Badass/Lady

Yesterday at the Central Park Zoo, a mom was wearing a t-shirt that said: "Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History." It made me wonder: How do you get your children socialized while wearing a shirt with the opposite message?

And also, do you really have to misbehave to get shit done? This is a concept I have been thinking about since I read a New York Times article about Madelyn Pugh, pictured at left in that awesome chair, on which "Girl Writer" is printed under her name. (I want one like it, even though I'm not a girl anymore.) Madelyn Pugh was a writer for I Love Lucy. According to the author of the article, she was an excellent writer, and she know how to make the show's scripts realistic because she was a woman. She even went beyond her strict job description, trying out stunts to make sure they'd be ok for Lucy to do. It was said that she always behaved like a perfect lady.

Of course, at that time, it was not socially acceptable for women to be anything but ladies. Ladies had to be polite, sugarcoat their overly forceful opinions, and never appear in public without stockings. So Pugh was maybe smart to get her ideas across while conforming to the norms of her time. (On the flip side, this broad at left, lyricist Fran Landesman, was anything but a lady, and she seemed to have a great time, according to her recent obit.)

My mother raised me to behave like a lady, and I usually did. But when I discovered feminism and Ms. Magazine in high school, I decided that being a feminist meant rejecting those restrictions. Sometimes I equated being rude with strength, and I admired icons who seemed to personify that: Badasses, broads, foul-mouthed rules breakers.

That all seems very adolescent to me today, three weeks before I turn 50. In our increasingly vitriolic culture, what I aspire to is a strength that is also civil and respectful. Note: I said aspire to. My husband always says that I am not to be trifled with. Truly, I can be a bitch if the situation calls for it. But I usually regret it.

I hope that my daughter will become some combination of a lady and a badass. I am raising her to stand up for what she believes in. But she can get the point across, and maybe make history, without behaving poorly. At least that's what I wish for her.

Costco. No go.

I had never set foot in a Costco. Buying in bulk freaks me out. I love a sale as much as the next person, but that doesn't mean I want to stock up on 12 boxes of mac and cheese or 4 bottles of ketchup. Such excessive frugality makes me feel like I am suffocating. As if I have no options. Like, what if a delicious new brand of ketchup comes along, but now I can't get it because I have enough Heinz to last until Violet enters middle school? I've already committed to a man, a suburban house, these two kids and their bottomless needs, endless laundry--I need to feel like there are some choices left in my life. Even if they are at the market. Goddamn it.

My husband (immoderate buyer of the sale items pictured) heard good things about the reality show Extreme Couponing, and insisted I watch it whenever it debuted a few months ago. Why? I don't know. I detest reality tv; I detest bulk shopping. Four minutes into this poisonous mix, I felt claustrophobic. The premiere extreme couponer showed off a room in her home filled with shelves and shelves of neatly organized rows of detergent and hand sanitizer and what have you. She had insanely overbought with coupons. She said looking at all these purchases gave her "joy."

I thought of this ecstatic couponer when my husband got a bee in his bonnet about checking out Costco, and we had a family trip there one sweltering Sunday. My daughter clung to my hand as we entered the huge warehouse. People were exiting pushing carts filled with gigantic flats of paper towels, 900-pound bags of rice and towers of soda. I was mildly intrigued by the discounted wine and liquor and the thimble-sized free wine tastes. An area roughly the size of a city block was filled with some off-price men's dress shirts. I don't want to buy my husband's shirts where I get my spaghetti sauce. Gross. Soul crushing. I would go to a separate store for each item if possible. Wine at the wine shop, shoes at the shoe store, cake at the bakery, cheese at the cheese shop, etc.

I found the place post-apocalyptic. It felt like the world had ended and the only thing that survived is Costco, and everyone is grabbing what they can to survive.

"I'm scared, mommy," said my daughter.

Smart girl.

Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner

People can't stop talking about Dirty Dancing. From a post by my girl Lesley over at xojane, I learned there will be a remake with Lea Michelle cast in the Jennifer Grey role. A red flag, but I'll be first in line when it comes to the Bellevue Theater. I can't help myself. I've seen Dirty Dancing probably twelve times. At Sassy, we used to act out scenes from the movie, and try to force Mike Flaherty to play the Swayze role. (He refused.) I'm pretty sure I could recite the entire film to you right now.

I'm not the only one. In the pilot for the fall series New Girl, the character played by appealing Zooey Deschanel spends her post-breakup days on the couch crying and endlessly watching Dirty Dancing. Dirty Dancing was also referenced in Crazy Stupid Love, which Dalton and I saw last night. (Fun date movie, but Steve Carell gives me the heebie jeebies, so he and cute Ryan Gosling cancel each other out.) Ryan Gosling tells Emma Stone that he always gets girls to sleep with him by executing the lift from the final scene of Dirty Dancing. And then he demonstrates. I asked Dalton if he would do the lift with me. But he said it would throw his back out.

Reading Sunday Styles this am, I found a Dirty Dancing reference in the etiquette column, and a piece about grinding, the dirty dancing that actual teenagers have been doing for a decade.

I couldn't resist any longer. I am not made of stone, you know. So I went to you tube to watch the lift scene. It still give me chills. Swayze in that low cut cropped black shirt, adorable Jennifer Grey, the father seething in the corner. It's all gold.

I'm Not Proud of This

I was in a crabby mood at about 5:45 yesterday evening as we returned from an afternoon at the pool. Unloading bags from the car and picking up chip bags and crumbs from the back seat, muttering about the filth, I heard a female voice say "hello." I ignored it, because I thought it was a passerby answering her cell phone. But when she said my name, I looked up.

It was a woman in an "Environment New Jersey" t-shirt, the same persistent canvasser that inspired me to write the piece that started this blog and eventually made its way into the Complaint Box section of The New York Times. Was I having a nightmare?

"Christina?" she repeated.

"Yes," I said. "And no. No, I'm not interested."

My children were standing right there, horrified. They had spent the morning at our church's Peace Camp, learning to behave more peacefully. As had I.

"We just want to thank you for your past support," she said, a bit of a whine in her voice.

"I don't want to be thanked," I said. "I just want you guys to stop coming."

"We just knock on all the doors in town," she said defensively, marking something on her clipboard. (Maybe: "Insane, potentially perimenopausal, woman at this address.")

"I know you do," I said, slamming the car door. "And it's really annoying."

"Well, that's valid," she said, and went on to harass my neighbor.

The Talent Show Tribute to Sassy

How's it going? I just sent my husband and daughter off to the Taylor Swift show. Once my son finishes his baby carrots we'll be making some smores before I settle in with a New Yorker cover story that seems to be about how motherhood sucks the life out of you.

So there's this tribute show to Sassy in Brooklyn on Wednesday. Sadly, I can't go. But my former sister-in-law Jessica Vitkus will be performing a song my ex-husband and I wrote about my ex-boyfriend. I took care of lyrics and vocals, and my ex-husband took care of everything else. Jessica (who definitely sings better than I do) will be playing with a band called Supercute.

Damn, that sound fun.

Montclair Mom Proves to be Barrel of Laughs at Son's Sleepover

My son turns 11 on Wednesday, and he insisted on having a sleepover party. I tried to entice him with exciting alternatives like viewing Harry Potter on opening day. But he prevailed, with the hard-to-refute "it's only fair" argument, citing that my daughter had a sleepover for her last birthday.

The 6 guests arrived around 6-ish on Saturday night. They ran like wild around the yard playing laser tag, then began throwing water balloons. At around 7, my husband went to pick up the pizzas. I had implored him to have them delivered and not leave me alone with the boys, but damned if he was going to pay a delivery charge.

While he was out, a boy came running. "Someone stepped in the litter box and there's litter everywhere!" he announced. The second floor bathroom, was covered in litter and water from the balloons. The boy who had stepped in the box was super bummed to have litter on his feet. I was in the process of cleaning it up, when I heard the mother of a late arrival calling from the front hall. "Christina? Dalton?" Boys were wilding and there were no parents to be seen.

I went down and explained the litter situation to the mom. At this point, her husband was hit by a water balloon. He did not seem very amused. "Why don't you lock yourself in your room and let Dalton deal with the boys?" she suggested. "That's what I would do."

After the boys ate their pizza (one consumed 5 slices!), they went back to the yard. They were chasing each other, wielding hockey sticks as weapons and hurling soccer balls at each other. "Stop!" I yelled futilely. "Someone is going to get hurt." I went to find backup (Dalton). Upon my return, a boy was lying on the ground. My son had hit him hard with a soccer ball.

"I told you someone would get hurt!" I yelled maniacally. "Look what happened." In the cartoon version, flames would have been shooting from my nose, and smoke from my ears. There was silence for a beat. The boy rose from the ground. "I'm ok," he said. And he began running around again.

After the cake was served, I did retreat to my room. I know when I am beaten. Let me just clarify, these are incredibly nice 11-year-old boys, the best available, with excellent parents. But somehow when they are in a group, the boy energy spins out of control, Lord of the Flies style.

They went to sleep under protest at midnight, then rose at 5 demanding bacon. "No breakfast before 6 am," I said ungraciously. As if I would be going back to sleep. Later, as the dead pig sizzled in the pan, my husband served orange juice. "Chug! Chug! Chug!" the little darlings chanted. They sounded like the boys I lived with in a fraternity sophomore year of college, only less civilized.

21 Years

Today is the anniversary of my father's death. In his memory, I am reposting a piece I wrote last year on this date.

My father died 20 years ago today.

I still miss him.

Colon cancer killed him at 58. When they first found the tumor in his colon, he had surgery to remove it. During the operation I sat in the waiting room at New Rochelle Hospital with my mother. All I remember is that the surgeon came out when he was finished, and said: "It was very big. The size of a grapefruit. But I think I got it all."

The tumor had grown so large because my father didn't get himself checked for years. He had misdiagnosed the pain in his back. I remember him always having back problems. When I was 13 he was in traction, and to pass the time, he hand-hooked rugs. I still have a lovely floral rug that he made for me in my guest room. Sometimes he said his back problem was caused by an injury he got playing Gaelic football; other times, as I recall, it seemed to be related to a fall from a telephone pole. My father used to repair telephone wires for a living.

Finally they found the source of this particular pain, and so he had the surgery, and chemo, which seemed to cure him for a while, until it didn't.

He died right after Father's Day. I don't know why, but I bought him a large mahogany wall clock that year. He was so frail, and when he opened it, he sobbed a heart breaking sob. Why had I bought him such a gift?

Very near the end, he was thin as a rail, and he wanted a cigarette. My brother Robert could not deny him. I watched him smoking it, and he seemed a corpse already, but I knew that Robert had done the right thing.

I spent the night before he died at my parents' house, and I was able to tell him that I loved him, and he heard me. My family of origin is not big on "I Love You." It is so rarely spoken amongst us that I can barely choke it out, and if I do say it, it seems like some sort of breach of etiquette. People avert their eyes, then make jokes. We don't say it, but we know it.

The afternoon of June 23, 1990, it was sunny and beautiful, and my brother took a few of us, me and some cousins, out in the little motor boat that my father had recently insisted on buying for him. (For me, he had thoughtfully purchased an air conditioner for my stifling New York apartment.) The sun glittered on the water. We were quietly waiting.

When we returned a few hours later, my mother and my parents' closest friends sat around the dining room table. I glanced their way as I went directly to my father's bedside.

"Chris..." It was Mr. Maye, my father's lifelong best friend. He didn't need to say anything else.

My father's hands were folded on his chest.