Twelve year-old Maxim entered the living room wearing a long blue wig, lip gloss, black pantyhose, black knee-high boots and, the killer, a stuffed bra under his dress.
“Wow!” laughed my husband not sure what kind of comment was appropriate.
Eva was bedazzled and stared with a big grin on her face. Claire pulled on his sleeve “Hi! Hi!”
“Mommy, why is he wearing that?” Eva pointed to his long blue locks.
“Oh, just for fun,” I tried to explain, “do you like his wig?”
Eva nodded yes. Long hair is one of her preoccupations.
Maxim stood in the entrance. He held his head back exposing his neck. Then he doused it with woman’s perfume. “Voilà,” he breathed. The final touch. He was now ready. He went around the room with pursed lips, kissing the cheeks of all the dinner guests with his shiny peach lip gloss.
It wasn’t the first time he had captured the crowd’s attention. Several months earlier, he had shown up to our house in a white Mozart shirt, ruffles down the chest and long swooping sleeves. This seemed more like a fashion statement and I actually liked it. I had no doubt he was homosexual and his mother being somewhat macho and provocative seemed like a perfect mother for a homosexual child to have. She would be open-minded, tolerant, and let her son express himself to the max. Wouldn’t she?
Trying to break the ice a little, I turned to her after Maxim left the room and with the intentions to proffer a compliment, I said jokingly, “Maxim is lucky to have a cool mom like you.”
Her eyes widened and she stepped in a little closer to me. Her gray spiky hair just inches away from my face. “What do you mean?” she was waiting for a special response, one that I wasn’t tough enough to give.
“Well, not many mothers would be okay letting their son dress like that,” I instantly regretted having opened my mouth at all.
“It’s totally normal for children to dress up,” big brown eyes bore into me. “It’s okay for girls to dress like boys. My daughter used to wear suits and ties and no one thought there was anything wrong with that. But when a boy dresses like a girl, it’s not okay?”
I held her stare. She wasn’t going to intimidate me. However, I dared not say what I was thinking:
“Your son is wearing a bra stuffed with tissues under his dress. Did your daughter stuff her fucking pants with a sock to look like a man with a dick and balls? Did she draw a mustache on her face and wear men’s cologne? Because that my dear is fucking weird. And I highly doubt your daughter looked like a man. Your son is not just wearing a dress or just a wig, he is in drag. How many teenage boys willingly and solo, dress up like women at parties? Zero boys, that’s how many because it is NOT normal. And I don’t care what your son wears, but if you think it’s normal, you are fucking blind.”
That’s what I wanted to say. But, I couldn’t say that so I said, “Yeah. I suppose you’re right…” and hoped it was enough to remove whatever pole I had accidentally rammed into her ass.
As more guests arrived to the dinner party, I watched people’s expression as Maxim sashayed into the room, shriveled sausages dangling from a fork in a dangerous way as he asked who wanted one. (His father put him in charge of the BBQ. “I don’t care if you look like a woman, you are my son and males are always in charge of the BBQ whether they wear dresses are not,” could have been one of his reasons.)
“Are we going to find melted blue hairs in our food?” Joked my husband as Maxim flung a sausage onto Claire’s plate. I laughed. No one else did.
People wore plastered smiles. I observed each person as they said hello to Maxim. Some said, “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,” in a light-hearted way. But I have telepathy and I could hear their thoughts, “Holy shit! Smile. Look normal. God damn! I’m glad my kid doesn’t dress like that! What the fuck? Smile, pretend it’s totally normal!”
“Where did you get those stockings?” asked my husband. Maxim obviously could not have borrowed them from his sisters or mother considering he was much taller and, shall we say, a “plus size.”
“Did you buy those for him?” my husband asked Maxim’s father. My husband was treading in dangerous waters. I wanted him to shut up. Maxim’s father chuckled, but did not share. I laughed nervously. A vision of Maxim swaying down the pantyhose aisle in a luxurious department store flashed in my mind. Did his mother take him? Did he go alone? What about his enormous boots? Did he buy those too in the women’s department or does he actually, miraculously wear the same size as his scary mom?
More families arrived with more children. Some other boys around the same age as Maxim entered the house. They were the same age, but they were from different planets. They had messy hair that was slightly dirty, boys who liked being boys. No interest whatsoever in how they looked or what they wore. No identity crises going on in that corner. They saw Maxim and laughed. Boy, that Maxim! He sure was funny. They were too young to realize Maxim was most likely having gender issues and probably wanted to be a girl.
Later in the evening, all the children were upstairs. I went up to see how things were going. All the children, ages 3-12, were spread out on the floor playing games, smiling, innocent wide eyes, and crumby faces. Who do you think sat by himself at a console in front of a mirror? You guessed it. Enraptured with his own image, Maxim sat with his long blue wig and a curling iron in front of a well-lit mirror as if he worked at Burlesque and was preparing for his next act. The scene was mind-blowing. One could say, “Oh, he was just having fun.” Yep. He sure knows how to get into a role.
After the party, back at our home I lie in bed watching my husband hang up his clothes. “It’s more than just being gay,” I said to him. “I’ve had gay friends and they were happy to be men. They had no desire to be women at all except on special occasions when everyone dressed up together.”
My husband listened to me. “Well, we don’t know what his parents think or if they have tried to talk with him. It is very delicate and I’m sure they are not going to talk to their friends about this. But, what is sad is no matter what, Maxim is going to deal with gay crime at school and in life. It’s a fact.”
I thought about this. This made me sad. “You know, it’s more than just being gay,” I said again.
“What really freaked me out, Sunny, is not the dress or the wig, it’s the fake boobs,” said my husband.
“I know. I wonder if deep down Maxim feels like he should have been born a girl, you know?”
“Well, I don’t want to think about it.”
We were both silent for a while. An image of Maxim’s mother sitting on her couch alone watching a transsexual on TV popped into my head. A woman with manly hands is being interviewed. “I always knew I was supposed to be a girl”, she says in a husky voice, “It wasn’t a choice really. I had to have the operation. I have always been a woman inside and now I am finally one on the outside.”
You hear a bell toll once. The camera pans in on Maxim’s mother. We see her eyes widen as the camera goes in closer and closer. Her hands begin to shake. Quickly she covers her mouth. She shakes her head in denial, disbelief. And. Cut.
Or maybe I’m just being dramatic. Maybe Maxim is normal, just checking things out. There is always the possibility he’s doing it to avenge his parents. Let’s assume his parents act cool when guests are around but when they are alone, they rip into him. “Do you realize how embarrassing you are? Christ!” they scream. “Cut this faggy shit out! Can’t you just be a plain old regular teen?”
“Fuck you,” he mutters to himself as he marches up to his room and hatches a plan. The next morning before he leaves for school, he swipes 50 bucks out of his mother’s purse. Instead of going to school, he hops on the bus to Les Galleries Lafayette. He heads straight to the hosiery section and chooses a nice pair of black tights in XL. Then, he tries on numerous pairs of boots in the Women’s shoe department. He hides his loot under his bed and waits for D-Day. Saturday evening finally arrives. His parents are busy setting out bottles of liquor and wine, paper napkins and bowls of chips. Maxim finds his sister’s wig and curling iron, puts on his outfit and waits until he hears the voices of guests.
“Show time,” he says into the mirror with a smirk. He comes down the stairs and sways into the room flinging his long blue tresses over his shoulder. “Good evening, everyone,” he says as he rearranges his bra a little. He catches his mother’s eye. Her stare burns a hole through his heart. He winks at her enjoying every moment. It’s as if someone is spoon-feeding him chocolate mousse.
Or, there’s always the simple explanation that he’s just a drama queen and loves the attention. If it is just a taste for the thespian life, then next time we see him he could be dressed like the Hobbit or even Yoda, right? And years from now, just after he takes a bow from a stunning performance and the curtain goes down, his parents who are sitting in the audience will turn to their friends and say, “You know, for a moment there, we all thought our Maxim wanted to be a girl.” And his parents and their friends will all chuckle heartily and yuk it up. “Yeah, that sure was a scary time…ha ha ha!”
And is it true that girls dress-up like boys? Besides wearing a suit and a tie, maybe some masculine looking shoes and a short haircut, I’ve never seen a woman dress like a man to the same extreme as a man dresses up like a woman. Have any of you out there seen a transvestite woman? I mean the whole thing: flatten her breasts down to nothing with some kind of tunic, stuff the crotch of her pants, fake five o’clock shadow? Yes, women may dress in men clothing, but it is more of a fashion statement or even a feminist statement, like “Hey, I don’t need to show my tits and ass to be a woman.” It’s not intentionally done to make people think they are men.
And now, I must sidetrack because this gets really interesting! I have a Tantric explanation to this whole gender issue. Science has shown that all embryos are first female and then some become male after certain hormonal and developmental phases take place. In fact, if you cut an embryo bunny’s gonads, the embryo will automatically revert to a female which proves all life is female in the beginning; the male species develops from an original female state. Therefore, (this is the Tantric part), men often feel this desire to go back to their feminine side and this is why sometimes you see men dressing as women and these men can be heterosexual. On the contrary, it’s rare that a man finds his wife secretly trying on boxer shorts and shaving her face or that she has a special suitcase filled with men shirts and pants that she wears when he is out of the house. Isn’t this fascinating?
Well, to come back full circle, back to the humor in it all, I don’t think any of it is good or bad, right or wrong, it just is. Maxim made a big impression on me. He obviously got me thinking. Maybe his identity and gender issues will work themselves out in time. But today, dude looks like a lady.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Sunny & Sydney
During my teen years, I pushed my limits north, south, east and west, towards the heavens and towards hell. Only a handful of people were willing to go there with me. At this critical developmental phase of my life, one person with whom I felt an enormous sense of freedom, albeit at times fearless and invincible, was my friend Sydney.
I met Sydney in junior high school during English class. He had a distinct walk as if striding on his tip-toes. Sydney and I got along wonderfully. All of my creative ideas jived with his and we laughed incessantly. Sydney had large flat lips my sister once referred to as “mashed potato lips” and Bart Simpson green eyes. Sydney dared to speak what others kept to themselves.
At home in the evening I would think about how much I liked him in an almost desperate way. Any time we had a class together, we would get thrown out for disrupting the class. If you weren’t laughing with him, you could be sure he was laughing at you.
We would tease the “uncool” kids and then laugh like two monkeys. Some people started hating us. I even got a taste of my own medicine when I came to school in shiny new silver ballerina shoes.
“Hey, Dorothy! Hey, look! It’s Dorothy,” someone hollered down the hall. “Hey! Where’s Toto?” This went on for weeks.
“Dorothy had ruby shoes, dumb shit!” I replied every time. And Sydney would show his support with high pitched hoarse laughter.
One day, I got a phone call after school. “Hey, Sunny. I’m on my way to pick you up,” said Sydney. Ten minutes later, a big blue van pulled up in front of my house. As we were only 14 years old, no driving license or experience, my heart began to race. I fled from the house and climbed into the van.
“Sydney! Oh, my god!”
He chuckled, a menthol cigarette dangling from his fingers.
“You stole your mom’s van?” I was in disbelief.
“Yeah”, he began to drive out of my neighborhood. “My parents are gone this week.”
“You know how to drive?” I couldn’t imagine driving, especially a huge van.
“Yeah, it’s easy,” he glanced into the rear view mirror as if he had been driving his entire life.
I lit a cigarette and tried to relax but it was so far from anything I had ever done before. With the radio turned up, we drove down the streets, windows down and our hair blowing wildly. We came to an intersection and as we pulled up to a red light, Sydney started to light a new cigarette. Then, he rear-ended the car in front of us.
“Oh, shit!” He froze in his seat unable to react.
“Sydney! What the hell?”
A large woman got out of her car, walked around the back of her car and observed her bumper. She came up to Sydney's window. He sat petrified, his cigarette burning in his hand.
“You’re lucky there’s no damage, young man,” she glared at Sydney.
“Oh, my god! I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” His cheeks had patchy red marks.
“You should probably get back home and tell your parents,” she shook her head and got back into her car.
I looked at Sydney. As soon as the light turned green, he brought me back home. Our ride was silent. When we got to my house, he got out to check the damage. “Oh, shit,” he put his head in his hands. “Oh, no!” He stood there staring at a small dent in the front bumper.
“What are you going to tell your parents?” I gasped.
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I better go home. Oh, shit.” He got into the van and drove off.
I was terrified and didn’t say a word to my parents that evening.
We finished junior high and started high school, the place where I reached my height of metamorphism. Sydney followed me all along the way ratting his hair up as high as possible. My curly hair was dyed eggplant purple. The cowboys called us “Chicken Heads” as we walked down the halls together.
On the weekends, we began to perfect an act at liquor stores. It was during a time when neither one of us could be seen without a long-sleeved shirt tied around our waist. It was an essential fashion accessory. It was known as our “dick thing.”
I wore bright red lipstick and thick black coal under my eyes. No one could miss our duo walking into a store nor think us innocent but we were too naïve to know this at the time. Thus, we would pretend we were brother and sister and ask for help from the sales person at the liquor store.
“Hi. Yes. We were wondering if you could help us.” I’d say. “It’s our parents’ anniversary soon and we wanted to know what your best Champagne is so we could buy it for them.” As I talked to the shop keeper, Sydney would peruse around and slip bottles into his baggy pants.
I’d note down the best Champagne and smile. We’d say thank you and steal away into the night with our Root-beer Schnapps or whatever we’d manage to steal. The two of us would find a dark alley and drink the entire bottle. Then we’d emerge stumbling and laughing and louder than ever. We’d find our way into a teen club and dance all night. Sydney had a fabulous way of prancing around the dance floor and smoked in an effeminate fashion.
One evening, we chose a very small liquor store. As we entered, I noticed high mirrors on all the walls. They had hidden cameras. I tried to tell Sydney not to take anything but he shoved a huge bottle of vodka into his pants in an alarmingly conspicuous way. As we headed towards the exit, a short sales clerk with a mustache grabbed Sydney’s arm.
“What’s this?” he said tugging on the shirt sleeve tied around Sydney’s waist.
“Oh, that’s just my “dick thing,” he said yanking on his loose shirt sleeve, though the sales clerk had no idea what a “dick thing” was.
“And, what’s this?” he said pulling out the huge bottle from Sydney’s pants.
“Oh, um…”
“I’m going to call the police,” the man began to make his way over to the phone behind the cash register.
“Please don’t,” pleaded Sydney. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Please,” I said trying to sound pitiful. “We’re sorry. We’ll never do it again.”
“My dad’s a doctor. It will ruin his reputation if we get caught,” said Sydney.
The man looked at me. Then he looked at Sydney. He hung up the phone. He grabbed both of us by the backs of our shirts. He dragged us to the door like two naughty kittens and then launched us into the cold winter night. “Get the hell out of here!” he screamed.
Frightened, we ran as fast as we could. Suddenly, I hit a patch of ice and slipped on the street. I flew forward scraping my hands and knees on the pavement. My black tights ripped around the knees.
Sydney bent over to help me up, “Here,” he grabbed my hand while laughing hysterically.
“Damn it!” I said embarrassed from falling and still high on our adrenaline rush. “Let’s get out of here!”
We continued running until we made it to a nearby teen club. I pulled out a tiny bottle of Kahlua I had miraculously managed to steal. I downed it in one gulp.
Soon we moved onto weed. We smoked it in the video game arcades of a big teen club, in my car, in the back of the school; anywhere that was slightly sheltered. We’d spend hours taking apart the lyrics of songs.
“Oh, my god! This song is about a transvestite!” Sydney once gasped as we listened to The Kinks’ “Lola” in my car.
“Huh?”
“Listen! Listen!” Sydney said rewinding the tape and replaying the lyrics a tad louder.
“Oh, my god! You’re right!”
An innocent song, after a good analysis, was never the same again. We had endless theories and solved lots of problems. We ate lots of Ranch flavored Doritos and Sydney had a thing for Butter Finger candy bars.
Getting stoned became part of our daily routine like brushing your teeth in the morning. It became a fundamental part of who we were. Sydney would take the longest hit imaginable and then holding his breath he’d eek, “Come here.” We’d place our lips together and he’d exhale the glorious smoke while I inhaled it all in. Smoking pot habitually also meant that we frequented kids who lived on their own or who were completely neglected by their folks. We’d get stoned with them and then wish we weren’t at their abandoned homes.
“Life is a living hell,” began one girl with whom we shared a bong while we sat on a dirty futon couch in a tiny apartment.
“Huh?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she flipped her long feathered hair and turned up her stereo that was playing a Heavy Metal song. “We are already in hell because the only way out of this world is up…”
I tried to understand what she was talking about. “But, Earth is in space…we can go up or down or side to side.”
“No,” she disagreed, “you can only go up. There is no down. This is down. Therefore, we are in hell.”
“Totally,” agreed another chic with shaggy hair and a torn black t-shirt. These chicks were buzz killers.
Sydney gave me a sideways glance. With deception on his face he mouthed, “This is awful.”
I nodded in agreement but we had no excuse to free us from the chains of these Head Banger losers. We felt as if we were being punished. That was the downfall of being a desperate pot-smoker; you smoked with anyone who had it.
One weekend Sydney’s parents were out of town. He invited me over. We sat in his kitchen and he pulled out two minuscule red paper squares.
“You got acid?” I asked wide-eyed.
He laughed. “Here, take it.”
I stared at the palm of his hand holding the little squares.
“Take it. Come on! I planned the entire night for us.”
That sounded promising so we both put the papers onto our tongue and sat quietly waiting for it to work its magic.
We went down to Sidney’s bedroom. His bed was made. Everything was in its right place. His room had blue carpet. Little boats covered the walls. Marine décor? This sailor wallpaper could not have been his choice. We might as well have been sitting in some stranger’s room. Surely his mother had picked it out thinking he was a traditional little boy or maybe trying to convince herself of this. Or worse, he had picked it out as some cover-up of his true colors.
His famous vacuum was parked in the corner. The first time I saw it, I asked, “Why is the vacuum in here?”
“Because I need it in here,” he responded.
“Why? Do you vacuum every day or something?”
“Yes,” he replied is if this was a totally normal thing for a teen to do.
We sat on some pillows in Sydney’s closet. He had created a lounge area amongst his wardrobe. Sydney lit a long black stick of incense. It smelled sweet and musky. We watched the smoke whirl its way up into the air and mingle with his hanging clothes. We lit up cigarettes and inhaled pensively. Twenty minutes later, Sydney looked at me, his pupils as big as saucers. He stood up and took a drag off his cigarette with large sweeping gestures and laughed.
After some free flowing movements, he came over to me and cupped my chin in his hand. “When I look into your eyes, darling”, he paused and waved his arm around like a magician. I waited for him to say something like “You are beautiful,” but he said, “I see… myself…and I look marvelous, darling, simply marvelous.” Hoarse laughter erupted from him and then he sat down and quietly puffed away.
“Should we go out?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’ll meet you in your car. Give me a minute.” While he began airing out his room and disposing the cigarette butts, I went out to my car. My acid trip seemed in control for the time being. I sat behind the wheel in the darkness. I opened my moon roof, put on some music and stared at the stars. They were swaying to the music for me. I don’t know how long I remained like that but at one point I realized Sydney was still inside. I got out of the car and walked into his house. He sat on the couch staring at the TV which was turned off.
“Sydney? What are you doing?”
He turned to me. His lips looked bigger and flatter than usual. A look of fear washed across his face. “My father,” he said into space, “I was having a conversation with him.”
“What? What did he say?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you,” he shook his head, “it was really awful though.”
“Well, let’s go.”
He followed me silently to my car.
“Look, the stars are dancing,” I showed him the sky as we sat in my car.
We lit up some cigarettes and reclined our seats and watched the stars that were pastel shades of pink, yellow, and blue.
“I’ve gotta get home. It’s getting late.” I said. “Come back with me.”
“Okay. But, what will we tell your mom if she finds me?”
“Um. We’ll tell her your parents are away and you didn’t want to stay home alone because the Skinheads have been threatening you again.”
I gave myself a brief pep talk before driving us back to my house. "Okay, you can do this. You can do this." And we were off on our way. Everything was going just fine until we stopped at a red light.
"Oh my god!" Sydney started pointing at the car next to us, "That lady! Look at that lady!"
I glanced over. A woman was seated soberly behind her wheel. Her dress was caught in the car door and she did not know. When the light turned green, we both drove at the same speed. Her dress was flapping in the breeze.
I doubled over laughing. I could barely breathe. "Oh, my god! Look at her. She is so serious. But, her dress...her dress is caught in the door. She has no idea. How can she remain so serious?"
Sydney and I could not contain ourselves. We shook so hard our stomachs hurt. We tried to communicate with each other through our laughter but only gasps came out. This woman and her dress happily tailing alongside the door was the funniest thing we had ever seen. What a mad scene, the two of us bent over in laughter in my car. Though I doubt anyone perceived us driving in the night like that.
Soon we were back at my house. It must have been around midnight and we were in full trip mode. We quietly walked into my house and went straight to my bedroom. I pulled out a stack of white paper. “Let’s do some algebra!” I proposed. Feeling like a challenge, I created an algebraic equation that needed to be calculated to the 35th power.
We must have gone through 20 sheets of paper each. We worked up a hunger so we sneaked into my kitchen. We left with Frito Lays corn chips, a bottle of ketchup and some paper plates. We went back to work in my bedroom with paper plates and ketchup spread out among our math pages.
My walls were covered with posters of Rock bands, faces that had become very familiar to me. Sydney stared up at them for a long time. “Don’t you think it’s weird how we hang photos of people we don’t know on our walls?”
I thought about this for a second.
“I mean, you don’t know these people at all. Why are they on your wall? Wouldn’t it make more sense to hang posters of all of your friends on the wall instead?”
“Yes. You’re right. It is weird that we do this. Humans hang famous people on their walls. I mean, these rock stars, they don’t know us. They don’t know we even exist.”
“I think I’m going to have my friends’ pictures blown up into poster size and put them up in my room. Wouldn’t that be cool?” Sydney asked.
“I guess,” I responded though the idea of my friends’ faces big and shiny hanging on my walls sounded scary.
“Hey, wanna paint?” I asked. I set-up everything and we began painting. Soon afterward, my door burst open and my mother came in.
“What the hell is going on?” she wore her little black night gown, her hair tangled. “It’s 3 in the morning!”
“Umm, we’re just doing some math,” I said pragmatically.
“Sunny, I need to talk to you. Now!” said my mother and left the room in a huff.
I nervously glanced at Sydney and then at my bedroom. The floor was covered in pages of impossibly long math equations, paper plates of ketchup and chips, strange paintings. I looked at Sydney who sat uncomfortably on the floor chewing his thumbnail.
My mother stood in the kitchen waiting for me.
“What is it?” I asked innocently.
“Are you two on something?” she looked very upset. My mother's face kept morphing into a witch. She kept staring at me. I couldn’t look at her. I felt like crying. Did I know this person? Was she actually my mother? Act normal! Act normal! You can pull it off!
“What’s going on?” she scowled, her eyes cringed at the brow.
“Nothing, why? Sydney was scared to stay at his house alone since the Skinheads said they were going to get him. His parents are out of town and I told him he could stay with us and we aren’t tired so…”
“Look at me!” she grabbed my face and held it under the light. “Look at me!” She stared into my eyes. “Don’t tell me you aren’t on something.”
“Mom, I’m fine. I promise we’re not on anything.”
“Then what is that mess in your room? Don’t tell me you aren’t doing drugs! What is it? Pot?”
“I promise. We’re just hanging out.”
“That’s enough already! It’s 3am! Get to bed. Tell Sydney he can sleep in the guest room.”
I walked out of the kitchen and back to my room.
“Your mother is super scary. She turned into a witch. I have to go home. I can’t stay here,” Sydney was trying to clean up our papers.
“Don’t be silly! Sydney, everything is fine. You can sleep in the guest room.”
“Your mom looked like a witch, Sunny. She’s evil. Your mom is super evil.”
“I know. She looked really scary but we’re just fucked up so don’t worry. Everything will be fine in the morning. Just be sure you tell her you came here because of the Skinheads, okay?”
Sydney silently walked into the guest room. The wallpaper was salmon colored with huge white sea shells. In the morning, Sydney said he heard sounds of the sea calling him the entire night and couldn’t stop staring at the walls. I don’t think he slept. And I don’t think he laughed too much either.
I met Sydney in junior high school during English class. He had a distinct walk as if striding on his tip-toes. Sydney and I got along wonderfully. All of my creative ideas jived with his and we laughed incessantly. Sydney had large flat lips my sister once referred to as “mashed potato lips” and Bart Simpson green eyes. Sydney dared to speak what others kept to themselves.
At home in the evening I would think about how much I liked him in an almost desperate way. Any time we had a class together, we would get thrown out for disrupting the class. If you weren’t laughing with him, you could be sure he was laughing at you.
We would tease the “uncool” kids and then laugh like two monkeys. Some people started hating us. I even got a taste of my own medicine when I came to school in shiny new silver ballerina shoes.
“Hey, Dorothy! Hey, look! It’s Dorothy,” someone hollered down the hall. “Hey! Where’s Toto?” This went on for weeks.
“Dorothy had ruby shoes, dumb shit!” I replied every time. And Sydney would show his support with high pitched hoarse laughter.
One day, I got a phone call after school. “Hey, Sunny. I’m on my way to pick you up,” said Sydney. Ten minutes later, a big blue van pulled up in front of my house. As we were only 14 years old, no driving license or experience, my heart began to race. I fled from the house and climbed into the van.
“Sydney! Oh, my god!”
He chuckled, a menthol cigarette dangling from his fingers.
“You stole your mom’s van?” I was in disbelief.
“Yeah”, he began to drive out of my neighborhood. “My parents are gone this week.”
“You know how to drive?” I couldn’t imagine driving, especially a huge van.
“Yeah, it’s easy,” he glanced into the rear view mirror as if he had been driving his entire life.
I lit a cigarette and tried to relax but it was so far from anything I had ever done before. With the radio turned up, we drove down the streets, windows down and our hair blowing wildly. We came to an intersection and as we pulled up to a red light, Sydney started to light a new cigarette. Then, he rear-ended the car in front of us.
“Oh, shit!” He froze in his seat unable to react.
“Sydney! What the hell?”
A large woman got out of her car, walked around the back of her car and observed her bumper. She came up to Sydney's window. He sat petrified, his cigarette burning in his hand.
“You’re lucky there’s no damage, young man,” she glared at Sydney.
“Oh, my god! I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” His cheeks had patchy red marks.
“You should probably get back home and tell your parents,” she shook her head and got back into her car.
I looked at Sydney. As soon as the light turned green, he brought me back home. Our ride was silent. When we got to my house, he got out to check the damage. “Oh, shit,” he put his head in his hands. “Oh, no!” He stood there staring at a small dent in the front bumper.
“What are you going to tell your parents?” I gasped.
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I better go home. Oh, shit.” He got into the van and drove off.
I was terrified and didn’t say a word to my parents that evening.
We finished junior high and started high school, the place where I reached my height of metamorphism. Sydney followed me all along the way ratting his hair up as high as possible. My curly hair was dyed eggplant purple. The cowboys called us “Chicken Heads” as we walked down the halls together.
On the weekends, we began to perfect an act at liquor stores. It was during a time when neither one of us could be seen without a long-sleeved shirt tied around our waist. It was an essential fashion accessory. It was known as our “dick thing.”
I wore bright red lipstick and thick black coal under my eyes. No one could miss our duo walking into a store nor think us innocent but we were too naïve to know this at the time. Thus, we would pretend we were brother and sister and ask for help from the sales person at the liquor store.
“Hi. Yes. We were wondering if you could help us.” I’d say. “It’s our parents’ anniversary soon and we wanted to know what your best Champagne is so we could buy it for them.” As I talked to the shop keeper, Sydney would peruse around and slip bottles into his baggy pants.
I’d note down the best Champagne and smile. We’d say thank you and steal away into the night with our Root-beer Schnapps or whatever we’d manage to steal. The two of us would find a dark alley and drink the entire bottle. Then we’d emerge stumbling and laughing and louder than ever. We’d find our way into a teen club and dance all night. Sydney had a fabulous way of prancing around the dance floor and smoked in an effeminate fashion.
One evening, we chose a very small liquor store. As we entered, I noticed high mirrors on all the walls. They had hidden cameras. I tried to tell Sydney not to take anything but he shoved a huge bottle of vodka into his pants in an alarmingly conspicuous way. As we headed towards the exit, a short sales clerk with a mustache grabbed Sydney’s arm.
“What’s this?” he said tugging on the shirt sleeve tied around Sydney’s waist.
“Oh, that’s just my “dick thing,” he said yanking on his loose shirt sleeve, though the sales clerk had no idea what a “dick thing” was.
“And, what’s this?” he said pulling out the huge bottle from Sydney’s pants.
“Oh, um…”
“I’m going to call the police,” the man began to make his way over to the phone behind the cash register.
“Please don’t,” pleaded Sydney. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Please,” I said trying to sound pitiful. “We’re sorry. We’ll never do it again.”
“My dad’s a doctor. It will ruin his reputation if we get caught,” said Sydney.
The man looked at me. Then he looked at Sydney. He hung up the phone. He grabbed both of us by the backs of our shirts. He dragged us to the door like two naughty kittens and then launched us into the cold winter night. “Get the hell out of here!” he screamed.
Frightened, we ran as fast as we could. Suddenly, I hit a patch of ice and slipped on the street. I flew forward scraping my hands and knees on the pavement. My black tights ripped around the knees.
Sydney bent over to help me up, “Here,” he grabbed my hand while laughing hysterically.
“Damn it!” I said embarrassed from falling and still high on our adrenaline rush. “Let’s get out of here!”
We continued running until we made it to a nearby teen club. I pulled out a tiny bottle of Kahlua I had miraculously managed to steal. I downed it in one gulp.
Soon we moved onto weed. We smoked it in the video game arcades of a big teen club, in my car, in the back of the school; anywhere that was slightly sheltered. We’d spend hours taking apart the lyrics of songs.
“Oh, my god! This song is about a transvestite!” Sydney once gasped as we listened to The Kinks’ “Lola” in my car.
“Huh?”
“Listen! Listen!” Sydney said rewinding the tape and replaying the lyrics a tad louder.
“Oh, my god! You’re right!”
An innocent song, after a good analysis, was never the same again. We had endless theories and solved lots of problems. We ate lots of Ranch flavored Doritos and Sydney had a thing for Butter Finger candy bars.
Getting stoned became part of our daily routine like brushing your teeth in the morning. It became a fundamental part of who we were. Sydney would take the longest hit imaginable and then holding his breath he’d eek, “Come here.” We’d place our lips together and he’d exhale the glorious smoke while I inhaled it all in. Smoking pot habitually also meant that we frequented kids who lived on their own or who were completely neglected by their folks. We’d get stoned with them and then wish we weren’t at their abandoned homes.
“Life is a living hell,” began one girl with whom we shared a bong while we sat on a dirty futon couch in a tiny apartment.
“Huh?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she flipped her long feathered hair and turned up her stereo that was playing a Heavy Metal song. “We are already in hell because the only way out of this world is up…”
I tried to understand what she was talking about. “But, Earth is in space…we can go up or down or side to side.”
“No,” she disagreed, “you can only go up. There is no down. This is down. Therefore, we are in hell.”
“Totally,” agreed another chic with shaggy hair and a torn black t-shirt. These chicks were buzz killers.
Sydney gave me a sideways glance. With deception on his face he mouthed, “This is awful.”
I nodded in agreement but we had no excuse to free us from the chains of these Head Banger losers. We felt as if we were being punished. That was the downfall of being a desperate pot-smoker; you smoked with anyone who had it.
One weekend Sydney’s parents were out of town. He invited me over. We sat in his kitchen and he pulled out two minuscule red paper squares.
“You got acid?” I asked wide-eyed.
He laughed. “Here, take it.”
I stared at the palm of his hand holding the little squares.
“Take it. Come on! I planned the entire night for us.”
That sounded promising so we both put the papers onto our tongue and sat quietly waiting for it to work its magic.
We went down to Sidney’s bedroom. His bed was made. Everything was in its right place. His room had blue carpet. Little boats covered the walls. Marine décor? This sailor wallpaper could not have been his choice. We might as well have been sitting in some stranger’s room. Surely his mother had picked it out thinking he was a traditional little boy or maybe trying to convince herself of this. Or worse, he had picked it out as some cover-up of his true colors.
His famous vacuum was parked in the corner. The first time I saw it, I asked, “Why is the vacuum in here?”
“Because I need it in here,” he responded.
“Why? Do you vacuum every day or something?”
“Yes,” he replied is if this was a totally normal thing for a teen to do.
We sat on some pillows in Sydney’s closet. He had created a lounge area amongst his wardrobe. Sydney lit a long black stick of incense. It smelled sweet and musky. We watched the smoke whirl its way up into the air and mingle with his hanging clothes. We lit up cigarettes and inhaled pensively. Twenty minutes later, Sydney looked at me, his pupils as big as saucers. He stood up and took a drag off his cigarette with large sweeping gestures and laughed.
After some free flowing movements, he came over to me and cupped my chin in his hand. “When I look into your eyes, darling”, he paused and waved his arm around like a magician. I waited for him to say something like “You are beautiful,” but he said, “I see… myself…and I look marvelous, darling, simply marvelous.” Hoarse laughter erupted from him and then he sat down and quietly puffed away.
“Should we go out?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’ll meet you in your car. Give me a minute.” While he began airing out his room and disposing the cigarette butts, I went out to my car. My acid trip seemed in control for the time being. I sat behind the wheel in the darkness. I opened my moon roof, put on some music and stared at the stars. They were swaying to the music for me. I don’t know how long I remained like that but at one point I realized Sydney was still inside. I got out of the car and walked into his house. He sat on the couch staring at the TV which was turned off.
“Sydney? What are you doing?”
He turned to me. His lips looked bigger and flatter than usual. A look of fear washed across his face. “My father,” he said into space, “I was having a conversation with him.”
“What? What did he say?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you,” he shook his head, “it was really awful though.”
“Well, let’s go.”
He followed me silently to my car.
“Look, the stars are dancing,” I showed him the sky as we sat in my car.
We lit up some cigarettes and reclined our seats and watched the stars that were pastel shades of pink, yellow, and blue.
“I’ve gotta get home. It’s getting late.” I said. “Come back with me.”
“Okay. But, what will we tell your mom if she finds me?”
“Um. We’ll tell her your parents are away and you didn’t want to stay home alone because the Skinheads have been threatening you again.”
I gave myself a brief pep talk before driving us back to my house. "Okay, you can do this. You can do this." And we were off on our way. Everything was going just fine until we stopped at a red light.
"Oh my god!" Sydney started pointing at the car next to us, "That lady! Look at that lady!"
I glanced over. A woman was seated soberly behind her wheel. Her dress was caught in the car door and she did not know. When the light turned green, we both drove at the same speed. Her dress was flapping in the breeze.
I doubled over laughing. I could barely breathe. "Oh, my god! Look at her. She is so serious. But, her dress...her dress is caught in the door. She has no idea. How can she remain so serious?"
Sydney and I could not contain ourselves. We shook so hard our stomachs hurt. We tried to communicate with each other through our laughter but only gasps came out. This woman and her dress happily tailing alongside the door was the funniest thing we had ever seen. What a mad scene, the two of us bent over in laughter in my car. Though I doubt anyone perceived us driving in the night like that.
Soon we were back at my house. It must have been around midnight and we were in full trip mode. We quietly walked into my house and went straight to my bedroom. I pulled out a stack of white paper. “Let’s do some algebra!” I proposed. Feeling like a challenge, I created an algebraic equation that needed to be calculated to the 35th power.
We must have gone through 20 sheets of paper each. We worked up a hunger so we sneaked into my kitchen. We left with Frito Lays corn chips, a bottle of ketchup and some paper plates. We went back to work in my bedroom with paper plates and ketchup spread out among our math pages.
My walls were covered with posters of Rock bands, faces that had become very familiar to me. Sydney stared up at them for a long time. “Don’t you think it’s weird how we hang photos of people we don’t know on our walls?”
I thought about this for a second.
“I mean, you don’t know these people at all. Why are they on your wall? Wouldn’t it make more sense to hang posters of all of your friends on the wall instead?”
“Yes. You’re right. It is weird that we do this. Humans hang famous people on their walls. I mean, these rock stars, they don’t know us. They don’t know we even exist.”
“I think I’m going to have my friends’ pictures blown up into poster size and put them up in my room. Wouldn’t that be cool?” Sydney asked.
“I guess,” I responded though the idea of my friends’ faces big and shiny hanging on my walls sounded scary.
“Hey, wanna paint?” I asked. I set-up everything and we began painting. Soon afterward, my door burst open and my mother came in.
“What the hell is going on?” she wore her little black night gown, her hair tangled. “It’s 3 in the morning!”
“Umm, we’re just doing some math,” I said pragmatically.
“Sunny, I need to talk to you. Now!” said my mother and left the room in a huff.
I nervously glanced at Sydney and then at my bedroom. The floor was covered in pages of impossibly long math equations, paper plates of ketchup and chips, strange paintings. I looked at Sydney who sat uncomfortably on the floor chewing his thumbnail.
My mother stood in the kitchen waiting for me.
“What is it?” I asked innocently.
“Are you two on something?” she looked very upset. My mother's face kept morphing into a witch. She kept staring at me. I couldn’t look at her. I felt like crying. Did I know this person? Was she actually my mother? Act normal! Act normal! You can pull it off!
“What’s going on?” she scowled, her eyes cringed at the brow.
“Nothing, why? Sydney was scared to stay at his house alone since the Skinheads said they were going to get him. His parents are out of town and I told him he could stay with us and we aren’t tired so…”
“Look at me!” she grabbed my face and held it under the light. “Look at me!” She stared into my eyes. “Don’t tell me you aren’t on something.”
“Mom, I’m fine. I promise we’re not on anything.”
“Then what is that mess in your room? Don’t tell me you aren’t doing drugs! What is it? Pot?”
“I promise. We’re just hanging out.”
“That’s enough already! It’s 3am! Get to bed. Tell Sydney he can sleep in the guest room.”
I walked out of the kitchen and back to my room.
“Your mother is super scary. She turned into a witch. I have to go home. I can’t stay here,” Sydney was trying to clean up our papers.
“Don’t be silly! Sydney, everything is fine. You can sleep in the guest room.”
“Your mom looked like a witch, Sunny. She’s evil. Your mom is super evil.”
“I know. She looked really scary but we’re just fucked up so don’t worry. Everything will be fine in the morning. Just be sure you tell her you came here because of the Skinheads, okay?”
Sydney silently walked into the guest room. The wallpaper was salmon colored with huge white sea shells. In the morning, Sydney said he heard sounds of the sea calling him the entire night and couldn’t stop staring at the walls. I don’t think he slept. And I don’t think he laughed too much either.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Bandit's Breath
When my mother showed us a photo of him, he looked like a guinea pig. He was black and white with a pink nose. He was too young to leave his mother so we had to wait to meet our new Shetland sheepdog. The day finally arrived when he was big enough to be separated from his mother.
He was such a tiny little pup and he had breath that smelled like hot black tar. He was our first family dog. His tummy was still bare of fur and speckled with black and pink freckles. We had a little cardboard box for him to sleep in. My mother complained he would never learn to walk if I kept carrying him everywhere. But, he was so cute; I couldn’t let him out of my arms. One night over dinner, we debated over a long list of names for him.
“How about Domino since he’s black and white?” I offered.
“How about Sweetie Pie?” chimed in my sister whose pets had names like Cutie Pie or Hymie and Dimie.
My mother did not look impressed with any of our creations.
“How about Mud Pie?” piped up my father.
“Ugh,” my mother said with a scowl.
“How about Toby?” I said, one of my friend’s dogs had this name and I liked it.
“How about Bandit?” said my father.
“Yes!” we all seemed to say in unison.
“Very good,” exclaimed my mother.
“And his middle name can be Toby!” I added.
No one seemed to care about his middle name, so no one disagreed. And there it was, our new puppy “Bandit Toby Meriweather”
Thanks to me, he quickly learned to sit, “give me your paw,” lie down, roll over, and some other tricks that were less appreciated like climbing onto the kitchen table. He learned all these tricks in one or two days.
Taking him on walks was awful. He would pull on the leash mercilessly and pee on every plant, bush, strand of grass and pole. One of the most annoying habits was his herding. He was a Shetland sheepdog. Herding was in his blood. We let him roam free in our neighborhood as we lived across from a lake and far away from busy streets.
Bandit tried to herd anyone and anything. A jogger would be in view and soon Bandit would be running dangerously close circles around the poor soul, barking at his heels. Some joggers threw rocks at him. In the morning, he would chase our school bus as far as he could go but at some point, the bus was just too fast for him to keep up. My face would flame up red with embarrassment while Bandit barked and chased us. The children watched him out their bus windows laughing.
He also herded the horses that frequently passed by our house as there was an equestrian center in our neighborhood. He scared them terribly and would then eat their manure. This was another disgusting habit of his. He’d run up to us, panting his horse poop breath in our faces.
“Oh, Bandit!” we’d cry and then announce, “Mom, Bandit ate horse manure again!”
“Disgusting”, my mother would say to him and sometimes she’d brush his teeth.
As my sister and I reached puberty, we’d cry in horror as we’d walk into the house after school and discover ripped up maxi-pads strewn all over the living room floor. Bandit was known to rummage through the garbage bins when he was alone.
“Oh, Bandit! Disgusting!” we’d say as we hurriedly collected all the bits of bloody cotton before anyone came home. Bandit was capable of eating practically anything without any complex whatsoever.
One afternoon after the school bus dropped me off, I realized I did not have my house key and no one was at home. I figured my mother would be home in an hour or so and I could wait outside in the backyard. We had an apple tree that my father had planted several years ago. I was starving and our little tree had several tiny apples. I picked an apple and began to eat it. It was very starchy and not tasty. Then I felt the urge to go Number Two.
I promise, I tried to hold it. But, it was becoming an urgent situation. I began to desperately scan our yard to see if there was some private place. I glanced at the space underneath our deck several times, contemplating my pooping place. Holding it in became unbearable so I crouched under the deck and tried to dig a hole into the earth with a stick. I squatted and relieved myself and then carefully buried my scat.
I didn’t tell anyone about this as I was easily embarrassed and flushed merely from hearing the word “fart.”
That evening before going to bed, we were all hanging out in my parent’s bedroom. Bandit used to play outside every night until one of us called him inside for bedtime. When it was time for him to come in, one of us would open the door and yell as loudly as possible, “Baaaandiiiiiit! Cookie!” He’d come running to the door.
That evening, my mother let him into the house and he jumped onto the bed joining us and panting.
“Oh, Bandit!” cried my mother, “You ate horse manure again.
“Gross!” my sister said catching a whiff.
As Bandit happily breathed in my direction, I realized it was not horse manure. I knew what it was and I was mortified.
“Gross,” I said feeling my face change several shades of pink. I managed to leave the room. “Good night," I called over my shoulder. Let them think Bandit ate horse manure, I told myself. I quickly retreated to my bedroom, my heart racing. Never had I been so embarrassed in my life.
The next day before I went to school, I walked to the back yard, back to my secret place. There was an empty hole in the dirt under the deck. My deepest fear had been confirmed. I never told a soul. I couldn’t bare the humiliation. Until now, Bandit’s breath was a secret.
He was such a tiny little pup and he had breath that smelled like hot black tar. He was our first family dog. His tummy was still bare of fur and speckled with black and pink freckles. We had a little cardboard box for him to sleep in. My mother complained he would never learn to walk if I kept carrying him everywhere. But, he was so cute; I couldn’t let him out of my arms. One night over dinner, we debated over a long list of names for him.
“How about Domino since he’s black and white?” I offered.
“How about Sweetie Pie?” chimed in my sister whose pets had names like Cutie Pie or Hymie and Dimie.
My mother did not look impressed with any of our creations.
“How about Mud Pie?” piped up my father.
“Ugh,” my mother said with a scowl.
“How about Toby?” I said, one of my friend’s dogs had this name and I liked it.
“How about Bandit?” said my father.
“Yes!” we all seemed to say in unison.
“Very good,” exclaimed my mother.
“And his middle name can be Toby!” I added.
No one seemed to care about his middle name, so no one disagreed. And there it was, our new puppy “Bandit Toby Meriweather”
Thanks to me, he quickly learned to sit, “give me your paw,” lie down, roll over, and some other tricks that were less appreciated like climbing onto the kitchen table. He learned all these tricks in one or two days.
Taking him on walks was awful. He would pull on the leash mercilessly and pee on every plant, bush, strand of grass and pole. One of the most annoying habits was his herding. He was a Shetland sheepdog. Herding was in his blood. We let him roam free in our neighborhood as we lived across from a lake and far away from busy streets.
Bandit tried to herd anyone and anything. A jogger would be in view and soon Bandit would be running dangerously close circles around the poor soul, barking at his heels. Some joggers threw rocks at him. In the morning, he would chase our school bus as far as he could go but at some point, the bus was just too fast for him to keep up. My face would flame up red with embarrassment while Bandit barked and chased us. The children watched him out their bus windows laughing.
He also herded the horses that frequently passed by our house as there was an equestrian center in our neighborhood. He scared them terribly and would then eat their manure. This was another disgusting habit of his. He’d run up to us, panting his horse poop breath in our faces.
“Oh, Bandit!” we’d cry and then announce, “Mom, Bandit ate horse manure again!”
“Disgusting”, my mother would say to him and sometimes she’d brush his teeth.
As my sister and I reached puberty, we’d cry in horror as we’d walk into the house after school and discover ripped up maxi-pads strewn all over the living room floor. Bandit was known to rummage through the garbage bins when he was alone.
“Oh, Bandit! Disgusting!” we’d say as we hurriedly collected all the bits of bloody cotton before anyone came home. Bandit was capable of eating practically anything without any complex whatsoever.
One afternoon after the school bus dropped me off, I realized I did not have my house key and no one was at home. I figured my mother would be home in an hour or so and I could wait outside in the backyard. We had an apple tree that my father had planted several years ago. I was starving and our little tree had several tiny apples. I picked an apple and began to eat it. It was very starchy and not tasty. Then I felt the urge to go Number Two.
I promise, I tried to hold it. But, it was becoming an urgent situation. I began to desperately scan our yard to see if there was some private place. I glanced at the space underneath our deck several times, contemplating my pooping place. Holding it in became unbearable so I crouched under the deck and tried to dig a hole into the earth with a stick. I squatted and relieved myself and then carefully buried my scat.
I didn’t tell anyone about this as I was easily embarrassed and flushed merely from hearing the word “fart.”
That evening before going to bed, we were all hanging out in my parent’s bedroom. Bandit used to play outside every night until one of us called him inside for bedtime. When it was time for him to come in, one of us would open the door and yell as loudly as possible, “Baaaandiiiiiit! Cookie!” He’d come running to the door.
That evening, my mother let him into the house and he jumped onto the bed joining us and panting.
“Oh, Bandit!” cried my mother, “You ate horse manure again.
“Gross!” my sister said catching a whiff.
As Bandit happily breathed in my direction, I realized it was not horse manure. I knew what it was and I was mortified.
“Gross,” I said feeling my face change several shades of pink. I managed to leave the room. “Good night," I called over my shoulder. Let them think Bandit ate horse manure, I told myself. I quickly retreated to my bedroom, my heart racing. Never had I been so embarrassed in my life.
The next day before I went to school, I walked to the back yard, back to my secret place. There was an empty hole in the dirt under the deck. My deepest fear had been confirmed. I never told a soul. I couldn’t bare the humiliation. Until now, Bandit’s breath was a secret.
Friday, December 3, 2010
A Jewish Christmas Story
It’s that time of year again. The Christmas decorations have come out. Each year it gets easier for me as someone who did not grow up celebrating Christmas. I cringe a little less when people say, “Merry Christmas.” I still remember my sister and myself asking if we could have a tree and my mother always responding, “As long as we are Jewish, we will not have a Christmas tree.”
I still remember sitting in the empty movie theatre with my father and sister on Christmas day.
Yep, we grew up with Channukah, the celebration of lights. Fortunately, my Barbies had Christmas. They had a green paper tree and red paper stockings that I stapled together. They might have had a menorah too. Some of you already know Channukah is a minor holiday where you eat greasy food to remember the miracle of oil that lasted for eight nights instead of one. The fact that Channukah is in the winter led to gift giving as if it were a Jewish Christmas, but it is not. I’m sure if Channukah was in the spring, we would give out Channukah baskets full of chocolates and blue and yellow eggs.
I don’t know what they do in France as it is a closed community. But in the US, doing gifts makes Jewish children feel like they have something major going on during Christmas too, even if they don’t. Today, people think the Jews have been given some kind of equal rights because stores sell Channukah loot. But, the most important holidays are nowhere to be found.
Channukah has turned into something commercial just like Christmas, Easter and Halloween. Paper plates with Channukah symbols, dreidles, the whole lot. But in Israel, it is a mere lighting of the menorah and some red jelly-filled doughnuts. Being in Israel during Channukah is refreshing. You aren’t around any of the Christmas hype unless you head to Nazareth, Bethlehem or Jerusalem. You have to go looking for Christmas if you want it over there.
However, in the US and France, Christmas is a big holiday and I tend to feel left out. It's true that little by little I'm starting to feel part of it. People say, “Oh, but Christmas isn’t religious at all.” And now that I’ve experienced it, it definitely is not a religious experience.
Still, it doesn’t mean the whole world grew-up celebrating it. Everyone talks about the magic of it, and since I’m married to someone who grew-up with it, I have had to become more open-minded and less judgmental. In fact, I’ve realized I can be included if I want to be. No one is stopping me from participating. Quite the contrary, everyone around me is encouraging me to be part of the celebrations!
The truth is, I never thought I’d accept a Christmas tree into my house. A Christmas dinner with the in-laws was fine. The idea of a tree in our house was symbolic of accepting Christmas into my heart and it nauseated me.
After our first little girl was born, my husband slowly began to prep me. He’d say things like, “You know, we might have to have Christmas for our kids one day...” Sometimes he’d say, “Sunny, I don’t think we have a say in this matter.” He thought it would be mean to deprive them of it. Plus, he had grown up with Christmas in his family so it would be as if I were ignoring his upbringing if I denied this holiday in our home. That seemed unfair especially as he had embraced my Jewish roots and culture with open arms.
My sister, on the other hand, had been waiting for Christmas her entire life. As soon as she married her Christmas-celebrating beau, her tree went up. Diane was born for Christmas. She was not meant to be born into a Jewish home where you patiently wait to open one gift per day. Not for her. No. That is exactly why one unforgettable night, she did not wait patiently. One Channukah night, she was displeased with her gift. “I don’t like my gift. I want to open another one,” she said to my mother.
“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” replied my mother.
“No. I want another gift tonight, please?” Diane begged. And she kept on begging.
My mother had had enough. “Fine, Diane! Go ahead! Open your gifts. Open all of them tonight. You can’t wait? Fine! Open all of them now!”
“No, no,” she cried, tears streaming down her face, “I don’t want to.” But she did as she was told and miserably opened every last gift. Afterward, Diane retreated to her bedroom in humiliation. I felt sick for her. I went to her room and tried to cheer her up by playing her new Kool & the Gang tape and dancing for her.
“That’s not even the one I asked for,” she sulked, “I wanted the new one…”
Today, however, we both tend to agree that watching children unwrap in-numerous gifts in the blink of an eye after having spent weeks shopping and wrapping and planning, is anti-climactic. We both came to this sad conclusion the first time we witnessed Christmas with our in-laws.
I remember our conversation on the phone, “Diane, Christmas was so weird. I swear. It was like a blizzard! There was wrapping paper flying around, children making tons of noise and unwrapping gift after gift in about five minutes flat and then afterward, no one had any idea who gave them what, it was total chaos. Then, everyone came around to thank you and it was done!”
“Totally,” she agreed, “it has to be the most anti-climactic event ever. After everyone opened their gifts, I said to my husband, ‘That’s it? That’s fucking it?’ It’s totally lame.”
My first Christmas in the working world was bizarre. I worked at a landscaping office with a bunch of highly uneducated people. Yes, that sounds mean but I can back it up.
Evidence 1: The phone rings, my colleague who wears green sweat pants, is fat and pimple-faced, but claims she was once a dancer, hangs up the phone and announces, “My boyfriend was just arrested. He was a security guard for Chase and was stealing people’s credit card numbers…”
Evidence 2: At the Christmas party, my other colleague who claims to have done a world tour but merely visited Australia 20 years ago gets so drunk with her husband; they start a fight with another couple who wants their Blockbuster Video gift card during the gift exchange.
Evidence 3: My boss was addicted to Percocet and often thought I was giving him the bird when I would rub my eye. He also referred to his business friend as “Spanky,” “Spankster” and sometimes “The Spank.”
Evidence 4: My manager, who not only was obese with a walrus mustache, but he was also a recovering alcoholic and a Born Again Christian who, when I bluntly asked him, “Do you think I’m going to hell?” he responded, “I don’t think you have to…”
But, that is a story for a different time. Back to Christmas, in our office one morning, one of our illegal Mexican workers dragged in a huge Christmas tree. My ugly colleague, the one who was the “world traveler” with grey stringy hair, a female version of Snape, brought out a big box of decorations. “I have something fun for you, Sunny,” she said with a sly smile. “You can decorate the tree!”
“Oh, no!” I thought. The only time I had decorated a tree was when I was ten years old. My friend’s mother scolded me for putting too much tinsel on the tree.
At the office, I started hanging random ornaments here and there until Snape snipped, “Hey! You have to put the lights up first. Don’t you know anything?”
“No,” I replied annoyed, “I’ve never done a Christmas tree before,” I wanted to add a lot of other stuff but didn’t.
After she composed herself from the horrid shock of a human who had never decorated a tree, I pulled out a string of M&M Christmas lights, talk about cheesy. I struggled to get them around the tree. The needles were prickling me everywhere. I felt punished and appalled it had been my duty to do this. Plus, it felt completely unnatural.
Needless to say, decorating the office tree did give me a crash course in Christmas trees. A couple years later when my sister put up her first Christmas tree, I had a few pointers and she exclaimed, “Wow, you’re helping me with my Christmas tree, sisi! And you think I’m such a Christian. Look at you!”
Yes, that was the moment I realized society had had their way with me. Many years later, after having lived in France, I finally accepted the idea to buy a small tree. I first had to discuss this with my sister over the phone, “I think we’re going to get a tree, Diane!”
“Oh, you’ll like it. They’re a lot of fun.”
“I don’t know. It’ll be weird having a tree like that in our home.”
“It’s not a big deal, I promise. Just get a little one, you’ll like it.”
My husband and I got dressed and strolled out of the apartment with our little girl. We went to a big store that had tons of artificial trees and ornaments. Where to begin? My husband was set on a small white tree with fiber optics built into the branches. Now what about the ornaments? There were so many kinds: traditional, hand-sewn, modern, glass, cute, colorful, what was our style? Do you mix and match styles? Do you stick to a certain color or theme? All these ideas were stirring in my head.
“Hurry up! God! Just pick a couple. Who cares? They’re fucking Christmas ornaments. They’re just ornaments!” cried my impatient husband.
Well, sadly, I had zero input and I had become so excited about this first tree I was going to create. My husband grabbed a couple different sizes of red, silver and black balls and two long red things, I forget what they’re called, and we left. Garlands?
When we got home, we started to set-up our tree. “No, no! Not yet! Don’t you know anything, little Jew?” he teased as he took off the garlands and put them back around the tree his way.
“How the hell should I know, god!” I retorted.
In the end, I was in charge of tying strings to all the ornaments. Later that day I called Diane. ”We have a tree. It’s super pretty!”
“See! I told you. They’re fun, you see?”
“Yeah. I thought it would be a big deal but it’s fine!” I said. And since then we do it every year.
The other day, my little girls and I put up the tree while my husband was at work, our first solo job ever and it looked good. When he got home, I said, “Did you see? We put the Christmas tree up. Go look!”
“Oh, cool!,” he said, “Great!”
Then, that evening being the first night of Channukah, we made potato latkes, lit the menorah, sang songs and ate chocolate. Our little tradition. We have blended the best of both worlds. And that’s A Jewish Christmas Story, fa la la la la, cha cha cha cha. (Yiddish “ha“ sound, don’t cha know?)
I still remember sitting in the empty movie theatre with my father and sister on Christmas day.
Yep, we grew up with Channukah, the celebration of lights. Fortunately, my Barbies had Christmas. They had a green paper tree and red paper stockings that I stapled together. They might have had a menorah too. Some of you already know Channukah is a minor holiday where you eat greasy food to remember the miracle of oil that lasted for eight nights instead of one. The fact that Channukah is in the winter led to gift giving as if it were a Jewish Christmas, but it is not. I’m sure if Channukah was in the spring, we would give out Channukah baskets full of chocolates and blue and yellow eggs.
I don’t know what they do in France as it is a closed community. But in the US, doing gifts makes Jewish children feel like they have something major going on during Christmas too, even if they don’t. Today, people think the Jews have been given some kind of equal rights because stores sell Channukah loot. But, the most important holidays are nowhere to be found.
Channukah has turned into something commercial just like Christmas, Easter and Halloween. Paper plates with Channukah symbols, dreidles, the whole lot. But in Israel, it is a mere lighting of the menorah and some red jelly-filled doughnuts. Being in Israel during Channukah is refreshing. You aren’t around any of the Christmas hype unless you head to Nazareth, Bethlehem or Jerusalem. You have to go looking for Christmas if you want it over there.
However, in the US and France, Christmas is a big holiday and I tend to feel left out. It's true that little by little I'm starting to feel part of it. People say, “Oh, but Christmas isn’t religious at all.” And now that I’ve experienced it, it definitely is not a religious experience.
Still, it doesn’t mean the whole world grew-up celebrating it. Everyone talks about the magic of it, and since I’m married to someone who grew-up with it, I have had to become more open-minded and less judgmental. In fact, I’ve realized I can be included if I want to be. No one is stopping me from participating. Quite the contrary, everyone around me is encouraging me to be part of the celebrations!
The truth is, I never thought I’d accept a Christmas tree into my house. A Christmas dinner with the in-laws was fine. The idea of a tree in our house was symbolic of accepting Christmas into my heart and it nauseated me.
After our first little girl was born, my husband slowly began to prep me. He’d say things like, “You know, we might have to have Christmas for our kids one day...” Sometimes he’d say, “Sunny, I don’t think we have a say in this matter.” He thought it would be mean to deprive them of it. Plus, he had grown up with Christmas in his family so it would be as if I were ignoring his upbringing if I denied this holiday in our home. That seemed unfair especially as he had embraced my Jewish roots and culture with open arms.
My sister, on the other hand, had been waiting for Christmas her entire life. As soon as she married her Christmas-celebrating beau, her tree went up. Diane was born for Christmas. She was not meant to be born into a Jewish home where you patiently wait to open one gift per day. Not for her. No. That is exactly why one unforgettable night, she did not wait patiently. One Channukah night, she was displeased with her gift. “I don’t like my gift. I want to open another one,” she said to my mother.
“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” replied my mother.
“No. I want another gift tonight, please?” Diane begged. And she kept on begging.
My mother had had enough. “Fine, Diane! Go ahead! Open your gifts. Open all of them tonight. You can’t wait? Fine! Open all of them now!”
“No, no,” she cried, tears streaming down her face, “I don’t want to.” But she did as she was told and miserably opened every last gift. Afterward, Diane retreated to her bedroom in humiliation. I felt sick for her. I went to her room and tried to cheer her up by playing her new Kool & the Gang tape and dancing for her.
“That’s not even the one I asked for,” she sulked, “I wanted the new one…”
Today, however, we both tend to agree that watching children unwrap in-numerous gifts in the blink of an eye after having spent weeks shopping and wrapping and planning, is anti-climactic. We both came to this sad conclusion the first time we witnessed Christmas with our in-laws.
I remember our conversation on the phone, “Diane, Christmas was so weird. I swear. It was like a blizzard! There was wrapping paper flying around, children making tons of noise and unwrapping gift after gift in about five minutes flat and then afterward, no one had any idea who gave them what, it was total chaos. Then, everyone came around to thank you and it was done!”
“Totally,” she agreed, “it has to be the most anti-climactic event ever. After everyone opened their gifts, I said to my husband, ‘That’s it? That’s fucking it?’ It’s totally lame.”
My first Christmas in the working world was bizarre. I worked at a landscaping office with a bunch of highly uneducated people. Yes, that sounds mean but I can back it up.
Evidence 1: The phone rings, my colleague who wears green sweat pants, is fat and pimple-faced, but claims she was once a dancer, hangs up the phone and announces, “My boyfriend was just arrested. He was a security guard for Chase and was stealing people’s credit card numbers…”
Evidence 2: At the Christmas party, my other colleague who claims to have done a world tour but merely visited Australia 20 years ago gets so drunk with her husband; they start a fight with another couple who wants their Blockbuster Video gift card during the gift exchange.
Evidence 3: My boss was addicted to Percocet and often thought I was giving him the bird when I would rub my eye. He also referred to his business friend as “Spanky,” “Spankster” and sometimes “The Spank.”
Evidence 4: My manager, who not only was obese with a walrus mustache, but he was also a recovering alcoholic and a Born Again Christian who, when I bluntly asked him, “Do you think I’m going to hell?” he responded, “I don’t think you have to…”
But, that is a story for a different time. Back to Christmas, in our office one morning, one of our illegal Mexican workers dragged in a huge Christmas tree. My ugly colleague, the one who was the “world traveler” with grey stringy hair, a female version of Snape, brought out a big box of decorations. “I have something fun for you, Sunny,” she said with a sly smile. “You can decorate the tree!”
“Oh, no!” I thought. The only time I had decorated a tree was when I was ten years old. My friend’s mother scolded me for putting too much tinsel on the tree.
At the office, I started hanging random ornaments here and there until Snape snipped, “Hey! You have to put the lights up first. Don’t you know anything?”
“No,” I replied annoyed, “I’ve never done a Christmas tree before,” I wanted to add a lot of other stuff but didn’t.
After she composed herself from the horrid shock of a human who had never decorated a tree, I pulled out a string of M&M Christmas lights, talk about cheesy. I struggled to get them around the tree. The needles were prickling me everywhere. I felt punished and appalled it had been my duty to do this. Plus, it felt completely unnatural.
Needless to say, decorating the office tree did give me a crash course in Christmas trees. A couple years later when my sister put up her first Christmas tree, I had a few pointers and she exclaimed, “Wow, you’re helping me with my Christmas tree, sisi! And you think I’m such a Christian. Look at you!”
Yes, that was the moment I realized society had had their way with me. Many years later, after having lived in France, I finally accepted the idea to buy a small tree. I first had to discuss this with my sister over the phone, “I think we’re going to get a tree, Diane!”
“Oh, you’ll like it. They’re a lot of fun.”
“I don’t know. It’ll be weird having a tree like that in our home.”
“It’s not a big deal, I promise. Just get a little one, you’ll like it.”
My husband and I got dressed and strolled out of the apartment with our little girl. We went to a big store that had tons of artificial trees and ornaments. Where to begin? My husband was set on a small white tree with fiber optics built into the branches. Now what about the ornaments? There were so many kinds: traditional, hand-sewn, modern, glass, cute, colorful, what was our style? Do you mix and match styles? Do you stick to a certain color or theme? All these ideas were stirring in my head.
“Hurry up! God! Just pick a couple. Who cares? They’re fucking Christmas ornaments. They’re just ornaments!” cried my impatient husband.
Well, sadly, I had zero input and I had become so excited about this first tree I was going to create. My husband grabbed a couple different sizes of red, silver and black balls and two long red things, I forget what they’re called, and we left. Garlands?
When we got home, we started to set-up our tree. “No, no! Not yet! Don’t you know anything, little Jew?” he teased as he took off the garlands and put them back around the tree his way.
“How the hell should I know, god!” I retorted.
In the end, I was in charge of tying strings to all the ornaments. Later that day I called Diane. ”We have a tree. It’s super pretty!”
“See! I told you. They’re fun, you see?”
“Yeah. I thought it would be a big deal but it’s fine!” I said. And since then we do it every year.
The other day, my little girls and I put up the tree while my husband was at work, our first solo job ever and it looked good. When he got home, I said, “Did you see? We put the Christmas tree up. Go look!”
“Oh, cool!,” he said, “Great!”
Then, that evening being the first night of Channukah, we made potato latkes, lit the menorah, sang songs and ate chocolate. Our little tradition. We have blended the best of both worlds. And that’s A Jewish Christmas Story, fa la la la la, cha cha cha cha. (Yiddish “ha“ sound, don’t cha know?)
Friday, October 8, 2010
Letters from Pantyhose Man
Remember Pantyhose Man? (If not, it is in my March archives)
He was one of my Toulouse yoga students who came to class wearing pantyhose and sexy negligées. He also had shaved private parts he indiscreetly showed us in gracious positions like lotus and down dog.
He wants to do yoga with me again. Yes, it’s true. He sent me an email the other day. Here is what he said:
Bonjour Sunnylife,
J’espère que tu vas bien; je veux reprendre les cours de yoga; dis-moi si tu es d'accord, et à quelles conditions. Je ne sais pas si tu te
souviens de moi, je pratiquais en collants et nuisette. Bonne soirée, à bientôt. Cordialement, Didier.
Translation:
Hello, Sunnylife.
I hope you are doing well. I want to take yoga classes again; tell me if you are okay with this and under what conditions. I don’t know if you remember me, I practiced in pantyhose and negligées.
Good evening and see you soon.
Cordially,
Didier
Here was what I wrote back:
Hello, Didier.
Thank you for your interest in yoga. Yes, I remember you and your pantyhose.
Unfortunately, I am no longer in Toulouse so if you want to continue yoga, you will need to find another yoga studio.
Good luck.
Cordially,
Amie
Should I have written more...less? Should I have ignored his email? Should I have tried to get to the bottom of it all? I mean, I am in Marseille now, so I'm "safe" in a way.
Should I be happy he liked my yoga class and wants to come again and is willing to change (in more ways then one)? Or was he merely trying to provoke a response for his prior behavior? Was he seeking closure since we never addressed the issue?
By letting him know I remembered him and his pantyhose but not sharing an opinion, I clearly did not enter any game he had in mind, if in fact he was looking for some reaction. Am I the only person who never reacted? Have others kicked him out straight away and told him to never come back? Or, was my yoga class the first place he attempted this? And if it was his first time bearing his naked bits to a full class, is he still confused why it never solicited any remarks? Is he re-questioning how to get attention? I just do not know.
What do you make of all this?
He was one of my Toulouse yoga students who came to class wearing pantyhose and sexy negligées. He also had shaved private parts he indiscreetly showed us in gracious positions like lotus and down dog.
He wants to do yoga with me again. Yes, it’s true. He sent me an email the other day. Here is what he said:
Bonjour Sunnylife,
J’espère que tu vas bien; je veux reprendre les cours de yoga; dis-moi si tu es d'accord, et à quelles conditions. Je ne sais pas si tu te
souviens de moi, je pratiquais en collants et nuisette. Bonne soirée, à bientôt. Cordialement, Didier.
Translation:
Hello, Sunnylife.
I hope you are doing well. I want to take yoga classes again; tell me if you are okay with this and under what conditions. I don’t know if you remember me, I practiced in pantyhose and negligées.
Good evening and see you soon.
Cordially,
Didier
Here was what I wrote back:
Hello, Didier.
Thank you for your interest in yoga. Yes, I remember you and your pantyhose.
Unfortunately, I am no longer in Toulouse so if you want to continue yoga, you will need to find another yoga studio.
Good luck.
Cordially,
Amie
Should I have written more...less? Should I have ignored his email? Should I have tried to get to the bottom of it all? I mean, I am in Marseille now, so I'm "safe" in a way.
Should I be happy he liked my yoga class and wants to come again and is willing to change (in more ways then one)? Or was he merely trying to provoke a response for his prior behavior? Was he seeking closure since we never addressed the issue?
By letting him know I remembered him and his pantyhose but not sharing an opinion, I clearly did not enter any game he had in mind, if in fact he was looking for some reaction. Am I the only person who never reacted? Have others kicked him out straight away and told him to never come back? Or, was my yoga class the first place he attempted this? And if it was his first time bearing his naked bits to a full class, is he still confused why it never solicited any remarks? Is he re-questioning how to get attention? I just do not know.
What do you make of all this?
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Talking 'Bout My Generation
When did the word “balls” go out of fashion? I liked it. Lately there is too much use of the word "nut sack" which is getting really annoying; nut sack is used over and over in every film. Is it supposed to be funny or shocking or did people just get tired of the word balls?
Now I am readjusting to nut sack, not nuts, nut sack, in case you forgot the nuts are enclosed in a sack. God forbid you know that underneath all that skin, the testes are in fact separated and hanging by a thread on either side of the penis. So, has that word changed too?
Actually, I think today it’s more commonly referred to as the penis shaft. Penis alone will no longer suffice. Don’t forget the shaft. What is a penis if not a shaft? Are there actually two parts? The penis and the shaft? Does that mean there can be a shaft-less penis? What does that look like, a clit? Okay, sorry to be going in this direction but, I am sadly a by-product of this generation.
Maybe it has nothing to do with reality, but from all the blockbuster movies I’ve been illegally downloading lately, I have come to think our generation is just fucking pathetic.
And, by the way, if you have been watching all these movies too, the word “fuck” is very common. Maybe it always has been when it comes to movies, at least since the 80’s, right? Is there a specific person to whom we can pay tribute for helping us get to the everyday usage of fuck?
I think it goes way back to comics like Eddie Murphy and that one dude who burned half his face off from free-basing, Richard Pryer. And let’s not forget Robin Williams. However, contrary to today, when they used the word “fuck” it was shocking. People actually held their breath and smiled nervously. These comics were navigating in unknown territories. They were taking a risk. But today, I feel like you can say it anywhere at any time.
At the Drive In at McDonald’s, “Yes, I’d like a Big Mac, a small fries, and a fucking Coke, please.”
“That’ll be 7.50, ma’am. Please pull up to the fucking window.”
I just feel our generation's humor is lacking novelty and innovation in so many ways. Is there anyone out there who can come save us comically?
And speaking of… what makes you part of a certain generation? As long as we are alive, are we not a little bit of every generation? I don’t get it. Is my generation solely composed of people my age and classified by what people my age like today, by what brings us nostalgia? Is my generation limited to MC Hammer and Beavis and Butthead or can I also consider today’s Top 40 part of my life? It is something to ponder but let’s continue on with the fascinating topic of what makes a blockbuster comedy today.
Any comedy you see nowadays will at one point focus a scene on a man’s ass. This has been going on since Austin Powers and then Borat. Ah, Borat. I know it was a hilarious movie and that guy sure knows how to push the envelope (is that the right expression), but let’s be honest! Is a 10-minute scene dedicated to deep face-in-ass shoving really that funny? After two minutes I was ready to move on, weren’t you? My husband did seem to enjoy it. He sat shaking and laughing, holding his sides for the entire scene.
Needless to say, it’s part of today’s comedy recipe: two men and an ass. If it’s a romantic comedy, that’s a different story which I’ll get to later.
The other night I saw Get Him to the Greek. If you have seen it, you’ll agree it had all the major components of a modern day comedy: the word “fuck”, the word “nut sack”, an ass scene and a bonus for you, an intelligent scene where the British Rock Star asks his girlfriend to put her vagina on the phone. (And let’s not forget the one thing that will transcend time, the gratuitous tit scene, if there aren’t tits, it’s not a good adult comedy)
Is this what our generation has come down to or has it always been this way?
Another film I saw was a romantic comedy called “The Back-up Plan” with Jennifer Lopez. I realize I am not choosing the artsy intellectual films but still, millions are going into this mierda?
Please tell me you were disturbed several times to see J.Lo stoop so low? Disturbing scene one: J.Lo’s character is pregnant and eating a bucket of chicken in bed like a slob. Then she climbs on top of her boyfriend while chewing some chicken and she kisses him. He pushes her off and she happily goes back to her binging. Am I the only one out there who wanted to yak during that scene? Why did they make her do that?
Disturbing scene two is when she has an orgasm without the guy even touching her because she's pregnant, hyper-sensitive and horny. Why couldn’t she have been sexy as she climaxed? Her facial expression looked like some Italian bonehead getting kneed in the balls (correction: nut sack).
But what could ever compare to the disturbing scene of Meryl Streep wearing Keds and doing a choreographed dance scene in Mama Mia? (Hugh Grant dancing while presumably alone in Love Actually?)
Ohhh, oh, ooh!! Where are all the intelligent people like Sam Kennison and his infamous scream? What happened to Porky’s, a simple penis poking through a hole in a wall? Or Weird Science where Chet is reduced to a green, bubbly pile of shit?
Wait a minute. Have comedies always been dumb? Are we just slowly increasing our obscenity level? Before it was a pie in the face, now it’s an ass in the face? And, I have not gone into some of the thrillers I have seen with such graphic and disturbing violence that I’m left feeling tortured for days. Is it all about pushing the limits? Is that what we thrive on now?
Push it, push it real good. Maybe I’m just getting old. Maybe I’m just a prude? Then again, maybe we’re just talkin’‘bout my generation.
Now I am readjusting to nut sack, not nuts, nut sack, in case you forgot the nuts are enclosed in a sack. God forbid you know that underneath all that skin, the testes are in fact separated and hanging by a thread on either side of the penis. So, has that word changed too?
Actually, I think today it’s more commonly referred to as the penis shaft. Penis alone will no longer suffice. Don’t forget the shaft. What is a penis if not a shaft? Are there actually two parts? The penis and the shaft? Does that mean there can be a shaft-less penis? What does that look like, a clit? Okay, sorry to be going in this direction but, I am sadly a by-product of this generation.
Maybe it has nothing to do with reality, but from all the blockbuster movies I’ve been illegally downloading lately, I have come to think our generation is just fucking pathetic.
And, by the way, if you have been watching all these movies too, the word “fuck” is very common. Maybe it always has been when it comes to movies, at least since the 80’s, right? Is there a specific person to whom we can pay tribute for helping us get to the everyday usage of fuck?
I think it goes way back to comics like Eddie Murphy and that one dude who burned half his face off from free-basing, Richard Pryer. And let’s not forget Robin Williams. However, contrary to today, when they used the word “fuck” it was shocking. People actually held their breath and smiled nervously. These comics were navigating in unknown territories. They were taking a risk. But today, I feel like you can say it anywhere at any time.
At the Drive In at McDonald’s, “Yes, I’d like a Big Mac, a small fries, and a fucking Coke, please.”
“That’ll be 7.50, ma’am. Please pull up to the fucking window.”
I just feel our generation's humor is lacking novelty and innovation in so many ways. Is there anyone out there who can come save us comically?
And speaking of… what makes you part of a certain generation? As long as we are alive, are we not a little bit of every generation? I don’t get it. Is my generation solely composed of people my age and classified by what people my age like today, by what brings us nostalgia? Is my generation limited to MC Hammer and Beavis and Butthead or can I also consider today’s Top 40 part of my life? It is something to ponder but let’s continue on with the fascinating topic of what makes a blockbuster comedy today.
Any comedy you see nowadays will at one point focus a scene on a man’s ass. This has been going on since Austin Powers and then Borat. Ah, Borat. I know it was a hilarious movie and that guy sure knows how to push the envelope (is that the right expression), but let’s be honest! Is a 10-minute scene dedicated to deep face-in-ass shoving really that funny? After two minutes I was ready to move on, weren’t you? My husband did seem to enjoy it. He sat shaking and laughing, holding his sides for the entire scene.
Needless to say, it’s part of today’s comedy recipe: two men and an ass. If it’s a romantic comedy, that’s a different story which I’ll get to later.
The other night I saw Get Him to the Greek. If you have seen it, you’ll agree it had all the major components of a modern day comedy: the word “fuck”, the word “nut sack”, an ass scene and a bonus for you, an intelligent scene where the British Rock Star asks his girlfriend to put her vagina on the phone. (And let’s not forget the one thing that will transcend time, the gratuitous tit scene, if there aren’t tits, it’s not a good adult comedy)
Is this what our generation has come down to or has it always been this way?
Another film I saw was a romantic comedy called “The Back-up Plan” with Jennifer Lopez. I realize I am not choosing the artsy intellectual films but still, millions are going into this mierda?
Please tell me you were disturbed several times to see J.Lo stoop so low? Disturbing scene one: J.Lo’s character is pregnant and eating a bucket of chicken in bed like a slob. Then she climbs on top of her boyfriend while chewing some chicken and she kisses him. He pushes her off and she happily goes back to her binging. Am I the only one out there who wanted to yak during that scene? Why did they make her do that?
Disturbing scene two is when she has an orgasm without the guy even touching her because she's pregnant, hyper-sensitive and horny. Why couldn’t she have been sexy as she climaxed? Her facial expression looked like some Italian bonehead getting kneed in the balls (correction: nut sack).
But what could ever compare to the disturbing scene of Meryl Streep wearing Keds and doing a choreographed dance scene in Mama Mia? (Hugh Grant dancing while presumably alone in Love Actually?)
Ohhh, oh, ooh!! Where are all the intelligent people like Sam Kennison and his infamous scream? What happened to Porky’s, a simple penis poking through a hole in a wall? Or Weird Science where Chet is reduced to a green, bubbly pile of shit?
Wait a minute. Have comedies always been dumb? Are we just slowly increasing our obscenity level? Before it was a pie in the face, now it’s an ass in the face? And, I have not gone into some of the thrillers I have seen with such graphic and disturbing violence that I’m left feeling tortured for days. Is it all about pushing the limits? Is that what we thrive on now?
Push it, push it real good. Maybe I’m just getting old. Maybe I’m just a prude? Then again, maybe we’re just talkin’‘bout my generation.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Please, Mister Postman!
Part of living in a new place is learning how to communicate properly. Every town has their own way of doing things. When we lived in Toulouse, it was important to be overly polite when you were in a store, restaurant, or dealing with someone fixing things in your house, almost to the point of self-deprecation. When I lived in Israel, I realized being polite, waiting my turn in line or waiting to get on the bus, was not going to get me anywhere. If I didn’t assert myself, I was going to be trampled by the herd. I would describe Marseille as somewhere in-between Israel and Toulouse.
I have realized you need to be assertive, but you cannot lose your cool too much. And I’ve come to believe you can pretty much say whatever you want as long as you don’t raise your voice and you say it with a witty smile. “What you said is extremely offensive. I am not okay with that, you fucking asshole.” (Well, maybe you have to leave the last part out.)
Either way, practice makes perfect and I’m still practicing. The first step is to stop hesitating, just say something, anything! When someone says something insulting, instead of withdrawing from shock or trying to better the situation by kissing up to the person, the Toulouse way, I now say something back calmly but assertively. This doesn’t mean it gets me anywhere. But, maybe once I refine my technique more, I’ll get results that shine.
Enter Mr.Postman…I was expecting a package and it was pertinent to be at home between certain hours so I could sign for it. The delivery man had tried to deliver the day earlier and since I had been out with the girls, he was obligated to come again. At around 10am, I received a phone call, “Is this Madame Hossam at 22 boulevard Aigle,” asked a man.
“Yes,” I responded, “that’s correct.”
“Madame Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Let me just confirm. This is Madame Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio at 22 boulevard Aigle.”
“Yes, that’s correct. Are you here?”
“No, I’m on my way. I just want to make sure this is the correct address.”
“Okay. When are you coming?”
“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”
“Okay,” I said. I went outside and taped one of my business cards to the mailbox as supposedly, they wouldn’t deliver if there wasn’t a name on my door. A woman from the delivering company had explained this to me earlier.
Twenty minutes past and my phone rang again. The man, once again, confirmed all the information and I too confirmed he was at the right place. I went to open the door for him and there he stood, somewhat annoyed it seemed, holding my package.
“Are you Mrs.Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio,” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied wondering why this was becoming such a big deal.
“Well, I tried to deliver this package yesterday and a lady answered and said this wasn’t Shanti Yoga Studio and this wasn’t the right address.”
“We weren’t here yesterday, sir. So, there is no way someone could have spoken with you.”
“Madame, I came here yesterday and a woman answered and said I had the wrong address. I asked her if this was 22 boulevard Aigle, Shanti Yoga Studio and she told me there was no one living here named Mrs.Hossam and there was no Shanti Yoga.”
“But, no one was here yesterday,” I repeated, “So, unless there was a ghost…” I said light-heartedly.
He began to get frustrated and would not make eye contact with me. He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead, “Oh, I guess I am crazy then,” he responded sarcastically shaking his head.
I hesitated before responding. “Sir,” I said and waited for him to look at me, “Either you are crazy or I am crazy.”
He was sticking to his story and I was sticking to mine. “Look, Madame, I’m telling you a lady answered this door yesterday and said I had the wrong address. This is 22 boulevard Aigle, right?”
“Yes,” I became exasperated and pointed to the big 22 just on the wall beside the man.
“Well, I came yesterday,” and he repeated his same story again. We weren’t getting anywhere. Then he added, “This business card wasn’t here yesterday, no name was here yesterday.”
“That is correct,“ I said, “I put the card up today for you. However, yesterday no one was home and therefore unless someone lives here of whom I am unaware, it is impossible that you spoke to someone.”
He shook his head, had me sign for the box and left. I tried to come up with some possible explanations.
The first one which is the most far-fetched is that a woman (or a man who can impersonate a woman’s voice) has a key to our house, even though we just changed our locks a month ago, and she saw me and the girls leave. She slipped into our garden and being the prankster she is, she answered our door and told the delivery man he had the wrong place! Then, she calmly locked the door behind her and chuckled to herself as she walked down the street, “Ha ha ha, that was funny!”
Or, my husband, who already works eight days a week, decided to drive 40 minutes from his work to our house while the girls and I were out. And let me add that if this happened, he also would have had to look into his crystal ball to see when the coast was clear. Assuming he did this, we can also assume he was giving some lady a quickie when the bell rang. He turns to his mistress and says, “Hurry! Answer the door and tell them they have the wrong house.” Then, the two of them manage to get out before we get home, the two of them chuckling, “That was a good one! The wrong house! Ha ha ha.”
I must admit there was a moment when I thought to myself, “What if my husband was home with some lady? But, would he be so dumb as to let her answer the door?”
Another simple explanation is he was simply trying to save face. The day before, he went to the wrong address, rang the wrong bell, and spoke to the wrong person without knowing it. He then went back to his company and told them a woman had in fact been home and she said it was the wrong address.
Well, considering the company did in fact call and confirm with me that it was the correct address but I had not been home when my package was delivered, he was forced to try and deliver again the next day to the exact same address and, you guessed it, he felt embarrassed.
This time, however, he went to the right address and realized, “Hey, this isn’t where I went yesterday. Shit!” So, he decided to stick to his original story to save face lest his boss ask how he managed to deliver the package to an address that was supposedly “wrong.”
I also think he called from work and that is why he was over-zealous confirming my name and address one hundred times…people were listening. He wanted his boss and colleagues to know he was not an idiot. He had not gone to the wrong house. See how careful he was confirming everything with the customer?
He realized it would be much better for him to stick to his story so he even reenacted it with me, pretending he had come to my house the day before. We had our bogus interaction that served his purpose because when he returned to work, he was able to report to his boss, “Yeah, it turns out that lady is insane. She told me it was the wrong address yesterday and today said it was the right one, can you believe that?”
Please, Mister Postman!
I have realized you need to be assertive, but you cannot lose your cool too much. And I’ve come to believe you can pretty much say whatever you want as long as you don’t raise your voice and you say it with a witty smile. “What you said is extremely offensive. I am not okay with that, you fucking asshole.” (Well, maybe you have to leave the last part out.)
Either way, practice makes perfect and I’m still practicing. The first step is to stop hesitating, just say something, anything! When someone says something insulting, instead of withdrawing from shock or trying to better the situation by kissing up to the person, the Toulouse way, I now say something back calmly but assertively. This doesn’t mean it gets me anywhere. But, maybe once I refine my technique more, I’ll get results that shine.
Enter Mr.Postman…I was expecting a package and it was pertinent to be at home between certain hours so I could sign for it. The delivery man had tried to deliver the day earlier and since I had been out with the girls, he was obligated to come again. At around 10am, I received a phone call, “Is this Madame Hossam at 22 boulevard Aigle,” asked a man.
“Yes,” I responded, “that’s correct.”
“Madame Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Let me just confirm. This is Madame Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio at 22 boulevard Aigle.”
“Yes, that’s correct. Are you here?”
“No, I’m on my way. I just want to make sure this is the correct address.”
“Okay. When are you coming?”
“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”
“Okay,” I said. I went outside and taped one of my business cards to the mailbox as supposedly, they wouldn’t deliver if there wasn’t a name on my door. A woman from the delivering company had explained this to me earlier.
Twenty minutes past and my phone rang again. The man, once again, confirmed all the information and I too confirmed he was at the right place. I went to open the door for him and there he stood, somewhat annoyed it seemed, holding my package.
“Are you Mrs.Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio,” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied wondering why this was becoming such a big deal.
“Well, I tried to deliver this package yesterday and a lady answered and said this wasn’t Shanti Yoga Studio and this wasn’t the right address.”
“We weren’t here yesterday, sir. So, there is no way someone could have spoken with you.”
“Madame, I came here yesterday and a woman answered and said I had the wrong address. I asked her if this was 22 boulevard Aigle, Shanti Yoga Studio and she told me there was no one living here named Mrs.Hossam and there was no Shanti Yoga.”
“But, no one was here yesterday,” I repeated, “So, unless there was a ghost…” I said light-heartedly.
He began to get frustrated and would not make eye contact with me. He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead, “Oh, I guess I am crazy then,” he responded sarcastically shaking his head.
I hesitated before responding. “Sir,” I said and waited for him to look at me, “Either you are crazy or I am crazy.”
He was sticking to his story and I was sticking to mine. “Look, Madame, I’m telling you a lady answered this door yesterday and said I had the wrong address. This is 22 boulevard Aigle, right?”
“Yes,” I became exasperated and pointed to the big 22 just on the wall beside the man.
“Well, I came yesterday,” and he repeated his same story again. We weren’t getting anywhere. Then he added, “This business card wasn’t here yesterday, no name was here yesterday.”
“That is correct,“ I said, “I put the card up today for you. However, yesterday no one was home and therefore unless someone lives here of whom I am unaware, it is impossible that you spoke to someone.”
He shook his head, had me sign for the box and left. I tried to come up with some possible explanations.
The first one which is the most far-fetched is that a woman (or a man who can impersonate a woman’s voice) has a key to our house, even though we just changed our locks a month ago, and she saw me and the girls leave. She slipped into our garden and being the prankster she is, she answered our door and told the delivery man he had the wrong place! Then, she calmly locked the door behind her and chuckled to herself as she walked down the street, “Ha ha ha, that was funny!”
Or, my husband, who already works eight days a week, decided to drive 40 minutes from his work to our house while the girls and I were out. And let me add that if this happened, he also would have had to look into his crystal ball to see when the coast was clear. Assuming he did this, we can also assume he was giving some lady a quickie when the bell rang. He turns to his mistress and says, “Hurry! Answer the door and tell them they have the wrong house.” Then, the two of them manage to get out before we get home, the two of them chuckling, “That was a good one! The wrong house! Ha ha ha.”
I must admit there was a moment when I thought to myself, “What if my husband was home with some lady? But, would he be so dumb as to let her answer the door?”
Another simple explanation is he was simply trying to save face. The day before, he went to the wrong address, rang the wrong bell, and spoke to the wrong person without knowing it. He then went back to his company and told them a woman had in fact been home and she said it was the wrong address.
Well, considering the company did in fact call and confirm with me that it was the correct address but I had not been home when my package was delivered, he was forced to try and deliver again the next day to the exact same address and, you guessed it, he felt embarrassed.
This time, however, he went to the right address and realized, “Hey, this isn’t where I went yesterday. Shit!” So, he decided to stick to his original story to save face lest his boss ask how he managed to deliver the package to an address that was supposedly “wrong.”
I also think he called from work and that is why he was over-zealous confirming my name and address one hundred times…people were listening. He wanted his boss and colleagues to know he was not an idiot. He had not gone to the wrong house. See how careful he was confirming everything with the customer?
He realized it would be much better for him to stick to his story so he even reenacted it with me, pretending he had come to my house the day before. We had our bogus interaction that served his purpose because when he returned to work, he was able to report to his boss, “Yeah, it turns out that lady is insane. She told me it was the wrong address yesterday and today said it was the right one, can you believe that?”
Please, Mister Postman!
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