Saving The Drama For Her Mama

Last Friday, summer camp officially ended.

To mark the occasion, the counselors decided to stage a hip-hop dance recital, because after all, nothing says “I’ve had a great summer” better than a bunch of white Jewish kids trying to breakdance to the vocal stylings of Kanye West.

The NIGHT BEFORE (thanks for all the advance notice, counselors!) I was informed through the state of the art “crumpled note in backpack” communication method that I was supposed to pack a black t-shirt for her to wear as a costume.

The Girl hates black, so she didn’t have one. And because I didn't find the note until after the stores had closed, I couldn’t buy one. So I made a rookie mistake, stupidly assuming that she could just get through the entire two minutes that she was going to be on stage in one of MY old shirts.

The morning of the show, The Girl put me on notice that I had to be at camp by 6, an hour before the recital started at 7. This of course guaranteed that some coworker would decide they absolutely HAD to have a last-minute meeting, and since it was critical to have it THAT DAY, it of course started at FIVE O’frigging clock.

So I didn’t even leave the office until 6, prompting a white-knuckled Grand Theft Auto-style drive up the Merritt Parkway.

I walked into the auditorium exactly 5 minutes before the show started. I looked around and it was like I had stumbled onto a battlefield scene from Braveheart: face-painted anarchy. Wild-eyed kids were running around in various stages of physical undress (and emotional distress), waving their arms and shrieking at whichever dazed-looking parents happened to be closest by; whether or not they were their own parents didn't seem to matter.

I spotted The Girl, who was accessorizing my black t-shirt with a look of white-hot fury. The shirt was enormous on her; the sleeves hung past her elbows and the bottom was brushing her knees. Her mouth was stained with fruit punch and her hair was matted with partly dissolved cotton candy, giving her the appearance of a tiny, ferocious Courtney Love.

"YOU. WERE. SUPPOSED. TO. BE. HERE. AT. SIX!" she screeched at me. Manager Dad threw up his hands and gave me a look of You dug your own grave on this one, Miss Latey Laterson.

She stomped over and stretched her arms straight out and started whirling them around in tight helicopter circles, making the sleeves flap like gigantic mutated bat wings.

"This (sob) shirt (sob) is (sob) too (sob) big. (sob sob sob) I can't be expected to PERFORM in THIIIIIISSSSSSS!"

(Insert additional sobbing)

I looked around, desperate for an assist, but everyone was either scraping their own kid wreckage off the floor, or was deliberately avoiding eye contact. Finally, one of the counselors saw an opportunity to upsize their end of summer tip by helping me out.

He hustled her onto the stage, where her tears magically dried up and she danced her little heart out, bringing her role of pint-sized hip-hop-‘ho to life with a level of enthusiasm that made Manager Dad fear for her future commitment to chastity.

But I was in no position to complain. If a dash of pop culture misogyny can be THAT effective in curing emotional outbursts, bring it on. I will sell out my feminist principles faster than Jamie Foxx can drop a chorus of, "Git down girl, go 'head, git down".

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Triage

Things are going to be crazy these next ten days.

A very insightful woman that I once knew (who nonetheless had the unfortunate habit of speaking almost exclusively in the language of "cliche") once told me, "When you are juggling a lot of different balls in the air, you need to figure out which ones are glass and which ones are rubber."

Since I have already eliminated sleeping, my only rubber balls seem to be in either the "shaving my legs" and "blogging and the internets" areas.

So I am going to dust off a few vintage postings until I get back on track. I won't be able to read too many blogs either. But not because I don't love you...I'd give each and every one of you a big sloppy kiss if I could. With tongue, even. And I'll be back.

This post originally appeared here, and was created using child labor.



I'm sure THIS little project raised a few teacher eyebrows in The Girl's art class...

(More of The Girl's art below the fold...)

Someday, she'll realize that you don't ALWAYS need two people, thanks to the magic of electronic aids.

I'm not sure exactly what these love box items are, but I'm afraid to ask, because if she's been going through my drawers again I might have to answer some, er, 'probing questions'.

It helps to have a little something something to loosen things up and put you in the mood. Or to get you tipsy enough so that you can just lie back and think of the mother country.

When I was in high school, boys used "Drakkar Noir" cologne to serve this function.

Note to self: explain to The Girl (and especially someday, The Boy) that Love Pills are not a recommended method, unless you are looking to wind up in jail.

And that, my friends, is how the magic happens in the Manager Household.

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Whine And Sympathy

Day 4 of the 5-day bidness trip.

To date, I've been enduring repeated assaults by conference speakers who think that mumbling every single line on an 8-point type, chart-laden presentation is the path to corporate enlightment. I've been burning through Bullshit Bingo sheets at the rate of roughly 18 per session.

And I somehow managed to lose my bra - in my own hotel room. It was in the drawer when I went to bed but gone when I got up, apparently stolen by the same Underwear Gnome that lives behind our washing machine and eats The Boy's favorite cartoon-character underpants.

From a practical standpoint, the loss of the bra doesn't REALLY matter since it has been scientifically proven that I have the tiniest breasts in the world (and verified by the internet community - my #1 Google Search referral is from people entering "small breast mother"). However, I have to present to a large group of people tomorrow; from a confidence-building point of view, I'd prefer to holster the poached eggs instead of going commando.

But what really hurt was my last phone call home, when I found out that The Boy and I were no longer on speaking terms. He is angry with me for going away. And MD told me that The Girl has been taking my picture to bed with her because she can't remember exactly what I look like in person.

To make myself feel better, I went for a run, and spaced out listening to a playlist of self-pitying mopey emo songs. I came back to consciousness and realized that I had run six miles. All in one direction - east of frigging nowhere. Since it was getting dark, I had to run the six miles back and was feeling progressively crappier with every stride.

So when I finally made it back to the hotel, I vomited spectacularly all over the shiny marble floor. Right in front of a group of fellow conference attendees that were gathered for a cocktail reception. Those delicious fish tacos I'd had for dinner last night? Not nearly as charming during the encore presentation. And although the chunk-blowing was probably from overexertion, my hypochondria tells me otherwise. I'm pretty sure that I'm going to die from tomato-induced salmonella before I get the chance to atone to MD and Spawn for my absence.

I hope that doesn't happen. I'd like to leave Spawn with some heartwarming moments of actual togetherness, rather the fading impression of my voice on the other end of a cell phone. Although MD should make out pretty well, thanks to a hefty payout from my life insurance. I'm sure he'll find himself a new gold-digging slut on Match.com in no time.

Spawn WILL like me again someday. Won't they?

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Mobile Phone Mothering

Yesterday, I was on my way from the office to a business dinner with one of our vendors. As a general rule, I look forward to these about events as much as a drug-free root canal, but last night I was happy to be going because I got a night off from cooking and listening to everyone bitch about my meal selections, and the dinner was going to be at a really good Indian restaurant that I've been wanting to try, and the most exotic restaurant meal my offspring will tolerate is at California Pizza Kitchen so this was my best shot at ever getting to eat there.

So I was feeling guilty - not about missing an evening with the family, but about my lack of guilt about the missing of the the evening of the family, if that makes any sense whatsoever.

And then I spotted this:You're just going to have to trust me when I tell you it was the kickest-assingest rainbow I have EVER seen.

So I called home and told Manager Dad to hustle the kids outside so they could see it too. And they went outside and he put me on his cell phone speaker, and the kids were all noisy-excited sharing the pretty prettiness of the rainbow together, and the fact that I was only part of it through a staticky mobile phone connection instead of in person made me feel a little bit like this: But then I went and had a glass of wine or three and some tasty Saag Paneer with the nice vendor lady, courtesy of her company's expense account.

And I woke up The Girl this morning and she gave me a sleepy hug and showed me this:



And she said, "Mommy, I'm so glad that you called, or we would never have known to go outside and look at the rainbow. It was the most beautiful rainbow that I've ever seen."

So I guess I get to chalk this one up to the "good mom" column after all.

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