Coat of a Different Color

One of the hallmarks of becoming an adult is becoming privy to the stories of the elders in your family. Realizing they drank, skipped school, got fired from a job. When you can no longer cry you just don't understand! in a fit of teenage angst because you realize that they do.

I think one of the most gratifying moments as a young adult was my grandmother sharing stories of her and her sisters going out dancing. My grandmother had both an older and younger sister, all very close in age. As young married adults, the three of them would often meet up for a few hours of dancing. My grandmother's younger sister, according her her, was incredibly vain. She was a beautiful young woman. And she knew it. I think it was a bone of contention for my grandmother to have constantly heard growing up it's a shame you aren't as pretty as your sister Dolores.

On this particular night, the three sisters met up and walked to the dance hall. Smoking their cigarettes and having a good time. Dolores wore her new coat. Her beautiful, new and expensive coat. She twirled around, Don't you love my new coat. It was very expensive. Doesn't it suit me. My grandmother and her old sister rolled their eyes behind their younger sister's back. What a snooty bitch, they laughed to themselves.

Dolores also like to drink. A lot. After their evening out, as the sisters walked home, Dolores announced that she had to take a piss. She staggered off into the bushes, ungraciously copped a squat and relieved herself. Except that being stinking drunk meant that she had no coordination. And Dolores fell, straight back into the steaming puddle she had just created.

Fifty years later, my grandmother's throaty laugh crescendoed to a cackle. Oh the screaming! she laughed. She shrieked and screamed all the way home! She and her sister couldn't laugh then because Dolores would have killed them. But all these years later, laugh she did. The image still brought tears to her eyes. Her throaty laugh, pleased as punch that her sister had ruined her coat.

No one likes a braggart. It is one thing to celebrate a success or the completion of a goal. It is something else to brag about everything. Incessantly. My grandmother's glee reminded me that even decades later, there is nothing more gratifying than seeing someone get their comeuppance.

A huge thank you to Cristin for her brilliant post and therefore the inspiration to write mine.

Desperately Seeking A Remake

Sometimes we love a movie or a book and then the last five minutes or last five pages ruin the whole fucking thing. Even though it has been twenty years, I still feel this way about the movie Leviathan.

This movie had potential. It had amazing elements that made for a kickass story: off-the-record Soviet military operations, unwitting people in a dangerous underwater environment, secret scientific experiments involving human genetics. How in the world can you go wrong with that?

Let me tell you.

Instead of making a horror film that scared the shit out of the audience emotionally and intellectually, we get a giant monster jumping out from steamy corridors with lots of blood and body parts. Now the blood and body parts were fine. Justifiable even. However, instead of an Alien knockoff, couldn't we have used the genetic experimentation aspect to make an Aquaman meets Waterworld scenario? If the idea were to create a super soldier, how cool would it have been to follow that plot line down a scientifically intelligent path.

So, while I usually think remakes of films are a terrible idea, I am pleading with the Hollywood powers-that-be to hire a bunch of geneticists and rewrite and re-shoot this film. You have a whole generation of X-Files, X-Men, and Fringe aficionados who would flock to a film that pandered to both their intellect and their love of scientific horror.

I've Fallen In Love All Over Again

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Is Sportsmanship Dead?

I had the opportunity to go to a Caps game last night (that's the Washington Capitals, for the NHL-deficient). We had a blast, and I was once again reminded how people watching at sporting events can be even more interesting than the game itself.

Throughout the evening, several people did a little seat-swapping to let their friends have a period in the better seats. One of the guys in our group was rooting for the other team. Very vocally rooting for the other team. He got to spend the second period in Caps season ticket seats, directly behind the goal. We could see him across the stadium. A jersey of blue in a sea of red. It was absolutely hysterical to see, even from afar, the syncopated hopping about and yelling.

After the second period, this brave young man came back and regaled us with his tales. The first thing out of his mouth was:

I have never felt so hated in my life. It was awesome!!!

Then he came to the meat of the matter. In the midst of all the hootin' and hollerin', the seven year old boy sitting behind him? Was throwing popcorn. At him.

Let me repeat: A seven year old boy was throwing popcorn at a 35 year old man. While his parents looked on in approval.

Blue Jersey man finally turned around and said: Look. Yell and verbally abuse me all you want to. That's fine. That's cool. Your kid throwing food at me is not. Psycho Caps family just blinked and tried to justify, then blinked when he continued, Your kid does that again, and I will have you ejected.

They shut the hell up. The food throwing stopped.

I am sure some would disagree, but I think this guy was spot on. Who the hell lets their children throw food at adults? Can he throw his lunch at his teacher when he doesn't agree with what she says? Can this child throw his crackers at his parents when they tell him to put his toys away? What the fuck? Like the guy said, yell, shout, dance, tease and nah-nah-nah with your fingers in your ears all you want. Throw food? Not in my book.

So what's the deal? Is sportsmanship dead?

The One Where I'm An Ugly American

I am fairly well-traveled. Enough so that while abroad I have spotted groups of Ugly Americans and exchanged looks with the locals standing beside me. Often times, if I never opened my mouth it was assumed I was a native.

Therefore, it is with great shame that I once found myself an unwitting participant in Acts Befitting An Ugly American.

We spent our honeymoon in the Dominic Republic, or, as the Swedes call it Dominikanska Republiken. I love how that rolls off the tongue. We were set for two weeks of sun, sleep, sex, and doing absolutely whatever the hell we felt.

One of the tours we booked was riding horses up in the mountains to look at waterfalls. It was awful. A bumpy, hot bus on a road with winding one point five lanes and no guard rail. Nauseous doesn't even begin to cover it. We arrived in one grateful, if not disheveled piece. We rode the horses, got rained on, snapped a few pics for posterity and were ready to head back to the comfort of our rooms.

I had several snacks in my knapsack, including an apple. I'd chewed on part of it in an unsuccessful attempt to calm my stomach. It only made it worse. I did not see a trash can around, and I did not want to chuck it on the ground. So, I asked our guide if I could give it to the horse. He told me that it was fine, and so I held the apple flat in the palm of my hand. The horse lipped it, nuzzled it, held it in his teeth for a second and then flung it to the ground. Now, I had a dirty apple with horse spittle dripping from it, and still no trash can. The guide explained to me that horses in the Dominican Republic are not often given apples. It was then that I noticed the boys standing around, staring at us. They worked cleaning and caring for the horses. They were looking at us with strange expressions on their faces, and the guide explained to them that in the States, giving an apple to a horse is not considered unusual.

One of the boys indicated that he wanted the apple.

I did not know what to do. There was still not a place to throw it away. The apple was slimy with horse saliva and splotched with mud. But how could I say no? The boy wanted it. So I gave it to him. He and his friends gave me a bit of a dirty look, letting me know how stupid they thought I was to try and waste an apple on a horse. And I felt stupid. And wasteful. And very conscious that I would be held as a shining example of a stupid tourist. An Ugly American.

I take from this that no matter how culturally savvy we think we are, we can still fuck it up. And if you go to the Dominican Republic, keep your apple in your knapsack.

Procrastination

In spite of the drama involved in getting my grandmother's ashes, I still have not dealt with task of actually putting them in the urn.

First, I needed a funnel. The idea of pouring my grandmother into the container has been too much for me to handle, and so I have not. My husband did not see the point in my insistence on buying a funnel. He named several kitchen tools we have on hand, then had to listen to my illogical explanation as to why I could not have remnants of my grandmother's body on my kitchen utensils.

The funnel was purchased.

The next step was to get a proper sealant in which to secure the lid. Forgive me that when I run into the hardware store to grab an extension cord or cabinetry hardware that stopping an employee to discuss the pros and cons of their in-stock bonding agents slips my mind.

And so the months have passed. And so she sits. Still in the plastic baggie. Still in my bookcase. Some mornings I do, indeed, bring her a cup of coffee. The day wears on and beds need to be made, messes cleaned up. Suddenly those days have become months, and there she sits. Presiding over our daily activities from her living room perch.

On the days we walk home from school, my children scour the yards for dandelions. They love to pick them, and I never tell them no. I like to think of it as my neighborhood public service. We have tiny little Tupperware containers that, when not used for snacks, have been adopted as miniature vases for my children's nature collection. This particular day, my daughter rambled on and on once we get home could she get the little container and fill it with water so the flower could have water and... Of course, my dear. Whatever you like.

Key in the door. Shoes tucked in closets. I wrestle with backpacks and lunch boxes and preschool art. I've hardly made a dent when my daughter comes rushing up to me. See Mamma! I've put water in it and everything! Isn't it beautiful?


She'd clambered up onto the entertainment center shelf, found the empty "vase" filled it with water and put her flowers in it because she thought it would look so beautiful.

And it did.

Mice On Ice

My husband earned another Pater Ex Animo stripe today. Through his work, he was able to secure tickets to Disney on Ice.

At any other time in my life I would have scoffed at the idea of sitting in a stadium watching over-sized and slightly freakish mascot-versions of our favorite childhood characters wobble and teeter on a makeshift ice arena. Instead I held back on the cynicism, reserving judgment because I knew my kids would probably enjoy it.

Let me say that I stand corrected. The show kicked ass. My kids sat wide-eyed and slack-jawed for nearly the entire performance. While I thought my daughter would be excited to see the princesses, I was in no way prepared for the sheer enthusiasm of my son. He practically shrieked Look! It's Aladdin! And Jasmin! And PINOCCHIO! AND IT'S MULAN!!!!

I must also sheepishly admit that their delight brought tears to my eyes. It took a good five minutes or so to get my shit together. For every shout of joy, for every point and jab of their chubby little fingers, a tear fell.

It has been four and a half years since my daughter was born, five if you count my pregnancy. Those five years have somehow not entirely erased those three years of limbo when I did not know whether or not I could have children. I used to get like this at birthday parties and playdates. Not enough so as to draw attention to myself, but a burning behind the eyes and a lump in my throat as I sat in. the. moment. As I took in my surroundings and watched my children and realized how god-damned lucky and fucking privileged I was to be there. To bask in the light my children shine on the world around them.

One would think I would have outgrown those moments. Somehow, I still seem to get blindsided. Now don't get me wrong. The show, while awesome, was not weep-worthy. It just felt so amazing, so huge to be a part of something so momentous to my children. Yes, it seemed like it was just a mouse on ice. But it was so much more than that.