady.  Pity the fool who takes her kindly nature for granted, for she is an indomitable force when pushed beyond her limits.   Sure, Baby N is charming and sweet and largely good-natured.  But force her to walk one way when she prefers another, or pick her up when all she wants is down, and God help you.  Likewise, refuse to respond to her little-girl need to know exactly who is entering her bubble, and suffer an endless string of “whozzat” until she gets a satisfactory answer.

Mostly, Baby N is an endless source of entertainment and fascination for me.  She is pure, unadulterated narcissism.  The world is her domain and anyone in it must be explained – nay – justified.   I’m not sure at what point pure narcissism transforms – at what point she will become aware of other people in her looking glass.  I’m delighted to watch her grow but sad to know that someday she will know the world was not made only for her. 

The bitter and the sweet...

Its an odd thing to say, but I love Yom Kippur.  It is, in fact, my favorite day of the year.  Its strange really – the idea that the day of atonement, a day of fasting and prayer that most people think of as a chore or as penance – the idea that this day could be my favorite among so many (notwithstanding my birthday which is still one of my favorite days of the year despite the march of time).  But I do love it.  I love its solemnity and its quietude.  I love a forced shutdown and I love the ritual of it all.  I love the time spent learning and talking about stories from the Torah. 

I did the 10Q this year.  The 10Q is a sort of hippy-dippy Reboot questionnaire – one question each night between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur – one question to answer about something in your life, something personal, something intimate.  The answers can be anonymous and they are locked away in the 10Q vault.  One year from now, an email will arrive as a reminder of the questions and our answers.  One year from now we get the opportunity to see how right we were in our predictions, how far we ventured from our imagined paths, how little we accomplished of our stated goals.  Its very Jewish, actually, this idea of recording these things and locking them away.

I fear I don’t have great expectations for the year ahead on a macro level.  I predicted the housing market would not recover.  I predicted war in Israel.  I predicted a distressing amount of damage to the Democratic party and a lack of recovery for the California education system.  On a sunnier note, I predicted that Child One would get into a wonderful university and that Sig Other’s business would continue to thrive. 

What I cannot predict, and what I dare not think about, is what will happen in the minutae of the forward movements of the days – today, tomorrow, the day after.   I cannot predict who Child Two will be one year from now any more than I could have told you a year ago that he would be the marvelous young man he is today.  I cannot predict the little things that make seemingly insignificant moments carry such weight.  

Child One broke up with her boyfriend tonight.  Her tears and sadness were assuaged first by coffee ice cream, and next by an email announcing that she would be the invited speaker at a fundraising event for a major philanthropic organization in one month’s time.  Her tears of sorrow over the boy were replaced instantly by tears of joy at her success.  A beat later came acknowledgement – if she could be made happy so easily by this achievement, then perhaps the boy had not been so important to her after all.  Indeed.   All things worth considering as we begin 5771 and hope that we have been written in the book for one more year. ..

Please sir, may I have another key?

Sig Other and I never took a honeymoon. Its not that we didn’t want to.  But life takes over (or as Best Friend B says, “Man plans and God laughs”) and we just never found the time.  We’ve tried a few times to take a couples vacation, but just haven’t been able to swing it.  There was the time we planned a romantic trip for two to Rome.  But then Child One asked to come along.  And when your teenage daughter ASKS to spend time with you, “No” is a thought that never enters your head.   But the summer has been a long one and time off scarce, so I finally managed to plan a few days off, alone with Sig Other on a weekend when the children were scheduled to be with BioMom. 

Cut to Fancy Adult Camp – a luxurious, adults only resort high on an idyllic cliff top overlook fog (er, um, I mean spectacular ocean – somewhere down there).  Fancy Adult Camp is a no car zone.  Guests go from room to spa to dining area to meditation pond via a meandering road shaded by canopies of cedar and redwood trees.  Fancy Adult Camp smells good.  And when you check in to Fancy Adult Camp, they give you one key.

The one key thing didn’t really occur to me as I breathed in the clean Pacific air.  It didn’t occur to me as I marveled at the blissful view and listened to the sound of utter relaxation.  The one key thing didn’t really strike me until about twenty minutes after settling in, when I wanted to go one way and Sig Other wanted to go another. 

One key assumes you and your partner will be spending all your time together.  One key assumes you book side-by-side activities and presupposes a sort of 100% romantic symbiosis that I hadn’t planned.  One key does NOT assume that you will want to go to the pool while your Sig Other naps, it does NOT assume that you will want to hike around the property while your Sig Other downloads a document from the one corner of the hotel with decent Wi-Fi.  It does not assume any alone time factored into romantic couple time. 

The one key policy made me realize I may not be so good at this whole relaxing vacation thing.  Padding down the path alone to the meditation tub in my green robe and fuzzy slippers, I felt a little self-conscious.  It felt somehow wrong to be solo on a path in a couple’s retreat headed to the meditation pool.  I realized I wouldn’t be doing any meditating.   I would be reading.  On my iPad.  A lot.  Sort of the opposite of meditating really.  I wasn't looking inward at all.   I was planning to look outward.  A great deal.

But then I got to the meditation tub and saw there was only one other person there.  Another woman.  Alone.  No Sig Other in sight.  And she was reading TATLER.  I felt better and settled in for a read, a lot less worried about the napping Sig Other and our one key.   

#FF

Twitter introduced the “#FF” and we tweeters know that stands for “Follow Fridays”.  In Twitter world, #FF is a way to recommend new friends to like-minded followers and discover new and exciting people to follow.  But in my world, FF stands for something else.   In my world, FF stands for Filter Free (or “FFF”, as in Filter Free Fridays).

The term “filter free” was originated by Child One and is oft-times accompanied by an emphatic gesture – her hand waving up and down in front of her mouth as she looks at her father and says, “Daddy!  Filter!!!”  Because sometimes, Sig Other says something out loud that perhaps he should not.  Sometimes, Sig Other says things that we may all think but only he gives voice to.  Sometimes, Sig Other struggles to adhere to the constraints of polite society. 

It isn’t that he’s impolite, exactly.  It’s just that he mostly says what he means.  And mostly he manages to do so in a way that is not terribly offensive.  Mostly.  To be specific, Sig Other’s filter – the one that thoughts usually pass through before coming out his mouth – is more porous than some.  He was raised, the son of a diplomat, in embassies all over the world, and so the filter engages fully at cocktail parties and in boardrooms and in ways which allow him to function most days quite successfully.

But something happens on Fridays.  Some diabolical demon of destruction comes and lays waste to whatever thin membrane exists between every waking thought in that big brain and the impulse to express them.  The breakdown begins at sunset and often carries through the weekend.  And hence we dubbed these lapses “Filter Free Fridays”. 

As Filter Free Fridays coincide with the Sabbath, witnesses are most often family and closest friends.  Sig Other lets loose at the dinner table and, depending on mood and amount of sleep, can continue his Filter Free state through an entire weekend.  There is Filter Free Frankness, known to most as inappropriately naked candor.  And Filter Free Fun, which is often a song, a limerick, or loud scatological freestyling.    Filter Free Fridays can manifest in public as well as in private.  This can be as slight as a naughty joke or as massive as a loud outburst in the middle of a crowded restaurant.  Mostly, Filter Free Fridays are entertaining.  At worst they are embarrassing.  Very rarely they are offensive. 

On the rare occasion that the triple F manifests at the outward edge of acceptable, I consider becoming a Monday through Thursday wife.  Why, I wonder, must I accept my role as wife of a part-time victim of temporary Tourettes?  But along with the pain brought by lack of filter, there is also and quite often, great joy.  Hilarious, uproarious hijinx are born of the filter free zone.  And laughter accompanies Friday nights in as great measure as pain.  On the rare occasion that I miss the filter, I remind myself that my vows were not “in politeness and in health”, they were not “until unbridled truth do you part”.  And I knew about the Triple F long before we married.   So I carry on and wait for the adventure ahead.

Brother, can you spare a dime?

Sig Other is diligent about the Jewish custom of “tzedakah”.  He gives generously to organizations both religious and political.  He’s sort of a softy for someone who presents so tough and he can be moved to tears (though he would deny it) by the plight of the oppressed.  And he will always, always give money to those in need on the street.  There is always an extra dollar in his pocket, always an extra few in the car. 

But recently, Sig Other has decided that isn’t quite enough.  Recently, Sig Other has been moved by something else: bad messaging.  It all started when we saw a young man sitting at the freeway entrance holding a sign reading: ILL – PLEASE HELP.  “That’s bad branding,” said Sig Other, spritzing with Purell after handing the young man some cash.  “I could help that guy.  If he just changed his brand, he’d do a lot better.  No one wants to get close to a guy who is sick.”  Admittedly, not everyone processes tzedakah through the lens of a self-professed germaphobe, but I had to admit, I could see his point. 

Later that same day we saw an older gentleman with two signs.  One said: HUNGRY.  The other: MEG WHITMAN DEVIL GOLDMAN SACHS EVIL DESTROYERERS OF THE WORLD.  With the first sign, Sig Other could find no flaw.  Simple, to the point.  The second sign?  Bad messaging.  Meg Whitman might be the devil and Goldman Sachs may be responsible for the end of the world but that doesn’t make the sign a good fundraising tool.  California, as Sig Other pointed out, is the state that vetoed gay marriage the first time around and voted the Terminator into office.  So there’s a damn good chance at least half the hungry guy’s audience who may have been sympathetic to his digestive plight was just turned off by his political dogma and rolled their stuffy windows back up.

And then came the last straw.  Then came the day that Sig Other walked down a street in Vancouver, Canada and saw a man holding a sign that said, “Hungry???”  The man was eating a sandwich.  This was, without question, a clear case of poor advertising.  Sig Other could stop himself no longer.  He offered a dollar.  And then he offered more.  “This,” he said to the sandwich-eater, “is a bad sign.  I’m confused by your messaging.  Are you asking if I’m hungry?  Or are you suggesting that being hungry is something to question?  And if you are trying to sell your hunger in order to get money, don’t you think it’s a bad idea to be eating a sandwich at the same time that you are holding the sign?  Is it that you are offering ME the sandwich?   Do you see what I’m saying?”  Of course the man did not see, and in that moment possibly wondered how he had attracted someone so intense and passionate (or perhaps someone so crazy).  He continued to eat his sandwich, looked down at the dollar and said, “American?” 

In spite of (or perhaps because of) this response, Sig Other has made a new pledge.  In addition to giving money to anyone in need, he also now pledges to help build their brand.  He will, for instance, explain to the sick guy that perhaps that “ill” may not be the message to lead with.  Or he may say to the Meg Whitman Hater that he would be better served keeping his political agenda to himself.  In this way, Sig Other feels he is bringing more than just cash to the transaction.  Or, in his words, “I’m giving away my intellectual property.  And that is the most valuable thing I have.”  So now, in addition to checks written and donations logged, Sig Other has found an even better way to fulfilling the mandate of tzedakah – a couple of bucks and a bit of advice.  

LOST: One Clitoris. Not mine.

Child Two loves the movies.  He loves war movies and sci-fi movies and action movies.  But mostly, he loves comedy.  He’s seen Talledega Nights so many times he can recite Will Farrell’s entire grace monologue on command.  He watches as many comedies as we’ll take him to and I knew he was dying to see “Dinner with Schmucks.”  So what better way to flex my stepmom muscle than to offer him a mid-day movie excursion.  Opening day.  Just the two of us.

Comedy has always proved elusive to me.  What one person may find hilarious, another can find deeply dull or downright stupid.  And often, Child Two finds uproarious 11-year old boy humor in things I find utterly disdainful.  But we were both completely in sync when it came to the brand of humor in this particular movie.  Minute after unfunny minute passed and we hung in there, thinking surely this must pass and surely the comedy would kick in any second. 

Finally, we got to the “dinner” of the “Dinner with Schmucks” and the Schmuck explains why his wife left him.  He lost her clitoris, he explains to a roomful of guests.  He didn’t know what it was and so he didn’t know WHERE it was.  At one point he thought maybe it was under the couch but that turned out to be just a piece of gum.   On and on he goes about the lost bit of anatomy and deeper and deeper I sink into my seat, stealing sideways glances at Child Two and praying that he is not stealing sideways glances at me.  “Please,” I pray silently, “please don’t let him lean over and ask me what a clitoris is.” 

The moment passed and I sat rigid through the remainder of the movie hoping he wouldn’t remember this particular bit of unfunny to bring up as we discussed the myriad unfunny moments throughout the unfunny film.  Thankfully, Child Two let slide this wildly uncomfortable PG-13 moment.  Perhaps he knows what a clitoris is and doesn’t need to ask.  Perhaps he doesn’t know what it is but knows enough to know that asking would yield a wildly uncomfortable conversation better had with his father than his stepmother.  Or perhaps he doesn’t know, didn’t recognize my discomfort and just brushed it off as yet another unfunny moment he didn’t quite get.  Whatever the reason, I escaped unquestioned and deeply grateful. 

Two nights later, I was talking to a friend who sat through the same movie with his nine-year old son.  My friend brought up the same scene, the same twinge of discomfort, the same lack of little boy response.  We laughed about it and I walked away feeling slightly better about what I had assumed to be my failing as a stepmother – my inability to confront questions of sexuality with my stepson.  I had assumed that stepmotherness inhibited my ability to speak frankly with Child Two about the female anatomy.  But it turns out my failing was entirely unrelated to my step-status.  My failing is simply that of the typical adult. 

Sig Other, I’m sure, would scoff at my prudishness and declare it uniquely American.  He would most likely have used the opportunity to launch into a technical discussion of labia and its surrounds that would have mortified Child Two in the moment but fascinated him in the long run.  And I would have simply ducked for cover.   But Sig Other was not at the movie and so Child Two suffers no such embarrassment.  I, however, am left wondering when (if not already) the boy will know that a clitoris is truly not something that looks like a piece of gum under a couch…

Mirror, Mirror, on the wall...

Our cable isn’t working properly.  If all systems were go, I would have scanned the cable guide and landed on some fabulously mindless reality tv – a lullaby by which to sleep.  But the cable isn’t working so I played roulette with the remote control and landed by pure accident on a movie channel playing a film a worked on early in my career.  It’s sort of famous, really, and though I almost never reference my work in this blog it would be hard to convey the shock of my night without at least pointing out that this particular film was wildly successful and much referenced. 

What was most fascinating was not watching the film for the first time in almost fifteen years – although it has certainly been at least that long since I last saw it in full.  Nor was the most fascinating thing how well the film held up – the technique and story are superior.  Nope.  What was most fascinating was how young the actors looked.  I turned to Sig Other at one point and said, “my God, look how young they are!”  And it occurred to me in that moment that if they looked young – if those men who spent thousands – maybe tens of thousands – on doctors and facialists and treatments and creams to stay young – if those men looked wildly different to me today than they did then, what must I look like?  How old do I look?  Oh my god – am I a hag?  Cuz those guys on the screen, those lovely, smooth skinned men now look really, really old and wrinkly to me.

Sig Other, in his infinite wisdom, assured me that looking the same as I looked fifteen years ago was not necessarily a good thing and in fact, some things look better with age.  And I suppose that is true.  I do stare longingly at my lemon trees wishing they had the stocky trunks and sturdy structure of those more mature.  But I’m hard pressed to think of other great examples of things that are young that I wish to grow old.  Ok, so my lemon trees.  And a bottle or two of wine in my closet.  Sig Other grows more handsome by the day.  But not my dogs, not my children and not me.  Younger is better.  Almost all of the time.