Archive for March, 2005
I know I embarrass Abe. I’ll say anything to anyone, anytime. Not rude things – I just get so caught up in my own thoughts that I forget that those thoughts don’t need to be shared with everyone. Common victims can be anyone from my close friends to waitresses to my boss. The latter isn’t exactly preferable.
Today, it was Dunkin’ Donuts. If you are the mother of a teenage clerk at the Dunkin’ Donuts at the Swampscott Stop N’ Shop, your son is coming home tonight remembering the insane girl who freaked out.
I am that girl.
It began innocently enough. During our weekly grocery trip, I volunteered to get Abe some donuts – six donuts, in different varieties, at the Dunkin’ Donuts kiosk inside the store. I sidled up to the counter, announced that I wanted “Six *mumblesomething* mixed donuts,” and waited for him to fold up the box. The ‘mumblesomething’ is up for debate. While he was preparing the box, I scratched an itch on my side and noticed that I had inside pockets in my jean jacket.
Ooh! Pockets!
I became enamored with the pockets – had they been there all the time? Were they the result of a rip, or were they intentional? WERE THEY FUNCTIONAL? The possibilities of what I could do with those inside pockets laid before me like the Yellow Brick Road. I was a WOMAN WITH POCKETS. I examined the pockets closely – how were they sewn? What would they hold safely? Was it strong denim? If I used them, would I remember that the items were in the newly-discovered inside pockets, or was I better off not even bothering, despite their ample newness and functionality?
WHERE WOULD THESE POCKETS TAKE ME?
I was deep in Pocket Love, head buried in the sides of my jean jacket, my nose suspiciously glued to the area of each of my armpits, as my hands fished around the area like I was adjusting my bra strap. I noticed that it had fallen silent, and looked up to SIX DOZEN DONUTS and a teenage clerk staring at me, mystified.
“Um, what are these?”
“Donuts you ordered. Six Fast Dozen.”
“What?”
“Six Fast Dozen. That’s what you ordered.”
“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?”
“Huh?”
“Shit. I’m sorry. I was too busy focusing on my pockets. They’re new, you know – I mean not new, the jacket is old, but these pockets are NEW TO ME. I’d never seen them before. And I don’t know how to use them properly – I mean, would YOU use inside pockets or would you lose stuff in there – you know, like if you lost a pen and it leaked or you washed it or something. Or worse -ooh ooh, worse – a LIPSTICK. I mean, I could totally lose a lipstick in there and then wash it and hose an entire load of laundry. But I guess you wouldn’t lose a lipstick, unless you moonlight as a drag queen, which is totally possible and okay with me – you know, just in case. I mean, you never know. Not that I, um, think you ARE a drag queen or anything. You look totally normal to me – not that being a drag queen isn’t normal. I mean, what IS normal, anyway?”
I laughed a hollow, staccato laugh. For chrissake, I sounded like Beavis and Butthead. I COULD NOT BE STOPPED.
“So, um, you don’t want six dozen? You just want what, six?”
He looked terrified. Like he was dealing with a madman.
“Uh. Yeah. I’m really sorry. Six donuts. Is there such a thing as a Fast Half Dozen? You know, to make it fast?”
I snickered at my own horrible joke that was so not even a joke to this poor soul who packed up SIX DOZEN DONUTS. Beavis strikes again. Shut UP, Jonniker.
He glared at me like I’d just asked him to pop a zit on my back. “Sure.”
I turned, hard-won donuts in hand, finally, to find Abe, his head buried in a row of cheesecakes, his face an incongruous confused mix of horror and amusement, unsure of whether he should hug me, or run screaming for the hills in search of a new wife – one who JUST ORDERS DONUTS LIKE A NORMAL PERSON.
Who can blame him?
March 30th, 2005
I never had grandparents. My family isn’t one with a history of longevity, and most of my grandparents were dead before I even grew into an age where I was aware of other people. The only exception to this is my mother’s father – my grandfather, who drank himself out of the family, moved to the Virgin Islands with a 23 year old model and died a little more than 15 years ago. I don’t think he knew who I was or that I was even born.
When I met my husband, I was shocked to discover that three of his four grandparents were not only alive, but were extraordinarily active. Grandma and Grandpa are perhaps the most charming people I have ever met. I would do anything for these people.
When I first met them, they terrified me. For starters, I had just started my period and felt like shit. During dinner, which was attended by no less than ten miscellaneous relatives I was also meeting for the first time, I kept getting hot flashes, had a headache and would spontaneously break out into a sweat.
Adam did his best to assist by discreetly asking Grandma for the general direction of some Tylenol. She promptly looked in my direction and replied in the most fabulous Boston accent,
“Jauners, is it for you? You feeling okay?” I stammered that I had a bit of a headache. She noticed the perspiration gathering on my forehead, tut tutted and yelled:
“Oy vey, honey, you got your period don’t you? This looks like a period situation – SONNY! Get Jauners some Tylenol. She’s got her period. Is it very bad? Do you have cramps? Is it heavy?”
At the dinner table.
Because this inaugural meal was during Passover, cakes, cookies and other baked desserts weren’t an option – instead we were faced with chocolate covered strawberries. As we finished the meal, Grandma noticed there were several berries leftover – a mortal sin.
“ADDY! JAUNERS! There are some leftover berries here. Take the berries.”
“Nah, Grandma, we’re okay – we’re really full. You eat them!”
“ADDY! You and Jauners take them! You can feed them to each other tonight in bed, NAKED. It’s good for you. Sonny and I used to do that all the time, didn’t we, Sonny? NAKED and ripe, ready with the berries! Take the berries, Addy. Eat them in bed with Jauners, NAKED!”
I need to remind you that dude, we are still at the dinner table.
How can you not love a woman who isn’t afraid to talk about menstruation and sex at the dinner table with a total stranger?
Grandma isn’t doing so well. The cancer she’s had for the past year has taken its toll – she’s bedridden, has little short-term memory, and can’t stay awake for longer than 30 minutes at a stretch. She forgets things. She loses her way. She can’t walk. The last time she danced was at our wedding more than a year and a half ago. Shortly thereafter, she got sick.
I don’t know why it happened. I don’t know how he can go home at night without his “Bubs” after more than 60 years together. I don’t know how he does it. And I don’t know how to help him. I already miss her.
March 29th, 2005
“Jonniker, if you’re going to fart again, you’re gonna have to leave the room. I can’t live like this.”
March 27th, 2005
I cannot speak intelligently to men’s bathroom behaviors, but it’s no secret that women’s bathroom etiquette and general cleanliness is on par with the foulest of subway stations. I can handle a little mess and the stray poop in the toilet. Shit happens. We all have our moments. However, there are several phenomena that never cease to mystify me:
1) The Stray Pubic Hair. Like a plucked leg of a daddy long legger, it sits on the toilet seat, twitching in the wind, waiting for some poor, unsuspecting soul to cause enough upwind to blow it into a secret, less horrifying place. Where does it come from? Who is its owner? Is it lonely?
2) The Projectile Poop. You know what I’m talking about. How. Does. This. Happen.
3) The Hand Rinsers. People, as I’ve said, many times – this does nothing. It spreads the germs around your hands. You now have wet germs. Congratulations.
4) Camouflage Noise. If you are blowing your nose, frantically pulling at the toilet paper, or coughing, we know you’re pooping. Have you ever read ‘Everybody Poops?’ The title says it all. Everybody poops.
5) The Fake Handwashers. These people only wash their hands when other people are around, and I understand they are a legion.
6) Pee Fright. Shy Kidney. Whatever. Did you read ‘Everybody Poops?’ Guess what? Everybody pees, too.
7) Cleaning people who do not wash their hands after using the facilities – right in front of me. You. The chick I saw in the Lo Mein Bathroom. I know it was you. I saw you. Did you think you could sneak out? And then, to make matters worse, you peed, exited, and went straight to my office to ‘clean’ it with your Pee-Infested Hands. You spread Pee Molecules everywhere. I am not pleased.
March 26th, 2005
I loathe Kimora Lee Simmons. I’ve loathed her for years, even before this article gained her legions of enemies. Simply put, I think she’s tacky, classless and foul.
However, I love her husband. I love what he’s done for hip hop, I love Def Poetry Jam, I love Run DMC. I love me the Russell.
I didn’t always, frankly, because I didn’t know who he was. I grew up in Pennsylvania the epitome of uncool – I worked on a farm, played the oboe and clarinet in the marching band. You cannot be cool playing the oboe.
Hip hop culture missed our area entirely. We were too busy wearing mullets. We ROCKED the mullets. My high school boyfriend had a fabulous mullet. It was all about the mullets and hair bands. I’ve since learned that other areas called the mullet “Hockey Hair.”
Anyway, I had no idea who Russell was. When I met my husband in late 1999, I was introduced to a slew of new music – for unlike me, he did not spend his high school years marching in a busbie – and new artists. After watching a random show on television and hearing the name Russell Simmons bandied about, I asked him who he was.
He deadpanned that Russell Simmons was the CEO of Russell Athletic and had been around for decades innovating new and creative ways to wear sweat pants. I believed him and surprisingly, over the next year, lots of people would idly ask me who Russell Simmons was and I would proudly explain his many innovations and contributions to the athleticwear industry.
One day, I got busted. Russell Athletic had some kind of crazy financial crisis and ended up all over the news – and Russell Simmons was no where to be found. I actually got phone calls from friends asking what the hell happened to Russell? Well, what the hell DID happen to him, is what I wanted to know!
I’ve never believed a story he’s told me since.
March 25th, 2005
1) How it’s possible that I have to perpetually pee. This includes nighttime. For the love of God, I’m asleep by 11 and up to pee by midnight. I go out to lunch. Pee before I eat. Pee during meal. PEE AGAIN AFTER THE MEAL.
2) The appeal of 50 Cent. Dr. Dre, can you please explain what you were thinking here? For starters, the man cannot pronounce a single word properly. Not one. Secondly, his lyrics are beyond inane. Let’s explore…”I love you like a fat kid love cake,” and “If I got locked up and sentenced to a quarter century, Could I count on you to be there to support me mentally?” Right. Um…No. And let’s not forget the radio ADVERTISEMENT I just heard that set off this whole diatribe wherein he said – HE ACTUALLY SAID – “I got my pulse on da finger of da yoot o’ ‘Merka”
Right.
3) I forget. I HAD TO GO PEE AND LOST MY THOUGHT.
5) How I expect to lose weight when I find myself sitting in front of the TV eating Kraft Parmesan cheese with a spoon, watching Ashlee Simpson.
6) Why the bathroom in my office smells like chicken lo mein EVERY SINGLE NIGHT at 5 p.m.
7) Why this never fails to make me CRAVE CHINESE FOOD. We’re talking about the smell of lo mein in a public bathroom. I’m quite certain that it’s not actual lo mein in there.
Why I have to pee. Again.
March 23rd, 2005
This morning at 6 a.m., the cat, Cappy got himself jammed behind the bed and the wall requiring Adam to get up and pull the mattress away from the wall and physically remove the Cappersnapper from his unsafe hidey hole. From my perch in the living room, I heard something like this:
“Jesus Christ, *mumble mumble*….you fucking pain in the ass…*mumble* I was trying to sleep…*mumble mumble* What the fuck were you THINKING you little SHIT. WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!!! Ugh, you are a pain in the ass…you little bastard…*mumblesomething*”
Maybe we’re not as ready as we thought.
March 22nd, 2005
Lately I’ve fallen victim to a shocking phenomenon that both thrills and terrifies me at the same time – an obsession with Other People’s Children. If there is a baby within a 5 mile radius, and I can hear it, I will get up out of my seat and hunt it down like a heat-seeking missile. I’m COOING at strangers babies and staring at them with an intensity that would make even the most desperate B-celebrity think I was a stalking psycho. Mothers are going to start hiding their children from me out of fear that I will take their infants and stuff them in my purse, heading for my car, cackling all the way.
It is a justified fear.
I guess this is what a biological clock sounds like. Oh. My. God. I think it’s scaring Adam a little bit, and I hardly blame him. Aside from the obvious implications and terrifying prospect of having a wife who officially Wants A Baby, there is the practical consideration of having to rein me in constantly. Leave me to my own devices, and I’m approaching strangers while they’re having dinner with such coherent statements like, “Hi! How old is your daughter oops I guess I mean he’s a boy sorry about that and how is he sleeping and is parenthood really that good and are you glad you did it?”
I get all nervous and jerky, like I’m in junior high and I’m asking a boy out on a date. It’s ridiculous.
It’s just that I’m scared and excited and completely spooked. AND I NEED INFORMATION FROM ANYONE WHO WILL GIVE IT.
And I think about how it would change my relationship and it wouldn’t be just me and Adam anymore. And there’d be no more late mornings sleeping in, no more languid breakfasts at 3 p.m. spent at high-class joints like Applebees, no more movie night, impromptu day trips and vacations to random, childless places.
But then I see him in moments like I’m seeing right now – seeing him talk to our cat – OUR CAT – in a soft voice, watching him throw the ball and encourage him (yes, I know I’M TALKING ABOUT A CAT) to fetch it and bring it back and scoop him up and talk to him sweetly, I imagine that little black and white tussle of fur is an ACTUAL PERSON and my heart breaks into a million pieces.
March 22nd, 2005
“If I was a rich girl….na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na….see I’d have all the money in the world, if I was a wealthy giiiiiirrrrrl…. /THINK what that money could bring!/I’d buy everything/Buy out Vivienne Westwood in my Galliano gown”
Last time I checked, Gwen, you WERE a rich girl and I have a sinking feeling you wore Galliano to your own wedding. And are frequently spotted wearing Vivienne Westwood. And given that a pair of L.A.M.B. sweat pants – that’s right, folks, I said sweat pants – retails for something like $150, I really don’t feel like you’re in ANY position to discuss the possibilities and/or joys of being a rich girl in the future, “what if” sense. You’re already there. So shut the fuck up, wouldja? And pick better lyrics. I expected better from you.
Have you been hanging around Kimora? I’ll have to bone up on my celebrity friendships. If I hear that you were in New Jersey recently, there’s going to be some ass-kicking coming your way.
March 19th, 2005