Am I Ready for my Close-Up?

I’ve been feeling very Eyore-ish lately:  grouchy, touchy, under-appreciated and basically unhappy with my lot in life. Not tragically unhappy, where I could get some sympathy and maybe food and presents. Not even unhappy enough to whine about.

Then I received some validation from a source other than my dogs, who love me way more than is healthy.  No, my family didn’t hold an intervention in which they furiously berated each other for not realizing that they’d be lost without me. And I didn’t get a raise at work. 

My validation came in an email from Paula Morell, asking that I read an essay of mine for Tales from the South (http://www.talesfromthesouth.com/index.html) at the Starving Artist Café in Little Rock. My first two thoughts:

Holy shit, I’m going to be on NPR!

When Sally Field won the Oscar (best actress AND best head piece) for the Flying Nun and said something like “You like me, you really like me!”

Instead of wondering what to make for dinner, I’m looking for a media consultant. Before that, though, I have to figure out what to wear before a radio audience and how much voice lessons cost. I want an elegant, yet casual look and a smokey voice: Midnight In the Garden of Good and Evil vs. an extra from Deliverance. I could write a book about how much that movie disturbed me.

Worrying about how I will sound makes me think of how David Sedaris makes fun of his own voice and how, being NPR people, we’re going to be the best of friends.

“I should have read Six to Eight Black Men,“ he’ll whimper over the phone from a hotel in the heartland. "My piece about their city being a magnet for porn actresses didn’t go over at all! They hated me!”

“Now, Blisters,” I’ll say. “I thought it was hilarious. I listened to it while I was preparing one of my fabulous dinner parties for my other NPR friends – the Crème brûlée almost fell because I was laughing so hard! By the way, I’m mailing you a small manuscript that I hope you’ll be honest about. “

I know the paparazzi is sure to come for me. I hate the thought of having to be “on” all the time.  Instead of hitting the girls at the store when they whine, I’ll have to throw back my head in a playful way, as if thinking “these girls of mine say the darndest things!” And forget going to the beach: I don’t want my thighs and buttocks to end up on the cover of the Inquirer where you have to guess whose they are. I'm just going to have to go incognito.

Frankly, my big worry is how many of my friends I'm going to have to give up for my new celebrity BFFs.  Sure, they've been loyal through thick and thin (to tell the truth, I'm a bit of a high-maintenance friend), but are they ready for being under a magnifying glass because they know me?  One thing is sure: I've GOT to get new dogs.

Help, my mother is crazy and she can't get off my back

My teenagers have taught me a few valuable lessons lately. I know -- you want to puke -- I hate sentimental crap like that.

It's Okay If You Don't Want to Make Friends and Influence People

My younger daughter (we'll call her Perle Mesta) has one true friend from back in the day (we'll call her Tia) and has made several more her freshman year of high school.



You can see what drew them together.

The joy of seeing her with her friends has been somewhat tempered because the delight is accompanied by a pang that my oldest daughter (we'll call her Gwyneth) has not invited any friends to our house, nor has she been invited to sleepovers, parties or just to hang out. I frequently used subtle approaches such as, "if you want to invite friends over, that would be great! If you want to go to a movie with a friend, I'll drive!" You would think I would already have learned this lesson: while I would literally collapse without my friends, my husband describes himself as an "anti social worker." I just could not accept that Gwyneth could be happy without sleepovers and such, even though she's assured me that she's fine without them. I knew that of course she was in denial - if I need friends, everyone does. Three days ago she told me in the nicest possible way to bug off: she has friends at school but is perfectly happy with her own company. A friend of mine laughed when I told her last night because she has been saying the same thing for years: "I know you worry, but she is perfectly happy."

(Can you tell that I am a high-maintenance friend?)

Gwyneth in her younger years.

Making Cs at School Does Not Mean You Will End Up Living in a Box on the Street

Unless my life drastically changes, my kids are going to have to get scholarships to go to college. Because I think they are of superior intellect, I hound them about their grades - for their own good, of course. If they get Cs, I treat them like social pariahs. I go through stages:

• When I was unemployed and checked their grades obsessively, I would attack them the minute they got home from school - and this was before I read about the Tiger Mom. (In my defense, I never called them garbage, just shiftless and lazy.) I could not believe that they were not making straight As and colleges weren't already calling, offering full scholarships, a car, a clothing allowance and an apartment for when their dad and I visited.
• I'd swear that I didn't care: "I'm not going to check your grades anymore! I'll just wait a few years: either you'll be in college or you'll be working at a fast-food restaurant, serving your friends who are home from college on spring break. I don't care!"  
• Threats followed by pathetic bargaining: "Don't think you're going to flunk out and live at home! I'm looking forward to my golden years; I don't need some punk-ass living in my basement. Let's make a deal: I'll give you $100 for each A!" 
• Pleading: "You're too young to know that grades MATTER now. You're not in Oz anymore, Dorothy."
• Depression: "I'm a failure as a parent! I don't deserve to have children! I shouldn't even be raising the pups!" Hiding from friends for fear they would brag about their no-neck kids. Trying to score Valium from tired-looking women at Kroger.

 When we got their grades this semester, I was so mean that I made my youngest cry and she basically asked me, "What's wrong with average?" I was totally ashamed and couldn't answer her.

It helped that a friend told me about a friend who went into deep debt because he wanted a degree from Harvard -- a teaching degree. His friend is now making $30,000 a year and probably planning a trip to South America so he doesn't have to pay back his crushing debt.

Keep Your Kids On Their Toes

Perle Mesta had two sleepovers last weekend: one here with her friend L. and then she and L off to spend the night with A. They went to the mall, where I was to pick her up on Sunday. She called her dad to let him know she was there, but when I texted, I didn't get a reply. Of course, I knew she had been kidnapped and was being used for medical experiments. But instead of going to crazy town, I decided to go to the mall and do some shopping (I was looking for a blue spring cardigan) and either I would bump into her or she would text me. I wasn't there long before I spotted the three of them, strolling arm-in-arm. They turned around almost immediately, and the look on my child's face was priceless, as they say: I couldn't hear her but read her lips: "Oh my God it's my Mother."




Before the mall incident.

It was great entertainment, but I also learned a lesson: it's not a bad thing for both of them to know that I might appear anytime, anywhere -- their Guardian Angel who can ground them. Which reminds me of a true story: Tia spent the night at our house many years ago, and she and said daughter had been back in our bedroom (because they loved our water bed) for a long time. I decided to spy on them - were they talking about boys yet? Instead, I discovered them going through a dictionary. I think they are as wise (and lucky) at choosing friends as I have been.

As I write this, Gwyneth told me that she has invited a friend over on Sunday. Sometimes you win.

Happy Holidays!

Many of you will think I am tacky for writing our annual Christmas letter this way, but unlike a lot of you, I am BUSY.

The maid had to go see her dying mother or something, so not only have we had to clean our own house, but we had to put up the Christmas tree and decorations too. Last year her son fell off the roof while putting up all our outside lights -- he threatened (unsuccessfully) to sue us, so I don't know why we keep her anyway. She did promise she'd come by sometime the week before Christmas and bake cookies for us to give away -- we think homemade cookies are always appreciated.

Once again, John was passed over for promotion at work. The cretins he works with and his so called "manager" are so jealous of him they can't stand it. So he continues to at a job for which he is CLEARLY overqualified and nags me about getting a real job and cooking something other than ramen noodles with fried bologna. Like sweeping up hair at a salon 10 hours a week is a breeze. (I was saving the hair to send to some beach where a tanker of olive oil hit a reef or something -- a guy on the news said it was good for moping up oil, and I thought it would count towards my mandatory community service. But here's a free tip: don't use a big bag of hair to mop your floor when your dishwasher leaks!!!! It will make a foul, disgusting mess, no matter what the talking heads say).  However, John and I are going to try to patch things up over the holidays at a couples-only retreat in Greenville, Mississippi. We got a great deal - $60 a night for the hotel. The brochure said something about "taking up serpents," so I'm thinking it might be one of those reptile farms. Which are kind of creepy but interesting, too: I saw an albino alligator one time! Anyway, we'll have some time to share our problems with other couples. As my fans know, my husband can't get enough of socializing, especially with strangers so desperate they want marital counseling.

Girls before they went bad.

You might be wondering; what about your daughters? I know some of you have heard of my struggles -- they live to make me crazy. Their grades have been falling steadily in high school, and PLEASE - no more of that "they're struggling and you're the parent" crap. The guidance counselor keeps calling and talking about "gang activity."  We were a bit tickled, to tell the truth: both of them started dressing a lot better - no more of that snotty preppy look they had going.  Since they were tiny tykes we've been spinning tales about back in the day when we rode with the Demon Spawn of Flatbush. Sure, our black leather chaps are a bit tight, our vests resemble bolero jackets, and we've switched from Yamahas to Segways, but we still turn more than a few heads. Especially at Teachers' Night.

(Note to fans: I wanted so much to find a suitable image to insert here, but searching for "overweight couples wearing chaps on motorcycles" sent me to some sites I'd rather not visit again.)

Wow -- I was gathering wool there for a moment -- thinking of how we almost had that rumble with the Blouds and the Cripes before they went running home to their mommies!

Back to the girls -- unfortunately, they are spending the holidays in detention. We found out after the fact that the "gangs" they hang out with are totally lame. They usually just drive up and honk for them, so we hadn't actually met any of them. Those loud noises we were so impressed with turned out to be crappy cars with even crappier mufflers. Turns out my oldest one tried to steal several expensive slide rules as an initiation into the Cute Angles, a group of girls so geeky the regular math club wouldn't let them in. My youngest was caught stealing fruit to serve at a soiree given by the No Shows, a group so vile they had been banned from the Drama Club. She would have been given probation if her aim hadn't been so good: she hit the police officer right in the eye with a Granny Smith. You can only imagine our disappointment and shame at their choice of companions.

(I know it sounds callow, but is this not the best excuse EVER for saving money on presents! Not only do they not deserve them, but they're not even here to open them if they WERE under the tree.)

It looks as though Aunt Lucy is going to have to move back in with us:  the woman cannot hold a job and I don't know why she keeps going back to working in technical support. She thought she was just practicing tough love when she screamed at a second-time caller, "Users are losers, you lowlife motherf___ing earwig! May bedbugs nest in your pants! May all food you eat turn to rat turds in your mouth! May jackals tear out your entrails and eat them in front of your children! Even the squirrels I shoot from my porch know to save their work now and then!"

I'm not happy about this, but we continue to feud with our next door neighbor about our lawn ornaments and silk flowers -- she thinks she's so high and mighty with her "native plant" and "habitat for butterflies" crap. When we tell her we don't mow our lawn because we also want to save the planet, she scoffs. Nothing I relish more than a good feud. I get a real kick hearing her complain to the neighbors about her morning paper always landing in her fountain. Oh yeah, I'm keeping it real.

We're still a family who tries to have dinner sitting at the table at least once a month, because studies show that's the best way to stay close or some such crap. The girls know they can always talk to me, but seriously, when is the last time you actually listened to a teenager - they yammer on and on about themselves.

Our family advice to you is always take the high road; our family wish is a blessed and happy holiday season. And as always, please don't give us your lousy fruitcakes, cookies, jams (even if you call it curd) and homemade liqueur -  nothing says "we wish you a merry Christmas!" like some cash stashed in a tasteful Christmas card.

p.s. can someone pick up the girls on the 28th? Because we'll still be improving our marriage at the alligator farm.

Verizon, the Sequel

I just got a great letter from a guy named Jeremy McCarthy, Director of the Preferred Customer Team at Verizon. My first thought was: how do they treat their non-preferred customers? Do their phones explode if they go over their minutes?

Jeremy told me that I need to SEIZE THE SAVINGS. As Director, he has personally gone over my bill and found that I need to either maximize my current plan or change my plan because I'm paying $31.75 in "total overage charges."

The right solution is at my fingertips: I need to call one of their customer service people, and I don't even have to extend my contract!!!!!   Jeremy personally appreciates my business and looks forward to keeping me connected, now and for years to come. Is it just me, or does that sound ominous? Now I get the nagging feeling that I'm serving life with Verizon. They either get you in the small print or put Brad, Customer Service boy from hell, on the line and you agree to anything to get him to shut the fuck up. Pardon my French.

So, keep up the emails -- I'm not going to be using my phone much.

Open Letter to Verizon Wireless

Dear Verizon,

I just spent 64 minutes on the phone with two of your customer service people. It was such a long conversation that my husband and I took our pups on a long walk during half time of a Razorback game. My dogs don’t like you either. And it’s my birthday weekend.

A few months ago, my 13-year old daughter and I went to a local Verizon store, bought her a new phone and signed up for unlimited texting. This was for two reasons: I was tired of whacking her when she went over her minutes, and one of my sisters and I love texting each other really stupid messages about the superiority of our animals and how Dante’s Peak was a silly movie but worth seeing because of Pierce Brosnan being such a hunka hunka burning love.



We came out of the store all warm and fuzzy: we could text with abandon!
We did not get a very good deal (because although it was not our choice to switch and we pay a whopping bill to Verizon each month, we’re considered vile reptiles, otherwise known as Alltel customers), but it would have cost too much to change providers. (It reminds me, in reverse, of the way the Little Rock School Board is so fond of hiring superintendents, firing them, and then buying out their contract for oodles of money. You guys really stink but I’m stuck with you and have to pay you vast sums of money). I thought that when you sucked Alltel into your vast death ship I became a Verizon customer – that’s what my bill says. I’ve been told several times in your stores that I’m “an Alltel customer”, and your representatives always spit on the floor afterwards as if it puts a bad taste in their mouths. “I would SO love to get you in a Mercedes, but your past wireless provider makes you worthy only of this two-toned Pacer.”
 


We’re a family of four, all with phones, but only two of us text. At last I come to the heart of the story: my bill today showed that we had gone over on our texting minutes. Apparently we stood around in your store for 20 minutes before seeing anyone and then spent about 30 minutes signing up for unlimited texting – but the dog apparently peed on our order. Your rep tonight acted as if it was just another tricky day at Verizon. He never went off script (which had no bearing on what I was talking about) and put me on hold probably 10 times for long periods. Although I'm pretty sure he was in front of a computer, I kept imagining him skating down the hall to check the Manual for Alltel losers, maybe having a beer or two on the way back, jesting with his colleagues about the live wire twisting on the phone.



I repeatedly asked to speak to his manager; he repeatedly refused – he didn’t really refuse; he just kept coming back and saying things like, “Well, I could give you a 10% discount on the charges you shouldn’t have had in the first place”, or “I could wash your dog for you.” Except he wasn’t as clear; he would give a long spiel about some plan I wasn’t interested in, such as giving me 40 free minutes a month to call someone in a gulag in the former Soviet Union. One of his special offers (seriously) was to inform the Mother Ship that I had a complaint about the store where I signed up originally. Really? You’d do that for me? He was relentless about keeping me from his supervisor; she would only confirm what he’d done, but I was more so: I told him that I’d wait on the phone all night if that’s what it took. But when she came on, she agreed that my situation stunk and sounded beaten down – it took the wind right out of my sails. And by that time I was convinced that I was getting cancer by listening to the endless spiels while on hold.

A side note: I generally go to the office on Chenal in Little Rock. I’m not sure whether they have a sadist for a manager or whether all your stores operate this way: why do you make your employees stand on their feet all day? It seems a bit of a sweat shop-ish thing to do. I know what you’re thinking: that episode of Seinfeld.

As much as I’d like to put the blame on you; I am the moron who renewed our contract. But next time we’re up for renewal, we’re gone.

p.s. I am posting this letter on my blog before even putting in the mail to you – I have at least 10 loyal fans!!!!!! And some advice about customer service 101: satisfied people maybe talk to 4 people; those who bear a grudge tell about 5,000. And trust me; my story will get better each time I tell it. Especially if I call next month and they tell me that there are no records of me calling.

Nothing Says I Love You Like a Dead Squirrel

My dog Sweetie just brought me a dead squirrel, and I thought back to this essay I wrote a few years ago. Eat your heart out, New Yorker, for not publishing it.

I can sniff out an urban legend or an asinine chain letter from a mile away. When I walk in the woods, I don’t worry about porcupines getting scared and hurling their quills at me, nor do I fear being rendered unconscious in parking lots by robbers wielding ether-filled perfume bottles. My life got no better or worse when I deleted instead of forwarded an e-mail from his Holiness the Dalai Lama with his “Instructions for Life.”

So this latest yarn had a big stink: a woman takes her almost-new car to the dealership, and the mechanic tells her that squirrels have chewed through the engine’s wiring and she’s lucky the car didn’t catch fire. A day and a big fat check later, she steps out of her car at home and a rogue band of squirrels viciously attack and gnaw her ankles almost down to the bone.

I didn’t believe it for a minute and was amused by the vision of the attacking squirrels – it sounded so Monty Python-ish. It wasn’t quite as funny as the one about a company called ManBeef, from which you can order succulent human flesh, but few can top that one.

Now here’s the really funny part: This is not an urban legend, it’s my life. I perhaps exaggerated the squirrel attack on my ankles, but the ruthless rodents did chew through the wiring of my wagon, costing me $791.94. I don’t have hidden cameras in my engine so I can’t say for sure that squirrels did the damage, but it’s a good bet.

My saga has so many funny parts that I don’t know where to start. The first is that this happened less than two weeks before Christmas, which really put me in the holiday spirit. After I yanked down our Christmas tree, I hacked off the limbs and began clubbing squirrels to death in our front yard until my kids came out of the house crying. Little do they know that I’m taking a long, hard look at Boo and Chester, our resident gerbils. Their beady eyes are a constant reminder of my pain and empty wallet.

I am suspicious by nature, so even though the guy at the dealership told me that this is a fairly common occurrence, I immediately did a search for “squirrels and car wiring.” The first hit of 160,000 was Squirrels Ate My Wiring! I read all sorts of ways to get rid of the vermin, including moth balls (which I bought) and something called Shake-Away PACKS FOR SQUIRRELS, the main ingredient being eau de fox urine, which I also purchased.

Then there was calling in the claim, the equivalent of “Squirrels peed on my homework and ate all my books.”

And here’s the icing on the cake, the bees’ knees, the summit of Everest: the engine light came on in our old car, so I dropped it off at the dealership and drove the SquirrelMobile home. Sure enough – I get a call about an hour later saying the squirrels had once again done their dirty deeds, but they didn’t do as much damage. However, in one of those hilarious curveballs that life throws at us, the intake valves were apparently plugged and damage was estimated at $900. And you’ve got to love this: I had to call in a new claim and tell them “the squirrels ate my parents.”

It’s all so comical that I’m laughing all the way to the bank. With Xanax and a muscle relaxer and wine (good for my heart!), I’m already able to look back and laugh. Hysterically. My husband and kids fail to see the humor, though – they keep knocking on my bedroom door and asking me if I’m okay. I think they just want me to fix dinner for them. To distract myself, I envision how the girls will talk about this later in therapy, whining about he Christmas when they received nothing but socks, moth balls and fox glands in their stockings.

Although things have been bleak, I was proud of myself for using my arsenal of moth balls and pee to take out the enemy before they take me out. Then I received the following email from my girlfriend Kristy:

I can certainly sympathize with you regarding the squirrels. If you recall, I spent 6 years fighting squirrels in my old house until it burned down. Considering all the effort and money spent trying to eradicate them, I took lots of flack from people accusing me of burning down the house just to get rid of the squirrels. I’ll never forget the day Jim H. and I went over there to get some antique hardware off a door. We went into the burned out husk of my home and discovered there were no longer squirrels in the wall chewing up everything….they had built their nests smack in the middle of the den!


Nasty little beasts! Be careful with that chewed wiring. It could cause your car to burn! I can also attest to the fact that nothing…I mean nothing I tried worked. I remember the time I was told to put moth balls in the soffits to prevent them from chewing holes to access the house. I learned that day they are very tidy little creatures. I had nice little stacks (like little cannon balls) of moth balls on the ground under every single hole they chewed into my soffits.


For the record, in addition to the mothballs, the home “recipes”, poison traps, cayenne pepper, poison corn, and sound devices don’t work either Maybe if you just clip a 660-volt charger to your engine block when it is parked in the driveway…

Upon hearing this, my husband ordered Wrist-Rocket slingshots for the girls for Christmas and a shotgum and hunting license for himself.
My first idea, to both recoup our losses and get rid of the filthy tree rats, was to invite squirrel hunters to the house, where they could shoot as many squirrels as they wanted, drink as much beer as they could hold AND get a ride home, all for a reasonable price.

Since I was pretty sure he wouldn’t go for that idea, I am putting my next plan into action: I am working on a heartfelt letter to send to my family, best friends, close personal friends, backup friends, former friends, acquaintances and co-workers: they are to send a minimum of $10 to the P.O. Box I rented and forward the letter to at least 10 people OR risk their next holiday being even more jinxed than mine.

(For the record, the last time Sweetie brought me a dead animal, Sugar (below) had actually killed it, which is amazing since she has a bum leg and who knew she could outrun a rabbit. She knew everyone saw her, so only lingered over her kill for a few minutes before Sweetie grabbed it and proudly presented it.)

Epilog: I posted this earlier today. When John came home at noon, I told him the dead squirrel was on the deck, but it was gone when he went out to check. A few minutes ago I saw it from the corner of my eye -- all I noticed was that it wasn't in very good condition. I flew downstairs yelling, "the squirrel is in the house!" From my voice, he thought it was hanging from the ceiling or something, ready to attack. I said "I don't know how it got in here," and he said "Sweetie ate it," adding that "our dogs aren't even smart enough to let us keep our presents."

Please Join Me for the Celebrity Blowup!

My horoscope a few weeks ago:  "You are powerful - everyone senses it already. In fact, you are in danger of overpowering the room. A bit of humility will help others feel comfortable. Your graciousness will set a tone for the rest of the crew."

I felt irritated and bitter, both by the horoscope and things in general, but not the least bit powerful. My graciousness was approximately the level of Paris and Lindsay when they are drugged up and chew out the help for not vacuuming the cocaine from their purses. Instead of being humble when dealing with people, all I did was complain about my lot. Poor, poor pitiful me. Unemployed and raising teenagers -- play your teensy little violins for me. I'd feel vaguely guilty for not inquiring about the lives of friends to whom I incessantly bitched, but then would get caught up in beating myself up for all my faults and start wallowing in self pity again.

Later, I realized that I am indeed powerful:  my family are very unhappy but too frequent guests at my pity parties. When I'm in a dark mood, the atmosphere at home is charged with tension. My dogs endure indifference from me, the worst form of punishment. My friends suffer, usually of the "I wish she'd shut up and blow up" variety. For those of you not familiar with that phrase, do a search on "SCTV Farmville Celebrity Blowup," in which John Candy and Joe Flaherty, dressed in overalls, interview fake celebrities, who then blow up real good.  It's much funnier than it sounds.

When I say things like "Nothing's wrong; I'm just tired" instead of "shut up and blow up real good!" it's a sign that the family unit is in trouble.

I lecture my girls about a lot of things, including grace under pressure. I tell them how anyone can be gracious when things are going well; champions display it when things fall apart. I tell them to treat everyone with respect, to follow the Golden Rule, to demonstrate compassion. My words crumble under their own weight when I can't find joy in a loving family, a good home, fabulous friends and neighbors and good health.

I love the feeling of having something restored that we take for granted: electricity after a storm, a hot shower and warm, soft bed after sleeping on a deflated air mattress while camping, everyone making it home safely after the roads turn icy.

Much of my reflection has come because of the lightness I feel after having something else restored: I was offered a job today. I took a few years off to spend more time with the girls, do volunteer work (both very satisfying) and to try to make a modest living at freelance writing (fulfilling, but I could have made more money panhandling). I wasn't working then. I took another job that I loved and lost, and I was in a whole new ballgame: I was unemployed.

Remember Whoopi's infamous "it's not rape-rape" that Roman Polanski committed?  What a stupid comment, which has no relevance to my circumstances except it still pisses me off. I've had way too much time to think about dim-witted comments like that and the galaxy between not working and being unemployed.  I felt a bit weird at first about my husband supporting me when I wasn't working (especially since I never did really clean the house). But he cheered me on; I felt good about myself and what I was doing. Being unemployed sapped my energy and strength; I had the summer to spend with my girls but I ruined so much of it by obsessing that I'd never find work again. Because unfortunately, obsessing and worrying are core competencies.

However, I'm going to try to learn something from my madness. When my girls come home, I'm going to loudly tell them to shut up and blow up. We're going to dinner to celebrate, and hopefully I won't get too choked up to tell my family how precious they are to me. I'm getting all choked up thinking about it, so if you are in a Mexican restaurant in Little Rock tonight and see a woman blubbering, please stop by and blow up with us.

Speaking of choking up, knowing that someone out there is listening to me rant and rave is the icing on the cake, the bees' knees, the whole enchilada. Thank you, loyal readers.