Twelve

Yesterday was Darla's twelfth birthday. She was gracious enough to share the day with Harry and we had a double party at the Pier. She is old enough now that I no longer have to hold her hand in the huge crazy carny crowd or stand in line with her for rides, and young enough that she still needs a nap on the way home. Dar has been independent since the age of 3 and dramatic since the moment she was born. Here are other things I find inspirational on a daily basis.

She has been in the gifted class at school since 2nd grade.

She talks in her sleep and once said "Mrs Sandoyen, Mrs Sandoyen I love you so much" (Mrs Sandoyen was her third grade teacher).

She decided in 3rd grade that she wants to go to Yale Drama School.

She loves to sleep and does it well. I could blow a tuba directly into her ear and she would not wake up.

She can start a conversation with anyone, but at a crowded party she is always drawn to the oldest person in the room. She once had an hour long conversation with an 8o year old man when she went up to him and asked what's your favorite movie?

She can cry real and convincing tears if you ask her to.

She can fold her tongue into a three leaf clover.

She had trigger finger until she was 5 (where your last three fingers get curled closed so your pointer and thumb look like a gun) when she had surgery to have it corrected.

She refused to say the Pledge of Allegiance at school because she insisted she was French.

Happy Birthday Dar.

So much.

A Family of Dorks

We all went to Dar’s orientation for performing arts school. I was so excited, I could barely contain myself. I love school. I love September. I love new books and new supplies. I love new school outfits. I love meeting teachers and getting a schedule; I was totally acting as though it was my own first day, and could not have been more annoying to an 11 year old. But she cut me some slack; she was excited too. We got there half an hour early and got seats in the middle.

Mom, this is you, Harry said, and, scooting to the edge of his seat, he sat up straight with a huge open smile on his face and bobbled his head looking this way and that.

I mouthed the words I. don’t. care., but then I was self conscious, I have to admit. My sister showed up with her two girls and we waved them over. We were all going to orientation together! My sister was smiling too. We winked at each other. Then she took out a pen and paper to take notes! At the welcome assembly! (I just used three exclamation points)

The assistant principal came out and started talking, everyone cheered. He was completely hairless bald with a few neck wrinkles in the back.

He looks like Voldemort, Harry said.

He does not, Voldemort has white hair and a long beard.

No that’s Dumbledore, Voldemore is the Dark Lord.

Oh, you’re right, he does look like Voldemort.

“Mr. Whatdewhoo looks like Voldemort, pass it down,” I said to my niece. She started a chain through five of us. I stared at my sister waiting for her to get the news.

Oh my God, yes! She said. I nodded enthusiastically. We laughed. Someone behind us said ssshhhhh.

Mr. Whatdewhoo was telling us the schedule. “This is on Mondie, Then again on Tuesdie, Wednesdie, Thursdie and Fridie”. Every time he said the day of the week, I leaned over and repeated it to my niece. I could not get enough. Mondie. Tuesdie. I’d say it out loud like Beevus on the couch. We were all giggling like hyenas.

Thankfully, we moved in to the gymnasium where we had our second assembly, this one about rules and such. The head of security, who looked like Laurence Fishburne, (Laurence Fishburne, pass it down) did not smile once. He looked like he would have no problem handcuffing a small child to the radiator if they misbehaved. (You better not get in trouble, pass it down). He talked about theft: do not ever leave your backpack unattended it will be stolen (it will be stolen), and sexual harassment: Do not ever put your hands on another person’s person (person’s person) and dress code: no shorts above the length of your fingers when you hold them down, and no cleavage.

(Cleavage! I didn’t know what cleavage was until my college years, if you know what I mean, babe.)

(Mom!)

SSSHHH. Someone kicked my seat.

After the assembly we went to find Dar’s locker. Before I go on, I have to say something about lockers: they are the single most exciting and important thing about middle school. No more cubbies, no more hooks, having a locker is as good as having your own apartment. Secrecy! Locks with numbers! Personal decorations! In every teen movie, play or TV show, this is where the kids: the jocks, the cool kids, the dorks, the emos, all hang out. This is where they go to mull things over. Where they confront their friends with some horrific rumor. Where they secretly take drugs or cut themselves. Where they kiss or want to kiss. This was where it all happens. We walked down halls and rows of brightly painted lockers, green, purple, blue, orange. I said Look!, and pointed. Some poor 6^th grade boy was standing in front of a pink one. Aww, Harry look, I said.

Stop it! Dar grabbed my arm and hurried me along. We finally got to her row and there, right where her number was supposed to be, was a piece of sheet metal. Her locker did not exist. We stopped and stared. We knocked on it as though it would disappear and reveal a new and beautiful edition. My mouth hung open. I slowly turned my head to Dar, ready to console.

Oh well, she said, let’s go to the office and get another number.

Recovery! It is a beautiful thing.

We walked through corridors and courtyards, we checked out classrooms and rehearsal spaces, I saw some parents I knew and waved, I saw others I didn’t and gave the thumbs up. We looked at the cafeteria. We bought some sweatpants with the school logo on it. We got the new textbooks. And now, we will wait patiently til the 13^th.

Dilly Dally

Before I started working for the private investigator I had an interview on the phone. At the time I thought I was just calling to schedule. I didn’t even know what the job was for exactly, other than “Assistant: must have writing ability and office skills”. He asked me why I thought I’d be good for the job. I said, because I was desperate. He was quiet for long enough to make me feel I had said the wrong thing. How so?, he asked.

“How am I desperate or how does being desperate make me good for the job?”

“The second one.”

“Well,” I had to make something up, “ it would make me work hard to make sure you felt like you made the right decision hiring someone with no office experience.” I tried to laugh but he was quiet so I had to keep going, ” and also it would make me less afraid of making a wrong choice if I didn’t know what to do.”

“Ok.”

I worried I sounded too much like an ass-kisser waiting for a head-pat, so I said, “After a while I would get more comfortable and slack off.”

It was the end of September, 2001. Rescuers were still searching for bodies in the rubble, I had had a baby 2 months earlier, my children’s father had told me that he was “kind of” seeing someone else, I had no money, my oldest child would soon be driving, and I was living at my mother’s house. I’m not saying these are the reasons I didn’t do a better job of editing myself, but they gave me a different perspective in talking with a stranger.

We set an appointment to meet the next day at his home near the Devon train station. I worried a little about meeting at his “home”, but I didn’t obsess. It was much easier to focus on worrying about childcare and transportation if I actually got the job.

When I checked the computer later though, I found an email from him telling me to just come in to work tomorrow, why dilly dally? I would have been more excited except that the last word stopped me in my tracks. Who uses the word dilly dally?

An insane murderer that’s who. I imagined the full scenario of him abusing me, and then cutting off my limbs with a chainsaw and throwing them into a plastic bag.

Dilly dally, dilly dally, DILLY DALLY.

I called my friend Amy to discuss. We agreed that it was possible he was gay though hard to tell because he had been so vague about the job description.

Gay people are not usually vague.

No.

Maybe he’s old fashioned.

We practiced saying the word in an old fashioned way. Tossing it off with a shake of the head.

Maybe he wears spats.

And does the Charleston.

We laughed, and then when it got quiet Amy said, you’re doomed.

…

Today is My Birthday

I am grateful for the following:

Morgan, Darla, Harry, Joan, Geoffrey, Bub, Don, Mary, Don, Lillian, Peter, Kim, Lightfield, Juliette, Brandy, Beau, Amy, Holiday, Matt, Rainn, Erin, Raf, Elizabeth, John, Josh, Dave, Victoria, Leslie, Dallas, Michelle, Holly, Ashley, Moon, Toby, Rose, Nancy, Erin, Geoff, Miles, Ryan, Madeline, Genevieve, Alexis, Lex, Arabella, Juliet, Gail, Lester, Daisy, Leroy.

Thanks for being there, laughing, giving, talking, healing, rooting for, believing in, supporting, singing, dancing, playing and thinking I can.

I am almost halfway there.

Expression X 4

Jill Watching Family Guy

Reading Room

Doesn't this look like a cool place to read a book? I found it here.