January 17, 2012

Dear Babies,

“These idiots!” I exclaim watching “The Bachelor” like a fan shouting at the television during a game. There I sit on the couch open-mouthed, hinged forward at the waist, flapping my arms about in horror, “SHE’S IMPRESSED THAT HE HAS A KEY TO CITY HALL?? ‘WHO IS THIS GUY,’ SHE SAYS??? DOES SHE NOT SEE THE CAMERA CREW FOLLOWING THEM? DOES SHE NOT KNOW THAT ABC HAS PRODUCED THE WHOLE THING??”

And then when something else ridiculous happens, say, oh, just say one of the girls starts to cry*, maybe because she does not get a rose (*when they are actually not crying because it did not work out with said guy but they are crying for themselves, crying that this guy, and it can be any guy, any male figure, any “bachelor,” did not pick her, see the difference?), I say to your father–who I’ve officially dragged down with me and made this embarrassment to women and to the word journey one of our “shows”–again in disbelief, these idiots.

Meanwhile, here I am wanting something else to eat but not quite sure what…a dried apricot? A cookie thing? Some sort of nut?

…Feeling the bottom of this bench cushion I sit on in the kitchen that feels like it’s heated, but it’s not, but it feels like it is, heated like the seats in the car, which is impossible, right?

…Thinking I need to go change my socks. I had them on for a few minutes, then I took them off, then I put them back on. Ew, I said, wriggling my toes. But they’re not dirty. Why is it so wrong putting on a warm sock?

Why did I freak out before getting lost on the way to Babies R Us? As if getting there ten minutes later than expected would really throw us off schedule. Who set and keeps this time? It’s all me! Isn’t it ridiculous? Wouldn’t you just love to say, Mom, 11:30, 11:40, who cares? So, you cried a little as we got closer to lunchtime. I kept your mouths perpetually shoved with puffs. We were fine.

As we were fine when we got caught in the rain.

I was having a heart attack, fumbling with the belts and my thumbs to get you guys strapped into the stroller and out of the rain away from what, water?

Friday night your dad and I saw a Broadway show, Priscilla Queen of the Dessert. I loved it. “I’m in heaven!” I sang doing John Travolta finger points in the front seat on the way home in the car, “the disco music, the Madonna songs, the gays!” Baby, my heart is full of love and is hot for you-uu! “I miss the gays!” I said as if I’m Kathy Griffin, as if the two or three gay men I worked with professionally in magazines and at J.Crew added that much* to my former life. (*They kind of did. Oh, the humor…)

Saturday night we ran into friends at a restaurant and I gave my review. (There was that hot minute there when I did review theater for Seventeen. ??). “He wins!” I said pointing to your father, “He was the only straight guy within the vicinity! It was all gyrating naked men!” As we walked away, to my horror, I realized the table next to us was a subdued gay couple in v-neck sweaters who had been listening to my every word. My words like “flamboyant” and “ridiculous” that preceded my snickering “he wins.” It seemed like I was saying anyone who sees this big fat gay show loses–and not because there is no story to it, which is what I should’ve said, if I’d completed the thought–but because it was just that, gay. I wanted to go back to the table and what, apologize? Explain? Explain what, that I actually love “the gays!” I then drove your father crazy for the rest of the night, hemming and hawing and saying the most annoying thing, “But I feel so bad…

Solace comes in the thought that as I passed that couple Saturday night they’d turned to each other and said with a sigh, that idiot.

And as I peel off my otherwise perfectly clean socks, they would be rightfully so in that.



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