Romance for Real Women

As we limp through these hot, sticky dog days of summer, not much captures my attention except the prospect of an afternoon in a pool, an air conditioner turned to an extravagant seventy degrees and never ending sources of liquid beginning in the morning with ice coffee and progressing through soda, ice tea, and water to pails of alcoholic beverages at night.

The children are off with Miss Moonbeam to a cooler climate and thank goodness as my nerves are shot. Patience may be a virtue, but one hard to cultivate in a climate where nothing is thriving, water might be rationed and giggling newscasters nightly discuss record temperatures.

However, one news item did make me pull my blouse from my sticky back and put down my fan. I understand Los Angeles is prohibiting fast food chains from opening in sections of the city. Its citizens are too obese, proclaim the presumably svelte members of the city council.

It’s hard to work up any kind of outrage in these temperatures, but this one did it and not because I object, as all real women must object, to choice being imposed by local government.

Before the children left for their holiday, I had three mouths to feed. As I am a wage slave, there was no question of nightly excursions to any kind of restaurant, healthy or otherwise. We eat at home.

I would stagger from the office into the heat and to the super market and pick up something simple for dinner, vegetables I could grill, chicken breasts, hamburger, whatever was on sale. Grilling I am told keeps the ambient temperature in the house down.

But it doesn’t do a thing for my temperature. Five minutes outside and I’m a puddle. Not pretty.

I pass several fast food restaurants on my way to work. I began to notice them. They began to loom large in my rear view mirror. One morning as I was blinking perspiration from my eyes and cursing my car’s unreliable air conditioner, I saw a large blinking sign out in front of one that said, “Lesli, stop here tonight.”

I was on to something. Despite Miss Moonbeam, who was horrified, despite my own convictions about healthy food, convenience won. That and the fact I didn’t need to light a grill, an oven or my gas top stove.

The children were delighted. Hamburgers. Tacos. Those five dollar sandwiches. And, yes, fried chicken. This summer, we’ve had them all.

As you know, Miss Moonbeam is a vegetarian and disdainful of pop culture in which she includes fast food chains. When the children, despite my admonitions, babbled to her about the nightly feasts, she pushed up the date of their vacation, swooped in and with only a telling glare at me, took them off.

Thank God for Mothers.

Thank God for fast food.

Down with the LA City Council.

Now, I gotta go and unwrap dinner.

Are you as bored as I am with the apparent national obsession with Christie Brinkley’s divorce from Peter Cook? Of course you are. Real women find the intrigue surrounding the Madonna/Guy Ritchie split much more entertaining. It, after all, features a major sports figure who may or may not be having an affair with the material girl, but who is certainly and probably not co-incidentally also getting a divorce. Add to that, a mystical Jewish sect and celebrities who still have star power and you have the recipe for at least some relief from our summer dog days.

The Brinkley/Cook debacle features a middle aged man having an affair with an eighteen year old. (And, frankly, could his face lifts and professional tan be any more obvious?) Haven’t we, as a nation, already gone through the angst of a middle aged man diddling a young intern? We have. And there are no spotted dresses here to titillate.

We also apparently need to know about Cook’s obsession with internet pornography. What’s new or interesting about any of this? The only thing we don’t know yet is whether he takes Viagra and I’m betting he does.

And, this may sound harsh, but with all due respect to Brinkley’s past accomplishments both as a model and as having raked up four marriages including one with singer Billy Joel, isn’t she a little washed up?

What tilts the balance for me is that Ritchie and Madonna are not hanging out all their dirty linen. In this case, Madonna is showing an unexpected degree of class. Or maybe just simple concern for her children.

Brinkley had the option of a closed trial and declined it. So, her kids who include a thirteen year old son and a ten year old daughter will have to deal with every salacious detail reported about their parents. So, there go their chances for any well adjusted childhood, if they had a chance to start with and the more I learn about her, the more I doubt it.

So, don’t play the “poor me” tune to me, Christie. I ain’t hearing a single note. My sympathy stops well before the court house door.

            If you’ve read much of this blog, you’ve probably guessed that we don’t celebrate Father’s Day in my house. 

I have two darling children who seldom see their father.  That’s his choice, not ours.  Rather, it’s not theirs.  I would like nothing more than to firmly close the book on what I regard as the sorriest chapter in my life.

I suspect I’m not alone in being deeply ambivalent about my children’s involvement with a father who walked out on them.

On the one hand, I want them to know, really know, in their bones and in their hearts that everyone who has a close connection to them loves them. This is the basic security children deserve and I’ve told them for years that Daddy loved them. 

But Daddy rarely surfaces.  And, when he does, generally, it’s all about him.  He’s got a spare day.  He has an appointment nearby. He’s got a little time to kill.

Long ago, the kids became used to his casual disregard.  But being used to it, doesn’t take away the pain or the yearning.

I am the one who sees their wistful expressions when holidays like Father’s Day come and go without a word from him.

I am the one who copes with the disappointment when Daddy doesn’t acknowledge a birthday or an achievement.

And I am the one who is trying to raise children who understand the precious gift they are so that they in turn will pass on this fundamental sense of self to their own children.  Every child should have bone deep awareness of being special to their parents.  Every single child.

So, Father’s Day came and went in our house.  I know the kids bought something for him although they didn’t discuss it with me.

Their bright, expectant faces changed during the day to hurt and disappointment by bedtime when it was clear he wasn’t going to call.

And, oh, I’m so angry. I’d like nothing better than to sever all ties. I’d enjoy seeing see his name on the phone and not answering it.  I’d take pleasure in ignoring his occasional e-mails.  I’d love to slam the goddamn door in his selfish face. 

But I won’t.  I know that the next time he calls or drops by…whenever that may be…and announces he wants to see the children, I’ll let him.

My sweet daughter, Elizabeth, a real woman in training, came to me yesterday and asked the following question: “Moooom,” she said, stretching out the syllable, “Do you think I’m fat?”

Oh. My. God.

Elizabeth will be in seventh grade in the fall. She’s slim and tall. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. She does well in school and has been a gymnast since she was in the third grade. She has lots of friends and their greatest joy appears to be sleepovers where they paint their nails odd colors. They text each other constantly. They have serious discussions about clothes and boys.

She is the girlie-girl I never was and in no sense is she overweight.

Caught by surprise, I said, “Who told you that?”

She shrugged and twirled the ends of her hair. “Nobody.” After a moment, she added, “Maybe Heather.”

Ah, ha. Heather. My least favorite of her little chums, Heather is a know-it-all who always wears a sly expression as if she’s constantly monitoring any situation for her own advantage. No, I’m not fond of Heather. Now I like her less. And, in the spirit of truth in blogging, I should add that Heather actually is a little overweight.

However, I long ago learned that direct attacks on little friends from Mom are rarely productive. So instead of launching into a diatribe about Heather, her parents and forebears tracing not so many generations back to ape men, I merely asked how the question came up.

Still twirling her hair, Beth said, “Well, we were talking about Crystal’s swimming party.”

Crystal’s swimming party, the social event of the season, endlessly discussed. All the classmates are invited including, yikes, boys. Crystal’s party is the reason we’ve been on not one, but two shopping trips to find just the right bathing suit, a sweet little yellow one piece suit with flowers and a tiny skirt.

“Darling,” I say, “don’t you think you look wonderful in your bathing suit?’

“I don’t know,” she says and now her head is down, her face covered by her hair.

“Well, I do,” I say decisively. “Did you know that department store light is the worst place to look at yourself in a bathing suit?”

That gets her interest and an eye peeks out behind the curtain of hair.

“Yep,” I continue. “In all the years I’ve been buying bathing suits for myself, I’ve never, ever tried them on in those fluorescent lights.” This is true. I don’t. I can take only so much in a given day.

“But I did,” she said softly.

“Yes, you did and you looked great. Didn’t you?” I go for the kill.

She shrugs again, but this time I get a smile and a hug and she’s off, probably to text a friend.

I’m shaken. I think I’ve dealt with the immediate issue fairly well. But this is one I’m going to have to keep an eye on.

Yesterday I mentioned the (to me) outlandish request from my son that he be allowed to get a tattoo.

Perhaps as an indication of how I feel about this—at least for now—I did some research on the web on the subject of tattoos, specifically ugly tattoos. There are some interesting examples. Here’s one link that features “gamer” tattoos. It’s a hoot. http://www.gamerhelp.com/article_viewer.cfm?article_id=129780

In keeping with my plan which is to conduct a war of attrition, I forwarded the link to my son. His response.

“Ohhhh, Mom.”

My son William came to me yesterday and declared his intention of obtaining a tattoo.

Oh, God.

I know tattoos have grown in popularity. I’ve seen studies where upward of twenty percent of the population sports body art. Most Hollywood celebrities have one or more tattoos. Here, two words come to mind: Angela Jolie.

So what is a real woman to do?

Well, first I sputtered.

Then I asked why he wanted a tattoo.

He said he “just does.” Unfortunately for me, that’s been a good enough reason for some of my own choices.

Sensing my reluctance by the fact I began pulling out my hair, he went on the attack.

“Granny has a tattoo,” he said.

It’s true. My Mom, the original flower child, has a rose tattoo just over her heart.

“Aunt Mary has tattoos,” he said.

Another fact I couldn’t deny although I did point out that Mary had the name of her first husband tattooed on her backside and regrets it.

I suggested getting a tattoo is a big decision, one not easily changed.

This elicited a long suffering sigh.

I suggested he is too young. (He’ll begin high school this fall.)

“Granny was my age when she got her tattoo,” he shot back, a fact only slightly exaggerated.

Then, I took refuge in the excuse of mothers everywhere desirous of hoping to postpone an argument with their children. I told him I was busy and we’d talk about it later.

After he stalked out, I was left to grapple with my instinctive reluctance to give him the go-ahead on something that is accepted so readily today.

They’ve gone mainstream, I told myself. Everyone has them, even members of my own family. Then I had the vision of bathing his beautiful little body when he was a baby. And superimposed the image of a dragon on his little chest. Oh, God. Oh, God.

Okay. So, what’s your problem, Lesli with no e, I asked myself. What do you have against tattoos? Nothing, I answered honestly, I don’t have anything against them, in fact, I think some are extremely attractive.

After a few minutes, well, really more like a sleepless night, I came to the conclusion that William wants one because he thinks it’ll make him somehow more interesting to his peers.

But he’s interesting now. He has plenty of friends, too many I think sometimes after picking up after a Saturday when they’ve all been here. He’s a good student and an athlete. A tattoo isn’t going to make him more or less interesting.

So, I’ve come to the conclusion I’m going to make him wait. (Despite his grandmother, he’s still very young for this kind of decision.) I’ll play the game all mothers are experts at…attrition. Then, we’ll see if this is just a passing enthusiasm. And, we’ll talk. In the meantime, I’m going to do a little research on the subject of tattoos. I’ll let you know what I discover.