Stop in the Name of Love!

It is said that Valentine, patron saint of lovers, risked everything to sanctify forbidden love, marrying Christian couples in secrecy, Emperor and Empire be damned. Once discovered, Valentine himself was damned (and beheaded!) by Claudius II, his life a literal sacrifice for love that was not even his own, and that, Hill humans, is selfless. And love, in its purest form is just that, is it not?

While Valentine’s Day is nobody’s favorite holiday (Mine? Halloween! No guests, dishes or gifts, but plentiful in both tricks and treats.) it can serve a significant purpose. In this 24/7 google-y eyed, hypertensive, carpal-tunneled, tweety world, where interface has replaced face-to-face, love letters have been reduced to “sexts,” and pillow talk has become an end-of-the-day download that sounds something like this:

Tomorrowyouhavetopickupthekids/Whycan’tyou?/Because,Ican’t/NeithercanI/Whynot?/Havemyworkevaluation/Again?/Whatdoyoumeanagain?It’sonceayear!/Fine.Okay.Sh*t!/What?/ForgottoTivothesecondhalfofthegame/ Didyouflipthelaundry?/No.Didyouask?/Yes.Nevermind./Goodnight/Loveyou/Youtoo.

If this is the language of modern lovers, there’s something to be said for having a reminder to STOP! in the name of LOVE.

This February 14th, cast aside romantic posturing and refuse to “pay” into the notion that love has an exchange rate. (Especially when the dollar is so weak!) Instead of trudging through your day of amorous obligation and think outside the heart-shaped box,

Fret not, Romeos & Juliets, I have some saucy suggestions:

“IT” is done by birds, bees and educated fleas, but did you know animals at the National Zoo woo too? It’s true! Bring your baby boo to “Woo at the Zoo” the evening of February 11th. Learn about animal mating, dating and reproductive habits in an honest and humorous forum. (Drinks, indeed, will be served; to biped mammals of legal age.)

For more subtle cross-pollination, get thee to the Museum of Natural History. Secret yourselves amongst the pavilion’s lush vegetation as you flirt and fawn over one another, sharing petite papillion kisses until butterflies flutter in your stomachs. And on your head. Look, there’s one on shoulder! Wait, those are actual butterflies! Suddenly, a monarch pops you on the nose as if to say, “out of the way, horndogs, I have business with that stamen behind you.”

Are you and your treasure game for a lovers’ quest? Are you seekers of the naked truth? Watson Adventures’ “Naked at the National Gallery” is anything but a tease. In this “stripped down” scavenger hunt lovers answer tricky and humorous questions while being exposed to great art that’s exposing itself right back!

Wanna role play for V. Day? Go deep under cover? If you and your paramour have an itch for intrigue, the Spy Museum has a highly classified evening planned for couples who long to play “Spy vs. Spy”: She is Natasha, a sultry double-agent, you are… (Boris? No!) Codename, Lynx. You have a license to kill, but keeping protocol is romantic treason! Mission Impossible: finding a Valentine’s Day sitter. I have access to names, but if I told you, I’d have to kill you.

Nothing inspires great love more than great love stories. While not all romances end happily, the pain and humor in the retelling can be healing, and SpeakeasyDC’s skilled storytellers know how to “speak it” so you feel their pain and pleasure like it were your own. You’d be a sucker to miss their 5th Annual Valentine’s Day Special, “Sucker for Love” ( Feb. 10th & 11th, Dance Place, 3225 8th St. NE). If you prefer more carnal narratives, SpeakeasyDC will be “Making Whoopie” on February 14th in their homage to sex (Town Danceboutique, 2009 8th St NW). For tickets or sordid details visit speakeasydc.com.

If you must be faithful to the traditional Valentine’s meal à deux, try adopting this unique approach: abandon the harried style of “date night” dinners that quickly veer into housekeeping business. Make your edible experience about love; no complaints or “to do” lists.

Imagine the intimacy of being in the moment. All is quiet, you are alone together at last, as it was in the beginning before you committed to running the treadmill of life as a team in training, tethered together in the risky three-legged race of marriage.

Hold hands, gaze into one another’s eyes, savor every glorious bite, crafted by the chef with the selfless love of the holiday’s namesake. Nourish your sweet one with decadent desserts, become full. (I’m talking about your stomach here, you understand, yes?) And when you must leave your candlelit island, do not rush to rejoin the “Human Race.”

As I paint this rich, velvet picture of candlelit ambience (sans Elvis or dogs embroiled in poker) you’re likely wondering where I lay this fscene, and I can share four places that light my fire: Belga, Cafe Berlin, Atlas Room and Bistro Cacao. All lovely, all delicious, all helmed by chefs whose dishes come from the heart.

And where will I be on Feb. 14th? The Husband and I will be doing the same thing we’ve done since our very first Valentine’s Day together.

The man who would become “The Husband” and I started dating in mid-January of 2000. So, by the time Cupid started shooting up the place we had only been on a handful of dates. Thus, the approach of V. Day felt like a premature litmus test of love. Tests have always made me anxious. I do not test well. Another source of anxiety was my inability to gauge my suitor’s level of affection. So I decided to temper my Valentine’s Day expectations, consider the Long Game, not the immediate gratification of 12 over-priced roses and jealous looks from my single girlfriends.

Yet, if I expected nothing after a month, was I willingly vacating my pedestal before he had demonstrated a devout commitment to worship? If I did not protect my desire to be adored, I could be setting myself up for a passionless future of couch-surfing punctuated by fist pumping and high-fives. He might gift me with Patriots jerseys or pink Red Sox hats. (Horrifying) While diamonds are not this girl’s best friend they are certainly no enemy.

I pitched an alternate approach and our tradition was born: take-out Chinese and a screening of Harold & Maude. (Yes, the movie where an old lady and young guy do it, but if that’s all you know, you haven’t seen it, so stop cringing.) The man who’d become “The Husband” jumped at this – he’s not stupid – and now he’s the envy of his friends for being permanently absolved of Valentine pressure.

This year, I’m tempted to add the “Green Fairy” to the mix and begin our evening at Wisdom with absinthe cocktails, rumored to have aphrodisiacal properties. (Hearsay will be enough to get him to believe in fairies.)

And, just so you don’t think I forgot you, I recognize that some lovers are “between romances” at the moment. And to the parties of one, I say: fall in love anyway! With your neighborhood, with your city. Let your steadfast friends feel the love. Love your folks for having you. Love on your post person, your personal trainer. Love a stranger by saying “Hi!” Love it forward and buy the person behind you in line at Peregrine a coffee!

Come on people, smile on your brother! It’s time to love one another. Take a leap and love, love, love! And then, as Maude tells the heartbroken Harold: “Go and love some more!”

This Valentine’s Day, dare to “Occupy Capitol Hill” with Love!

Live, love & propagate, Hill romantics.

Anna Cranage Conathan is a freelance writer & screenwriter, a lover, and shameless bleeding heart known to cry during commercials, movie trailers and Pixar films (sobbing through the opening of UP! and the climactic waste management scene in Toy Story 3).While confusing for The Boy, not yet able to grasp the concept of a cleansing emotional cry, The Husband is savvy and dared marry her, even after she wept endlessly through their first date, a screening of P.T. Anderson’s film, Magnolia. If you have some “Buzz” to share, email Anna at bananascabana@yahoo.com

*”Hill Buzz” column, Hill Rag, published Feb 2012

“The Wet, Hot Wife”*

The maternal quest for a relaxing & private shower,  generally a fruitless quest for moms the world over, is styled into a comedic sketch, serving as a simultaneous homage to both Hitchcock’s famous shower scene & the old “Calgon, take me away,” commercial spots.

Will this petite mise en scene change the world? No. It won’t. But perhaps it will raise awareness of a tragic domestic epidemic that affects mothers everywhere.

INT. Cluttered Family Bathroom – Late Afternoon

MOM takes relaxing shower, the stress of her day washing away. She <HUMS> as she washes her hair. The <TOILET FLUSHES>, cold water rains down upon MOM.

MOM: “AHHH!!!!”

Suddenly the shower curtain is vigorously pulled back, scaring the bejesus out of MOM. Reddish-pink shampoo circles down the drain. She <GASPS>, reaching her hand out in front of her, soap in her eyes…

SON: Mama, you wipe me?

MOM wipes the soap away from her eyes to find her SON, CHARLIE, 3 years-old, pants around his ankles, a wad of T.P. in his hand.

MOM: Sweetie, call daddy. He can help you. (Annoyed.) Where is daddy?

SON: Dunno. I come in! I shake a tower too?

MOM: It’s ‘TAKE a SHOWER,’ sweetie. And, no, you don’t. This is mommy time.

SON: (does not compute) Mommy time?

MOM: Go find daddy. He wants to read to you.

Norm wanders off – “DADDY!” – leaving the door wide open.

MOM: “Charlie, can please close the—(looks out, but he’s gone)-door?”

MOM pulls the shower curtain closed, turns up the hot water. Surrendering, she breathes in the steam, unwinding once again, until…

DAD: “Honey–?

DAD’S head pops over the top of the shower curtain rod and

MOM practically jumps out of her skin. She takes a swipe at him through the shower curtain. He dodges.

MOM: “Steven! Don’t do that!”

DAD: “Sorry, babe. I just need to know where Charlie’s book about the dump truck, you know, the one that has—“

MOM: “Chicken pox? Have you tried his bookshelf?”

DAD: “See, I knew you’d know. (beat) Oh, and um, Charlie left a… well, a streak on the couch, so I put a towel on it. I figured you’d know how to, y’know, take care of it.”

MOM: “Of course. Honey, could you-”

Dad exits, leaving the bathroom door wide open.

MOM: “-shut the door? Hello? It’s cold in here!”

She <SIGHS>, exasperated. Bending over she starts to shave her legs. She mumbles to herself, not noticing that behind her, the shower curtain has moved aside slightly. A beat. Then… there’s a <LICKING> sound. She stands bolt upright.

MOM: Ewww, Harvey! Gross!!! (It’s the chunky family LAB. He <PANTS> heavily.) Get out! Go!!!

HARVEY sits, <PANTING>. He leans forward, licking the tub.

MOM: Honey? (No answer) HONEY?!?! (Beat) Seriously?

Carefully climbing out of the shower she takes Harvey by the collar, drags him to the door and pushes him out.

MOM: (calls downstairs) “Steven, Harvey needs water!”

DAD: (O.S.) “Okay.” (Beat) “Where’s his water bow—“

MOM: “The same place it ALWAYS is, Steven. Next to the fridge!” (slips, drips, slides back to the shower) “For Pete’s sake. Is it TOO MUCH to ask?”

She FALLS but saves herself by grabbing onto the shower curtain rod. Phew! But then the rod rips out of the wall and MOM, the shower curtain rod, and the soaked shower curtain crash onto the floor in a heap, the European showerhead wildly spraying the room like an unmanned fire hose. Tangled in the curtain, she manages to hurl her body into the tub and turn off the water.

LONG BEAT as she catches her breath.

DAD: “Honey? Steph? Was that you?”

CUT TO:

INT. Living Room – 60 seconds later

A very wet, very peeved MOM comes downstairs, wrapped in a towel. Dad and Charlie are playing with Hot Wheels, arguing about who gets which cars.

DAD: (without looking) “Hey hon, any thoughts on dinner?”

MOM <GROWLS>, a deep guttural warning. He looks up, sees her in her towel as she grabs her purse and car keys and leaves through the front door.

DAD: “Where you going? You’re in a towel, you know?”

NORM: “Mama gots no pants.”

DAD: “Nope. She doesn’t.” (Beat) “Take out tonight, I guess.”

CUT TO:

INT. Lovely Suburban Home – Foyer – 10 minutes later

The doorbell <RINGS>. BETH, a well-kempt, neatly dressed Super Mom opens her front door. Steph, our MOM, is on the doorstep, still dripping.

MOM: I need your shower.

BETH: My in-laws are here for dinner.

MOM: No, thanks. I’m not hungry.

She pushes past her friend and hikes up the stairs without even waiting for an invite.

BETH: Is your shower broken, or something?

MOM: Something like that.

CUT TO:

INT. Beautiful Master Bath – a few peaceful minutes later

MOM soaks in a huge, luxurious bath; bubbles, Vivaldi, absolute calm. She <EXHALES> a sigh of release and relief.

CAMERA CHANGES ANGLE:

We see MOM in tub through small, darkened eyeholes. We hear <HEAVY, CONGESTED BREATHING>.

SLOWLY, CAMERA PUSHES CLOSER TO MOM. AND CLOSER. CLOSER.

BACK TO MOM’S POV as she feels the presence of another.

CREEPY, CONGESTED CHILDLIKE VOICE: “Auntie Stephanie, I want to play with yooooooooo.”

MOM quickly turns in time to see a knife in the air above her. It strikes at the water. Again and again!

MOM <SCREAMS!>

We see the ATTACKER: A five year-old boy dressed as a pirate/Super Hero, wearing a hockey mask. He carries a plastic pirate sword.

BETH: (O.S.) “Norman!!!! Leave Auntie Stephanie alone.”

NORMAN: (taking off his mask) “But Mother, you said it was bath night!”

MOM, recovering her breath, trying to slow her racing heart, steps out of the tub, picks up her towel and wraps herself in it tightly. Almost swaddling. Beth ENTERS.

BETH: “Sorry about Norman, Steph. You don’t have to go.”

MOM: (mutters to herself as she leaves) “I have got to join a gym or something. Somewhere… safe. I just need… quiet. Clean. Safe.”

CUT TO:

INT. Stephanie’s House – Living Room – later that night

Stephanie, now in a bathrobe, is curled up on the couch under Steven’s protective arm. She clings tightly to him, her security blanket. Steven is concerned about her.

DAD: “So… I was thinking we could play a board game? Or maybe just talk? You like to talk, honey, right?”

She fervently shakes her head “NO”.

MOM: “Let’s watch a movie or something. I need a break from reality.”

DAD: “Excellent! I have a surprise for you: Netflix sent your favorite Hitchcock movie today!”

(Holds up the DVD)

DAD: “Psycho!”

BLACKOUT

FIN

*The Wet, Hot Wife” is the English translation of the title of the porno that is made from Clark’s (stolen) home video of Ellen vamping and singing “Big Spender” after her hotel shower in National Lampoon’s European Vacation.

All Apologies: The Embarrassment of the Public Tantrum

The hysterical toddler: indifferent to the harassment of his parents.

For parents, even a quick trip to the grocery store can be touch and go if your kids are in tow. What with the pitfalls of the ankle-biting kiddie shopping carts, the happy dragon’s free crap-o-la cookies and the low-hanging candied fruits of the check-out aisle, it’s a wonder grocery stores aren’t trashed wastelands of weeping toddlers and parents in the
fetal position.

On a recent afternoon, I discovered with great dismay that our cupboards were bare. I saddled up The Boy, my pint-sized assistant, now 3, and headed to the Harris Teeter.

Aisle by aisle, with my adorable offspring in the cart’s seat, we conquered the place, singing as we rolled, sharing kisses and bad knock-knock jokes.

Other shoppers smiled at us. “What a Good Mom,” they seemed to be saying with their eyes as they passed by.

As we turned onto the cereal aisle, we encountered a full on breakfast breakdown. A little princess had popped her tart and was angrily tearing cereal boxes off the shelves. Her desperate mother was trying to keep her from going completely cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. I felt for the mother with her futile attempts to regain control. But mostly I felt relieved that it wasn’t my child.

As we sped away from the tempest, I leaned in and asked The Boy, “Was that girl making good choices or bad choices?”

“Bad choices,” the Boy responded, still stunned by what he had seen in the cereal aisle.

I smiled at my Perfect Child as we moved onto the final leg of our adventure: The Frozen Food section.

Overflowing with love and parental pride, I felt good. Accomplished. “Veni, vedi, vici,” I thought to myself.

Lost in my maternal hubris, I grabbed a box of frozen waffles and, without thinking, asked The Boy to toss them in the cart. Immediately an alarm sounded in head: “Amateur move made by over-confident parent!” The Boy, you see, is a waffle-obsessed freak.

“I want a waffle,” he whined, hugging the box.

“Not now,” I quickly quiped, trying to hide my panic.

I cursed myself for being so careless. I had to handle this carefully. I couldn’t let him smell my fear.

Louder, he persisted: “I. WANT. WAFFLES!!!”

Speaking in an even and peaceful tone, I tried to calm him. I told him that if he was good, he could have one after her dinner. At home.

The Boy no likey this option. He thrashed wildly, crushing the waffle box as I tried to pry it from his vice grip. He began to emit an escalating series of noises that sounded vaguely like “no,” but in dolphin speak. He began to throw items from the cart.

“That’s enough,” I hissed. “Stop that…”

I hurried to pick up the groceries, diving to rescue the eggs before they had an intimate encounter with the linoleum.

The other shoppers weren’t smiling now. Brows furrowed. The beer-carrying, twenty-somethings steered clear. A Professional Woman with a cart full of Lean Cuisine shot me the hairy eyeball. I saw judgment in her eyes. “Do you know how much sodium is in that, Ms. Nosey Pants?” I wanted to snipe at her. “How’s your high blood pressure? Try
cooking a meal sometime, lazy!”

Then, a light bulb! (ding!) I remembered a tactic I’d read about in a respected parenting book. I told him:

“I understand. You’re frustrated because you want a waffle, is that right?”

He nodded, surprised. For a beat, the tantrum stopped. Misconstruing the message of this popular parenting tactic, he thought he had won. So, imagine his fury when I told him that, while I empathized, he still couldn’t have a waffle.

The Boy’s confusion and unmet demands incited a series of his famous shrill, spine straightening, head splitting, shrieks; musical scales of auditory agony. Hulk no follow logic. Mostly because he’s three and his little caveman brain hasn’t evolved that far yet, but also because he was trying to escape the shopping cart and one of his legs was caught.
He hung half in, half out.

We were now a full-on sideshow with committed viewers. They stared at us, open-mouthed from the tatter-tot/fish stick aisle.

Sweat formed on my brow. My armpits became very hot.

I considered just giving him the flipping waffle. Ripping the stupid package open, tearing the inner-bag with my teeth and throwing the frozen hockey puck at his little blond head. “HERE!” I would scream, “Take it! Have it! I don’t care if you eat waffles every day for the rest of your life!”

But that would be giving in.

And to give in would be allowing the Boy to violate my parental force field and allow him access to my fuse box. And then it’s flip, flip, flip… he’s got me.

I was tired. So tired. Frustrated. Angry. Embarrassed. I wanted to click my heels and be home. I wanted to walk – no, run! – away, leaving the Boy’s evil doppelganger dangling from the cart. To let the inevitable debris and ravaged aisle caps be someone else’s problem. Let them bring in the manager and see if he can tame the beast gnawing through
waffle boxes in frozen goods.

“Clean up on aisle twelve!” I’d hear as I sprinted for the exit.

At this point I wondered if I needed professional help. Super Nanny? Dr. Phil? Dr. Kevorkian?

So I stopped, and took a breath. Gently cupping the Boy’s beautiful face in my hands, I looked him in the eyes and said:

“We’re outta here.”

Abandoning cart and crisis I scooped up the Boy and, with as much grace as I could muster, fled the scene. The path of least resistance always leading home, where the bottom stair awaited a time out and three minutes of toddler brain reboot.

Groceries are always available, tantrums are finite (though they feel infinite while in the midst of them), embarrassing public episodes dissolve into distant memories, and as Scarlett would say: “Tomorrow is another day.”

This piece will be published in the Capital Community News,’ Hill Rag, March 2011.

Where is the Love?

The Husband has always had it easy on Valentine’s Day.

“The Man who Would Become The Husband” and I started dating on Jan. 13, 2000 and we had not had more than a handful of dates by the time the commercial onslaught of Cupid rolled around.

One month in to a new relationship with a relatively reserved fellow – with no serious girlfriends in his past, and therefore no history of V. Day “delivery” – I felt I had to temper my expectations for our first Valentine’s Day. To consider the Long Game, in lieu of the immediate gratification of 12 over-priced roses and the sad look on my single girl friends’ faces.

As the 14th approached, I found myself in a tricky situation that required careful negotiation.  If I expected huge romantic overtures from him, after only a month of dating, well… I thought it would make me seem a needy high maintenance bitch. (And while I am most certainly high maintenance, my endless needs stem from an emotional place, not an aesthetic, materialistic place. I may be exhausting, but I am not expensive!)

My alternate concern: If I expected nothing after a month of dating, would that make me…

(A) Nothing more than the chick he was banging? (Yes, gave it up on 3rd date. A ho, indeed.)

-And/Or-

(B) A cold customer, passing through for a shag & some laughs, sending more mixed signals than a base coach with bed bugs?

After all, I had told him that I was a “serial monogamist.” And that was the real problem. For seven years I had been with a sweet, but thoughtless, pot-smoking tree-hugger from my NH homeland. He had barely remembered my birthday from year to year, so my expectations for all holidays had become quite limited.

Expect too much? End up disappointed.

Expect too little? Get less.

I decided to just hit the poor bastard between the eyes with it. I explained, as best I could, the contents of my mind on the subject of the ensuing holiday. He looked positively dizzy after my download. I simplified:

“Let us celebrate Valentine’s Day,” I told The Man who Would Become The Husband, “but let us not go the way of those who will be raked over the commerical coals in order to prove our mutual adoration.”

He agreed this was a good way to go. (He is not stupid.)

And so a tradition was born. Every year on Feb. 14th we order-in take-out and watch Harold & Maude. Sometimes there’s a card. Sometimes there isn’t. This year, I got post-it notes. Not heart-shaped. Just yellow square ones. But understand, if you can, that I dearly love a post-it note. (They make my world go ’round with minimal disruption.)

Now, I’ve told you all this to give you a picture of what The Husband’s experience with VDay has been, up until the point where we begin the next leg of my Valentine’s Day tale:

We find ourselves in the year 2011. February 13th.

The Boy, now 3, is in a “Head Start” program at a local public school. He and his classmates have made adorable little mailboxes in anticipation of the VDay festivities. The teacher has informed class parents that students are encouraged to exchange cards and treats with their friends.

‘Nuff said. I love a project!

I set to work immediately, first trying to engage The Boy’s limited attention span in crafting homemade cards for his pals. He made 3. I continued on without him, making the other 9 myself, trying to style them so they looked like the handiwork of a 3 year-old with a limited attention plan. (Not an easy task.)

After the completion of the cards, I bagged little treats in adorable heart-printed bags and tied them with curly ribbons, hole-punching and attaching the cards until I had a pretty little package for each classmate, and 2 extra special gift bags for his teachers.

Was I done? Heck no!

I then painted Sam’s name on a mini mailbox I found at Target ($1!!) and decorated it in a gaudy and toddler-attracting fashion. I filled it with candy and Valentine’s Day cards, and wrapped a couple additional little items just to increase his Valentine’s Day morning thrill.

At this point – 11pm, Sunday, Feb. 13th – I turned to The Husband, who was about to sneak off to bed, and said:

“Hey, before you head up, will you fill out one of those Care Bear valentines and pop it in The Boy’s mailbox?”

To which he responded:

(Wait for it…)

“I fucking hate Valentine’s Day.”

Wha–?

I stared at him for a beat…

Then let loose:

“Really? Really?!?! Writing the Boy’s name in the “To:” spot, then writing “Dad” in the “from” spot? Too hard for you? A burden is it? ‘Cause I could probably forge one for you, if it’s just too much for you to handle!”

I took a breath…

And then explained, in a reasonable manner, that celebrating VDay was not about the “stupid Hallmark holiday” (as he likes to call it) but teaching The Boy about expressing his love and adoration for his friends, about learning how to give as well as receive, about having art projects that can be shared and purposeful, about correspondence and about marking time on a calendar. The Boy is learning how the calendar works, how one day is different from another (mon – sun) and how the year is cyclical. Holidays happen over again every year and can mark the different months/seasons. And, and, AND! Valentine’s Day is not about spending too much $$ on a girl who may/may not deserve it, or about being manipulated by Corporations, florists and restaurants who jack up their prices as a means of extortion, but about bravery and belief in love. St. Valentine took great risk to marry people who loved one another, but were not legally allowed to get married (Hello, gay marriage!) and he put his life on the line because he believed love was worth such risk.

So, is Valentine’s Day about love? Sort of.

But really it’s about having the balls to stand up for what you believe in and caring about human connectivity.

Well, The Husband was duly chagrined by my rant. He, smartly, apologized and filled out the effing Care Bear card and put it in The Boy’s mailbox and flipped the little red “mail’s in” flag.

Being a benevolent and loving wife, I accepted his apology.

But I told him to brace himself.

Saint Patrick’s Day is right around the corner, and we’ll be celebrating that too.

“Bad Choices” – as my son’s pre-K3 teacher would say.

45 minutes on squash court followed by “Good Stuff” Michele Obama burger, fries & burnt marshmellow shake. My innards punished me by rapidly ushering my bad choices to the exit. Laying down now and having a fascinating dialogue with my gurgling stomach.

“Good Stuff” indeed.

To pass in a gallstone.

Weight Loss Goals & New Year’s Resolutions – 2 Clichés that taste great together!

There are a lot of opinions on the internet. Anyone with a computer & a broadband connection matched with the time & desire to air personal thoughts & ideas in writing can be an “expert” or a “pundit” or a “specialist.”

While I don’t fancy myself an expert or pundit, I do think I am a specialist in Me; living my life, riding the daily waves, managing day-to-day surprises… I’m also pretty aware of my flaws and challenges and have no hang-ups about sharing them with interested others.

Of which there may be few.

Mostly, I think zipping off a daily thought, a random observation about myself or fellow humans, even a shameless confession or two (or three, or four…) will be cathartic. For me. And in the end, isn’t that what it’s really all about? Me?

Right?

No? It isn’t?

Ahh, the shocks and painful lessons of adulthood. They continue to sucker punch me in the gut.

Speaking of my gut. My gut (and other expanding regions) is the REAL reason I’ve decided to take to the blogosphere. Call it a personal progress report, or confessional (if things don’t go swimmingly).

As I type my sad, saggy belly (“gunt”, if you will, or “fupa” as my friend MGT would say) rests – most Jabba-like on my upper thighs. This is not a lovely sensation, and I could feign stupidity and wonder aloud, “from whence did this evil appendage appear?” But, if I grope around in my personal trough of truth, I am able to recall the c-section, the lack of – oh, what is it called…? – Oh, exercise! (Riiiiight. That turns out to be important.) and my age (37) that willfully continues to creep towards 40, while my body, in rhythm with the march of time, continues to sag downward, giving way to the pull of the earth’s core.

In my mind’s eye, I am still youthful and slender (not that I have ever been smart enough, kind enough, bold enough to see myself that way when I had it so good, stupid 20-something bitch that I was) and when I pass my a mirror I am oddly shocked by what has transpired corporally. I gasp when I see photos of myself. Could that be me? And then, I make firm commitment to dodge family photos and vainly “untag” myself on FB when I am forced to pose. I am a ghost – a missing person – in my son’s photographic history, and that is just plain wrong. And vain.

Did I mention the vanity?

Another thing that’s just plain wrong? My handsome husband is still the exact same shape & size he was when we met ten years ago. He is basically a static calorie-burning factory, with his nightly beers and stack of 11pm Oreos. No gym, no belly, no man-boobs. Lucky effer.

“I love you no matter what size you are,” he tells me, softly, gently, unsure of whether this is the right thing to say.

“No matter what size,” I sadistically wonder.

Wanna bet?

Insult to injury: He is 6ft/160lbs. I am 5’4″/165lbs. This is the most I have ever weighed without creating another human life. And is it not every woman’s dream to weigh more than her partner? Oh, yes, what wonders it does for the love-making.

I worry. If I become injured to the point of immobility, how will he get me to the hospital? I told him to roll me onto a towel and drag me to the car. (Ambulances are more expensive than Hum-V limo rentals!)

Illusions and advancements in fashion:

While advancements in modern fashion provide us with magical accessories of shape trickery that any shrewd, linked-in curvaceous lass can use to her advantage, it is only a mirage. True, the miracle of lycra can help mask anywhere from 10-20lbs (depending on whether your personal guru is Oprah or Tim Gunn) it is only a stop-gap measure; a levee of love handles & cresting muffin toppery. Lycra just a lie (“Lie”-cra! See? There it is.) and while others may not know your real digits, YOU do! (Also – circulation is a necessity of overall body health, thus the lycra cannot be warn continuously.)

Conclusion: Something must be done.

It’s time for me to lose weight, bring my belly button back to the mid-line, lift the ladies off the torturous underwire, bump up my backside lady humps,  and buoy my self-esteem with some good old fashioned self-care, calorie-counting and.. (why do I have so much trouble remembering that word?) Exercise!

Did I mention that my gym is across the street? Results, The Gym. An excellent place to pop by when you’ve been spending too much time at “Fatass, the Restaurant” or “Wine-O, The Bar.” I even have a Wii Fit, right here in my home, and I have to say, it’s an excellent tool. For tracking your weight gain:

“Welcome back, Anna Banana! It’s been 437 days since you’ve started! You’re now 7lbs further away from your goal weight, you missed your deadline by a year and your Wii Fit age is 103!”

That machine is lucky that skinny husband loves Madden, otherwise it would be wedged under the rear axel of a cement mixer on the 395!

So, friends, family, voyeurs, here I go. I’ve put it out there, all public like, and you are my witnesses. Maybe even my motivators. Feel free to put a boot in my bum.
If you dare

 

In Touch with my Inner Truck

Originally published in the newspaper, Hill Rag, August 201o.

Recently, while on a hajj to Potomac Yards, I made a great personal discovery. As with most great personal discoveries I wasn’t expecting it when it struck.

I was zipping along the interstate, weaving deftly between choking buses, indecisive taxis and disoriented tourists, when a mammoth dump truck rumbled past, boldly merged in front of me, and captured the dominant fast lane position.

The bulldogs on his mud flaps practically barked at me as he cruised along without a heavy load to drag him down. I could tell because his axel was riding high and the truck itself was spotlessly clean. I suspected a fresh detail job.

Angling for a better look, I pulled into the adjacent lane and increased my speed. For a beat I drove in the machine’s shadow and absorbed its beauty: its cab, the brightest of blues, two tall pristinely polished smoke stacks framing its sleek body, the gleaming chrome accents reflecting the golden afternoon light, like bright work on a yacht.

“That,” I said out loud, “is a sweet dump truck.”

I sped up alongside the cab. With my window open I waved. The driver didn’t see me. I waved again, adding a friendly “MEEP” from my polite little Mazda horn, and he turned.

“Wave,” I said over my shoulder to The Boy, “wave to the driver!”

Disregarding the driver’s confused look, I indicated for him to pull the air horn, which he did. A peppy double yank, two long base notes that vibrated in the air:

“BWAHHHHH! BWAHHHHHH!”

“What d’ya say,” I asked The Boy, “should we get the guys at Distad’s to install an air horn in our car?”

I turned to check on my normally truck-obsessed, gear-head son in the back seat, who was being oddly quiet.

Because he wasn’t there.  It was a babysitter day.

Awkward.

Quick as an Andretti I sliced across three lanes of traffic and disappeared down the DCA exit ramp before the truck driver could share any hand gestures of his own.  Once in the clear, I pulled over and called The Husband.

“You’ve developed a problem,” he chided, “Next you’re going to tell me you’ve signed up for tractor trailer school.”

“Don’t laugh,” I told him, ”that was my dream when I was seven.”

Back then I was inspired by TV’s BJ McKay (and his best friend, Bear) but now I have The Boy to thank for my revived automotive infatuation. He has awoken my dormant gearhead.

It all began last spring when our fair city replaced the water pipes on our street. Our entire block was ripped up, creating the kind of parking competition one usually associates with Manhattan. But amidst the chaos, one little resident fell in love.

One fine, loud, dusty morning I carried The Boy out of the house and into the fray of workmen and their trusty trucks and tools. His jaw dropped open. He was mesmerized. We immediately bagged the park and instead parked it on the front stoop. Thirty minutes passed and The Boy’s interest did not wane. He was transfixed.

After the water main job was finished we started cruising random construction sites. We’d skulk around the perimeter, hugging the safety tape. We’d cheer for a pour of the cement mixer or a mighty scoop from the excavator, but construction was merely a window drug.

Next up: emergency vehicles. We began visiting the firehouse with the same regularity caffeine addicts hit Starbucks. We gave a whole new meaning to the term “ambulance chasers.”

Soon after, we began our bi-weekly engagements with the ravenous waste removal truck. “Trash guys!” The Boy screeches upon hearing them approach, like Ed McMahon is at our door with a check. He rushes outside, his recycled recycling truck clutched under his arm, just in time to flap and yell at our amused Trash Guys. They wave and salute him with their horn, politely trying not to stare at the braless lady in the doorway with the crazy hair.

While we worship at the alter of the holy truck trinity – mighty dump truck, powerful digger and shrieking fire engine – it’s the stupor-inducing specialty vehicles, the unicorns of heavy machinery, that inspire our greatest reverence. Self-sufficient dump trucks with diggers mounted on their hoods, giant car carriers filled with shiny new pick-up trucks on their way to fill other gearheads’ hearts with joy.  But our greatest encounter to date was with a gorgeous, enormous, glossy red monster tow truck with clean lines and golden decal work, spectacular in its own right, but what made it breathtaking was the ease with which it was hauling a gigantic down-on-its-luck ladder truck.

In unison The Boy and I gasped, awed by this vision of metallic magnificence. Never before had I even considered how one towed a broken down fire truck, but now I know, and I feel fuller for knowing it.

As parents it’s our job to expose our children to this great big world and all its tricks and trimmings.  Still, from time to time, there are those astonishing moments when your child is able to show you something you’ve missed. They see the magical in the mundane, and if you pay attention you’ll find yourself sharing in a common passion for something you never gave a thought to before.

Someday The Boy will get over his truck fetish. I’m bracing myself for the day he no longer cares to share his interests with his dorky, cloying mother. “Cool band,” I’ll say to him, all casual, “Who are they?” He’ll roll his eyes and make a clicking noise with his teeth. “Mom, please,” The Boy will say as he closes the bedroom door between us and plugs in his earphones. I will recoil and return to…

Well, we’ll just hope I have interests of my own by then.

No Stranger To Danger

Originally published in the newspaper, Hill Rag, January 2009.

Just the other day, as The Boy and I were entering Turtle Park, I crossed paths with a young mother exiting with her daughter.  The girl ran ahead, onto the sidewalk and her mother shouted, “Danger!”  The little girl stopped and turned in the gateway, dutifully waiting for her mother.  “Danger!” her mother repeated.  I wondered if “Danger” was the little girl’s name. With celebrities calling their offspring “Jett,” “Bronx Mowgli” and “ESPN”, what isn’t a name these days? But as the child wiggled one foot out onto the sidewalk, outside the safe confines of the park fence, her mother yelped, “Danger!” for a third time. 

Danger?  My own Spidey senses were alerted.  I looked up and down the sidewalk in the hope of identifying the approaching evil so as to protect The Boy.  I am his protectress, after all, am I not?  As I scanned the area I saw a police cruiser, a man on a bike and a chunky woman walking an even chunkier basset hound.  No danger here.

With Danger Daughter’s hand clenched in her own, Neurotic Mom inched her way to the nearby crosswalk, repeating “danger, danger, danger” like it was a personal meditation in terror.  I couldn’t take my eyes off them.  It was intoxicatingly weird.  As they landed at the crosswalk the orange hand changed to the walking man and the mother released Danger Daughter’s hand and proclaimed, “Okay, you’re safe!”

I wanted to say, “Lady, just cause a light turns green doesn’t mean you’re not going to get plowed down by a distracted bus driver or mid-day alcoholic.”  But I didn’t, because I was too caught up in the joyous, liberated romp of the little girl, running the distance of the magical safety zone until she came to a screeching halt at the opposite sidewalk, bracing herself to re-enter the Danger Zone. 

Danger Girl is in for it, I thought to myself. 

I should know.  I am still in therapy trying to stave off the inherited paranoia my mother gifted me–the paranoia I have to repress with two tight hands to protect The Boy from the reign of fear.  When I was six, my mother told me that if the Man in the Black Van ever tried to abduct me, and said he wouldn’t hurt me if I went quietly, I should kick and thrash and bite and scream, because: “It’s better for him to kill you right there in the street where we can find you, then have him drag you off, rape you and kill you and leave your body god only knows where!”

Of course, all I was thinking at this point was: “But did he get my allowance?”

No matter how successful I think I’ve been at beating back the loony litany of paranoid mom-isms, they are still right there on the tip of my tongue, ready to be fired off at a moment’s notice.

Be careful… are you okay…hot, hot, hot!… DANGER!

And they’re important parts of parenting.  We are protectors.  My mother’s mistake was never telling me to trust my intuition.   It’s good to be aware.  But there’s a fine line between vigilant and paranoid.  You have to develop some trust in yourself, some trust in human kind.  Because the alternative is to always be scared.  And haven’t we all been living that way for the past eight years with ill effect?

Life is short and unpredictable and you don’t want to go into the next life (wherever it is) with crappy Earth stories. Barraging The Boy with my fears could cause him to miss out on something that, while scary, could be the experience of his lifetime.

As The Boy and I rolled onto the playground he dropped my hand and made for the slide.  Gangbusters he scrambled up the shiny metal surface, slipping and sliding all over the place, his still developing sea legs wobbling in all directions.  Just as I was about to call out to him with the standard company line of “NO!”–The Husband has officially dubbed me the “No Person”–The Boy fell on his face. 

I ran to him, thinking, ”Lesson 453: slides are dangerous,” but before I could scoop him up and check for dings and dents, he turned to me and smiled, a goofy mix of euphoria and independence. 

 

It was my turn to learn.  Lesson 454: Slides are fun. 

 

 

For-Give & For-Get, For Christmas

For-Give & For-Get, For Christmas

Originally published in the newspaper, Hill Rag, December 2008.

I am atingle with expectation as we enter the Holiday Season here on The Hill. We have an ample supply of hope, a new President, and the city is making the rounds sucking up our leaves. That fresh frost freezing your nose hairs is not simply the approach of winter, but the brisk truth of a new day. I am inspired to make the most of it.

When you live in a small row house, as we Hillie families do, we might think there isn’t enough room for a big holiday gesture. I find myself dismissing the joys of Christmas because The Boy is only one and, let’s be honest, new toys and trinkets wouldn’t be any more impressive than if I wrapped all his current toys in colorful paper and let him go to town. One year-olds are not the life of the holiday party. They’re busy staring at the shiny Christmas tree or Hannukah bush, wondering why on earth you brought an outside item inside. (The first time The Hound saw a Christmas tree he lifted his leg and peed all over it.)

Following a plentiful Thanksgiving event, I found myself wondering how I could honor the holidays without bringing more stuff into our wee home. I would be thankful, I thought to myself, if I could actually take some things out! And then it occurred to me, I have just the thing – things, really – to suit the occasion.

I happen to have, in my own personal possession, a truck load of harbored hostility. Would it not be miraculous if I could dump it out and start the year anew? Thus, I have decided to forgive all the people who have wronged, angered or peeved me.

I now proceed, not unlike Saint Nick himself, with my list. Perhaps it is not as kind in spirit, but it is compatible in length, I am sure.

I forgive…

All the oxymoronic, lazy athletes at Results, The Gym, who refuse to use the lot before their big carb burn and instead steal my parking, The Husband for saying Michelle Obama was “just a housewife” when I asked him what the First Lady Elect did for work, and my vegetable guy at Eastern Market for complementing me on my second pregnancy when I’m not actually pregnant.

I forgive…

The Boy for the complete and utter destruction of my figure (worth it, though slightly less-so when I have to dress like an adult), my feet for growing an entire size without my consent, and the gentleman in front of 7-11 who said, I believe, “That’s not an ass, that’s a shelf” as I walked by.

I forgive….

The person at the dog park who asked, with mind-boggling intellect, how The Boy could breathe inside his stroller’s rain guard, my Pea Pod driver for arriving ridiculously late and then driving off with my freezer goods, and my brother for missing The Boy’s first birthday entirely.

I forgive…

John McCain for all the weird things he said in the past year that went completely against what made him successful in the first place, my neighbors for being conservative Republicans whom I hope to help rehabilitate in the New Year, and the “Big Three” Auto Douchebags for not being humble when they groveled to the government for money.

I forgive…

Elisabeth Haslebeck for being infinitely and insanely stupid and Barbara Walters for letting that ding-bat stay on the show, the “American Idol” people for re-canning the same ham over and over, and The Husband (again) who, at six feet tall, weighs only a pound and a half more than me.

I forgive…

Vegetable guy at Eastern Market for complementing me on my second pregnancy when I’m not actually pregnant, my Pea Pod driver for arriving so ridiculously late, then driving off with my freezer goods and the city of D.C. for (well, a lot of things come to mind…) the “new, improved” parking meter computers that never, ever, ever work. Ever.

I forgive my editor for stalking me at deadline time (wait, he’s supposed to forgive me…)  Speaking of me, I should probably forgive myself for a few things.  I forgive myself for…

Swearing like a drunken sailor in front of The Boy, being a paper towel over-user, and for finishing a whole super size bag of BBQ Utz while writing this.  (Can you forgive yourself for something you haven’t finished doing yet?)

I forgive myself for being imperfect. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

This holiday season I give the gift of forgiveness to all because that is the most miraculous gift this Hill Mom can give.  I continue to endeavor to forgive George Bush, Dick Cheney, and my father for running off and marrying a twenty-something Brazilian girl at Disneyland.

That would truly be miraculous.

Presidential Parenting

Originally published in the newspaper, Hill Rag, November 2008.

Since the birth of our nation, American parents have dreamed of a better, more auspicious future for their children and in a patchwork country of immigrants the ultimate patriotic symbol of success has always been the same: “You can be anything when you grow up.  Even President of the United States!”

But does this offer come with a responsibility to make that dream possible?  Obviously wanting it, believing it, is not enough.  In order for your child to have a real shot at Commander-in-Chief, there must be some presidential parenting happening in your house.  Or you may be your child’s biggest obstacle in the road to the White House.

I think we can agree that Barack Obama’s mother didn’t have her eye on the Presidential Seal when she signed him up for Muslim daycare in Jakarta.  I mean, did she even check to see if they were accredited?

On top of peanut butter, DEET, and child snatchers I now find myself concerned about The Boy’s political future.  Should I be starting a grassroots campaign now? (Note to self: ask daycare when The Boy becomes eligible to run for student government.  Also, check syllabus for extreme radicalism of any sort.)
As we ramp up to the election I’ve taken a step back and asked myself if I’m raising The Boy to exhibit behavior becoming to a President.  Considering that The Husband and I have money riding on which unprintable word will punctuate The Boy’s first sentence, that I get my news from The Daily Show, and approach violent hostility when anyone mistakes The Boy for a girl, I would have to say no.  Not so much.

Whether you believe parental influence comes from nature or nurture, The Boy’s crazy mother is not an asset.  Guy Raised by Crazy Mother = Loose Cannon with access to The Button.

The Boy hasn’t even dusted off Youth and Government yet, and my life choices are already endangering his political trajectory.  Should The Boy decide to run for office he’ll have to chain me in the attic like Mr. Rochester’s crazy wife; assign handlers to feed and bathe me, and ensure I never see the news, because if my maternal fury were incited I’d go all nutty like Dumbo’s mom and my handler’s ropes and cages would be futile as I sought to avenge his honor.  Down would go the Big Top.

Over the past year we’ve flipped through the papers, perused the inflammatory emails, and surfed through news reports and invasive exposes:

“She’s an arms-selling hermaphrodite with a secret clubfoot, a meth lab and communist sympathies!”

“He’s a kitten-torturing cannibal with a hunger for world domination and he drives an SUV!”

“He voted in favor of mandatory sex licenses and uterine registration for all Americans intending to breed!”

“If elected President, her first order of business will be to sell Ohio to the Scientologists and coronate TomKat King and Queen!”

As I sift through all the freshly raked muck, the single thought that eats at my heart and twists my intestines is this: What if that were The Boy.  What if, one day, in his big, bright future, he gets the honor of being vetted by the same septic social system?

All this digging into his flaws and foibles and felonies, for an arduous, thankless job that will make at least 45 percent of America hate him.  And from an admittedly selfish perspective, I don’t want to sit by and watch people tear apart my baby, or hear unsolicited feedback on how I could’ve been a better presidential parent.

I still wish great things for The Boy and will strive to infuse him with the same sense of optimistic, stick-to-it-ive-ness and confidence that has transformed the meek and humble into millionaires and humanitarians.

Just the other night The Boy and I had our first important talk about career goals.  Over a jar of sweet potato chicken, I extolled to him the merits of being an elected official, and the importance of serving our brothers and sisters in humanity.  I did close with a hard sell on the emotional, mental and, possibly even physical, damage that can be done to the presidentially afflicted.  As I wiped away the orange mush smeared across his cheek, I cupped his sweet face in my hands I told him, “You can be whatever you want to be when you grow up.  Anything.  Except President.”