That Woman

So today, I became That Woman. You've seen her, so don't pretend you haven't. Next time, give her a hug and whisper some sweet words of reassurance. Better yet, take her by the elbow and steer her to the nearest bar.

I was a middle-aged blonde who couldn't remember where she parked her station wagon.

Today, of course, because this is MY life, I was also the middle-aged blonde who couldn't remember where she parked her station wagon WHILE WEARING FAKE EYELASHES.

You want to be a middle-aged blonde wearing fake eyelashes if you're in a rocking gay bar in WeHo. If you've just hooked up with some decades-younger friends and you're showing them How It's Done. You do not ever--EVER--want to be the middle-aged blonde in fake eyelashes wandering the West Hills parking lot somewhere between SuperStore and Winners in search of a blue Subaru with a Thule on top. While carrying a shopping bag full of Cadbury Creme Eggs.

Christian tradition holds that today, Easter Saturday, was a Very Bad Day for Jesus, what with the going down to hell thing and being dead and all. Dude: I can totally sympathize.

Maybe this Riesling will put out the flames I imagine are being warmed up for me right this very instant.

Patented Parenting

Lookit wot I found.

Before anyone howls that poor Kid was forced to do homework over Spring Break when all his friends were in Maui eating breakfast with Batman, this was his schedule on Week 4 of Kid Is Sick: The Snotbomb Edition. If you look closely enough, you'll see that my hand was tremulous while I was writing this schedule. I honestly didn't think I was going to make it. I was researching Eurail passes (now featuring Slovakia!), convents, witness protection programs. I needed the hell out.

And out I got, thanks to my innovative "You whine, mom wines" program. I collected enough piggybank cash before noon to fund two lovely glasses of something crisp and white with a friend that evening. I'ma patent this idea, naturally, but until I get around to it, help yourself. It worked wonders for my attitude, if not Kid's.

Spring Break(ing Point)

Officially, today at 5 marked the end of Spring Break 2012 Hump Day. I didn't make it.  I found myself sitting fully clothed (in pajamas) in the unfilled 1960s blue bathtub with a hunk of bittersweet baking chocolate and my Kindle at 9:05 this morning, whilst Someone Who Shall Remin Anonymous (LIEF) banged on the door demanding that I fed him breakfast, which, he stipulated, would include the following food groups:

• Nutella
• Graham crackers
• Orangina

Kid clearly thinks that Spring Break is all about "vacation"--but moms who work at home know different: Spring Break is about not whacking people with frying pans.  It's about not crying before your teeth are brushed. It's about rationalizing things like hiding in the laundry room or behind the furnace. It's about picking up the phone and faking a conversation with a co-worker so as to avoid Phinneas and Ferb the one where Candace rats them out and there is a platypus that is a secret agent and a German evil mastermind and nutty hijinx ensue. It's about walking with deliberation past your secret chocolate trove and whispering to yourself "I can make it til noon, I can make it til noon."


Except I couldn't make it til noon and as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror--hunched over a spy novel, unbrushed hair, chocolate on the tip of my nose, SITTING IN THE BATHTUB WITH NO WATER IN IT--I realized that I would have to call in the Big Guns.

Literally:

144 minutes of peace, brought to us (ME) by the day that would live in infamy forever. 353 Japanese war planes--including 50 Nakajima B5N Kate bombers armed with 800 kilos of armour piercing bombs--and 6 aircraft carriers: that's about the fire power you need to reduce an 8yo boy to quiet introspection, or at least shocked awe. Whatevs. QUIET.  Write down, as it could prove handy one day.

Tomorrow: The Longest Day (177 minutes). If he watches it twice, that's a work day right there.

Other kids go to camp for spring break, or Maui, or Mexico. Mine goes to hell and back and lives to tell the tale.

Breakfast conversation

1. If you go one micro-inch past the line where your back turns into your bum do you still have to wash your hands? (YES)
2. Can germs crawl up forks? (YES)
3. Even if germs could crawl up forks, is it guaranteed that they will make you sick? (YES)
4. The dog licks his butt but he doesn't get sick--would I? (YES)
5. Are you sure that's egg white and not chicken snot? (YES)
6. Are you sure these eggs are safe to eat? (YES)
7. Are you really really really sure that's ketchup and not chicken blood? (YES)
8. Mommy, are you crying? (YES)

Science (isn't) fair

Okay, first things first: I'm probably not the most logical choice for science fair judge, even if the science fair is at an elementary school. I like science, I know how to spell it, and, technically, my doctorate is in comparative medieval science as much as it is in anything not otherwise labelled "whackadoo." (In fact, next time someone asks me what my doctorate is in, I'm going to say "whackadoo.") But still, let us be clear: I am an insane person. I am a writerly person. I am a person who believes that no one is bigger than the story--even if that story happens to be about how maybe batteries work.

Knowing full well that I was an imposter, I spent quite some time this morning making sure that I had "science" hair--a neat chignon, no wisps, sprayed into place. I might have rearranged things so that the white covered the last brave strands of whatever colour you call that. . . .rodent? Old people are good at science. Hello, Marie Curie? Einstein? Rex Morgan, MD?

I wore "science" clothes, too: a dark sweater reminiscent of a lab coat except that it was black, not white, had a ruffled Elizabethan zipper effect up the front, and featured a sparkly 1940s Sherman paste brooch. But other than that? Dead on science.

I was filled with confidence. I didn't even need one of their lousy rice crispie squares to help me gnaw away nervous tension. I could handle Grade 6 Science. Rational, equilibrium-y and very clever in an unassuming sort of way: that was me, entering the gym.

The first little boy that I was to judge--blond, blue-eyed, wearing a tie and a checked shirt--was the double of my son. Science? It went bye-bye and I helped him fix his hair, congratulated him on his printing, taught him how to use regulated breathing to control anxiety, and noticed that in the photograph of his sub-sub-zero temperature tests, he appeared to be wearing only a thin hoody. Was he trying to catch galloping pneumonia? Where was his common sense? Did he know how this kind of self-destructive behavior hurt his mother? My judgey partner, the bad cop, came over all intelligent, asking questions about data spikes and controls. When he raised a question about Blond Science Boy's data, I snarled "CAN'T YOU SEE HOW HARD HE WORKED ON THIS?"

An uncomfortable science may or may not have followed. I was busy fixing the kid's tie.

In the end, I gave him a perfect score. The girls who reminded me of the mean girls in elementary? Not so much. It might have been that their science wasn't up to snuff. I mean, it probably was because of that.

Next year, they might want to think about maybe asking someone less properly turned out and more completely tuned in to do their judging for them. It could be me. In a year? I could maybe do that. It would be kind of a neat experiment.

Why we hope he retains his good looks

Attention, heiresses: he can't add but he's cute and his mom has fabulous costume jewelry. Serious inquiries only.

The truth is out

Me: Hold on there, short wheels! Let me make sure you've gotten all the peanut butter off your face before you head out the door.
Kid: Did you get it all? Are you sure? Are you lying?
Me: Why would I let you go to school with breakfast all over your face?
Kid: Because you're an evil un-mother who hates her child.

There you have it. Unmasked.