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This site is basically republishing, verbatim, entries. I am not mad, I just want to find out how to contact the owner/"author" so I can find out where they live, so I can cut the crotches out of all their pants. What up! So does anyone know how to read the characters featured on the site? Anyone know? Awesome. I'll just be over here, burning tires.
I have never had the urge to send in my Most Embarrassing Moments to Seventeen, or maybe the grown-up versions to Cosmo or Glamour. For one, I think that embarrassment is healthy, it keeps the karmic scales calibrated and teaches you lessons about yourself and others, and half the time, the embarrassments aren't noticed or witnessed by a lot of people. You know? And I like to think that those, especially, are little karmic reminders of how weak, and easy-to-humble or humiliate you really are.
And usually they're small ones, falling on your face (literally or otherwise), being the butt of a joke, realizing you're somehow exposing a part of your body you shouldn't be. Farting loudly, sneezing so hard snot comes out and drapes itself across your cheek and upper lip, in the middle of a lecture or party conversation. Ones that aren't that big a deal, really, except for how you respond to them, usually with blushing and sheepish shame. But sometimes, they are huge reminders, HUGE, and looking back after the whole thing has come and gone, you see the warnings the cosmos were sending your way, and how you denied them because you and your thick head had an idea and it was going to come to fruition and as a result, what happened happens and you can't cry, because it is too big for crying. Crying is an act of indulgence in these situations, and there is no indulgence allowed right now. Brass tacks, friends, let us be real about this. What happened last night is too big and humiliating to be dumb over.
Like I think I shot someone last night, I really do, and now I'm hiding in your basement and you just threw a Capri Sun and a bag of 100 calorie wheat thins down at me, and your eyes are blank. It's cool, the cops are coming anyway, no matter where I go, we'd better just watch some 'Real Housewives of NYC' until they show up.
I would tell you, but I feel like nobody talks about these moments on their sites. You are all classy, dainty, well-bred cultured people, with nicely decorated homes and photography skills, cute clothing and no stories like this. I feel like it would be horrifying, this story between pictures of pancakes and Sesame Street videos. And who would want to? Every person I told the story to, explaining in full detail because no one else was there and the incident happened to me and indirectly affected someone else, and probably our friendship, has said a variation on the following condolences:
"I wish they made a card for this."
"Oh SHIT."
"NO."
"Awesome story. Awesome story. In ten years. When you no longer know him. Awesome story. For your kids. In ten years."
"I am telling _____. Can I tell her? Is that cool? Oh MY GOD."
"He probably didn't even notice."
"Just send out a MySpace Bulletin, apologizing. Just tell everybody at once, before word gets out."
"Oh honey."
So there we go. Last night something really embarrassing happened. A perfect storm brewed itself up, and there was no escaping it once I was sucked in, and I can't tell you about it, but I'm going to, eventually. This is just part one.
My sisters are tough girls. I sometimes think that I am unworthy of such guard dogs, and then I remember the time I found both a Stila gloss pen and unknowingly filched tube of empty (less than 1/4 gone, the last time I saw it) DermaDoctor lotion in my youngest sister's bag, and I think that is payment enough.
"First person to ask where all of the bacon went gets a PANCAKE in the goddamn FACE."
My vision of hospitality is shared by old women and serial killers. Opulence and knowing, profiling your guests, to the point of creepiness. The other day I offered a preferred flavor of Kettle Chips to one of my friends, and after she exclaimed that she "LOVED both those flavors!" I muttered 'I know' in a voice so low and void of emotion that I locked myself in the cellar. Chilled, individual cans of both Classic and Diet Coke and complimentary slippers in the van with no windows, parked outside. Let me give you a ride home. Those weren't the child-safety locks clicking down, we just ran over some walnuts.
Some walnuts.
I like to imagine that when I am older, worldly, hospitality will be taken to a new level. Special glasses for my 'young-enough-to-be-nieces' cousins, robes and carafes, toothbrushes under the sink and a set or two of spare pajamas for heathens who hate sleeping in jeans, like I do. Flowers. A tray lined with bottles of perfume on the back of the toilet during parties, saving snoops the trouble. Ashtrays and a pack of guest cigarettes, different kinds of beer, glass-bottle sodas and cold champagne in the fridge, someone's favorite ice cream in the freezer. To me, Hospitality is about being a pusher -- indulging your friends and loved ones' vices and bad habits in a different setting, where guilt is left outside with dirty shoes.
And pancakes, to me, are the ultimate edible hospitality. You spend time making them, you serve one or two people at a time, and the small touches that go along with the simple cakes are what put them over the edge -- chocolate chips, berries, bananas added once the batter is pooled on the griddle, and then come the conserves, warm syrups, whipped cream, soft butter so that guests don't tear their cakes. If your guests are under ten, you pour the batter into shapes and letters. If your guests are over ten, make them obscene ones.
But with pancakes, like prosthetic limbs, everyone has their preferences. I like buttermilk pancakes, with a nice rise and a good texture, not too lacy, soft on the outside and fluffy inside. I like an even tan, and I like to think about that chapter where Ramona's parents were having a bad day and her dad (or was it her mom?) used the spatula to gouge out the center of the pancakes, proving they were still liquid inside. Then they went to Whopperburger, I think. Do you remember that? Those books were so good.
So, I hope you indulge your hospitality fetish soon, and if you do so by making these pancakes, let me know how they turned out.
Buttermilk Pancakes by Martha Stewart
This recipe works perfectly as-written, every time, which is why I'm linking to it and not rewriting it. My only advice is to add a teaspoon and a half of good vanilla extract, and to get evenly-brown exteriors, grease the griddle when hot, then wipe down with a paper towel and cook over lower heat for a longer period of time.
He got the news on the way to that wedding he's going to, tonight. I guess I was the person he called after he called and told his parents. I couldn't stop smiling for him. My voice turned, too, into that high-pitched bullshit that makes me feel like I wear culottes, a lot.
I want to take him out for drinks and hug him until security carts me away. I am so proud of him.
So friends. The other day I was perusing Holly's site, and she posted a link to a story of a family and their little girl that broke my heart. I'll let you read the full story, and I think you should, and then you can decide what to do from there.
Also, there is a documentary available OnDemand (HBO) right now called Autism: The Musical and you should watch it, not because you were bored on a Wednesday afternoon last week like I was, but because it will break your heart in a completely different way and showcase a lot of humanity not often associated with one of those Hot Buzzwords people on the news are always talking about. It will also remind you what the people of Bunim-Murray are capable of doing when not shooting drunk people in poly-satin collecting fishbowls.
And finally, I am still too sick to go outside and play with you. So sad. But soon. We'll vandalize like our names are Fat Tony and Lil' Scoot.
My original post on 'Jon and Kate + 8' was nothing -- it was me blabbing about how I love those kids and I think they're pretty incredible, and I'm kind of tired of not seeing them as often as I used to. Big ups for sharing time in the big chair, we all have stories, but sometimes I just want Aaden talking some jive, Alexis making me want to be her Best Gal Pal. There was talk of how, ensconced in the middle of a huge shit-talk session with one of my best ladies, I stopped and fell silent for five minutes because I came across a marathon of episodes I hadn't seen more than three times. My friend stared at me, then at the TV, and when I blinked and apologized and reluctantly found 'The Break Up' OnDemand, she was like, "If you really want to watch it..." and I had to make a choice, between Vince Vaughn and Northeastern Biracial Multiples. I had to make that choice in public, and even though I feel like Vaughn knows what we have, I'm blue about it.
So that is it -- I know a lot of people have opinions on the dynamics of the parents relationship, have come up with theories and visual aides on how each one of those children is going to one day be living in a series of linked runoff drains, with clans of Nutria and body armor made from Disney's 'CARS' dvd covers, their teeth rotted into points from the free Libby's Juicy Juice, but I'm not smart like that. I am fascinated by Mady, though, in a way I haven't been since I was little, and that is what this is about, in an abstract fashion. Because there is nothing a child likes more than watching another child be bad. Not in schadenfruede, but in awe.
You know? And forget kids watching kids, let's talk about me, totally watching whatever temper tantrum I'm blessed to witness. Hold up, someone is so physically angry with the world they're on the floor of the cereal aisle, taking their shoes off and screaming while crunching handfuls of Cheerios in their tiny fists of power. Who doesn't love that behavior. Who won't take an extra long time looking for the box of Kashi Heart2Heart just to watch what is going down, you know?
When we were younger, my sisters and I were fascinated by the bad behavior of other kids, and the older we got, equally as fascinated with the behavior of their parents. This was because my parents followed the "Oh really. Bring it" philosophy, where you dare your child to continue with their actions and then just when they're getting comfortable, thinking this is going to work, just before they're satisfied and really launch into the performance, right before you cross into "scene", wrap your fingers around their wrists and swiftly, silently leave the area. My mom has left meals, carts full of groceries, next-in-line spots, events, on and on and on, because she wasn't into the show my sisters or I were putting on. And I think that a lot of that behavior was a show, for attention or because of boredom or both.
Rather than seeing this as an indulgence, parents letting their children rule their lives, I have to assure you that those major incidents are counted on one hand and that encompasses three childhoods. We loved being out, going on errands and visits and out to eat and after the firm hand of justice drops down and bans you from those, telling you why and then bringing your siblings along in your absence, you shape up. You do. Ask my 22 year old sister why she didn't go to the grocery store for almost a month and a half, and I defy you not to notice the shudder of regret in her eye. And because I play fair, here is my story.
Once we were invited to the home of one of my Dad's co-workers, the whole family. This was the late eighties, early nineties and they lived in what could only be described as a Dream 80's Canadian Condo That Was Not Located In Canada. Their college-age son looked like Rick Astley, in pictures. Glass coffee tables. There was crudite out, and somehow this led to me becoming a little grizzly, shoving in handfuls of celery with ranch and slices of salami. My sister hid underneath the glass coffee table and whined. The hostess tried to tempt her out with a giant, white stuffed bear. My sister whined "No!" and kicked the bottom of the coffee table, which did not shatter, but sent my beloved crudite flying, all over the Dream 80's Canadian Condo Carpet, which was white.
My parents, horrified at what their daughters were doing, what the evening had turned into in just forty-five minutes, finally explained they had to leave, forgoing dinner, apologizing profusely, inviting them over in return. On the way out, I clutched at any last straws and began to wail, as we were firmly tugged by the hand from the plush carpeted foyer, "Are you going to yell at us in the car, Daddy? Please don't yell at us in the car. I love you!" My parents said nothing, just chuckled and said their goodbyes and on the way out, the woman handed my parents back the plastic bag of TCBY packed frozen yogurt we had brought, explaining that she'd feel bad if we didn't get our treats.
I have such clear memories of walking through the parking garage, comforted with the idea that I had bargained my way out of being yelled at, and getting into our car and speeding back through the streets of downtown, and the city lights and then asking if we could still have that TCBY when we got home. And instead of saying no, instead of saying "You are sweating ranch dressing", my parents smiled and reached back, tugging the bag forward. "You know what?" My mom began calmly, and it was all looking up, until a sheet of cold air smacked my face. The front window was down. "I don't think so, because-"
Silently my Dad took over. One hand on the wheel, the other whipping the plastic bag of soft-serve frozen yogurt through the dark night, where it landed in an explosion of semi-solid dairy, coating the freeway like the blood of innocents.
Nothing was said for the rest of the ride home, and we were put to bed, and the next and last time we saw that couple, it was because they came to visit us and prior to their arrival my mom had briefed me on just how badly I had behaved last time, and wasn't that crazy, because they didn't get to meet the real 'me', just the bad one, who had issues with salami and my sister, who wanted everyone to see her diaper and tights-clad ass and had anger issues concerning glass furniture. We hid in our bedroom closet, among our stuffed animals, when they knocked on the door and they came to say hello's and good-nights but we would not remove ourselves from the tomb of acrylic animals.
Years later, I still feel a hot flush every time this story is brought up, and it is brought up often. Because that two hours of my life, is so vivid and ripe with sensory memories and shame, that I can only replay it in my mind, or hear it spoken aloud, if I'm feeling okay about myself right now. In the present. Age twenty-five. Witnesses were related to me, or I haven't seen them in twenty years, so there should be no shame. But it feels so prickly-fresh, still, typing it that I cannot believe what it will feel like when Mady is my age and she has SEASONS of this shit OnDemand.
