Conversation

Giulietta Masina, La Strada

Do you think about things while you're showering or focus on your shower? he asked. She was combing out her wet hair, already anxious about going to bed too early. With wet hair. What? she asked, as was her wont. Or what. She had a hard time picking up the lower register of his voice, of any voice really. It was one of those things that she'd noticed in the last year or so along with the tiny age spots at the base of her right thumb. She wouldn't do anything about it. Do you think about things while you're showering or focus on your shower? She leaned over, picked up her clothes from the floor and dropped them into the hamper. I don't focus on the shower, she said. She felt vaguely irritated at the question. She wondered if she wanted to be unknowable. But I don't really focus on much these days anyway. He asked, What do you think about? What did she think about? The peeling paint at the top of the tiles, the gray spots on the ceiling that she couldn't reach to clean, her perpetual disappointment, the way the tile felt on her forehead where she rested it, the water streaming down her back. I cry in the shower sometimes she said. But not tonight. He put his phone down and turned to his side. She didn't tell him that she'd been thinking of Giulietta Masina's face in the Fellini movie, her devotion to the strongman, however cruel, how she climbed into the back of the carnival truck with the mermaid on the side to serve him, how she ultimately went mad, her love and devotion abandoned, all the magic and superstition and miracles.

Learning Not to Swear (Do I Really Sound Like This?)

Hey ya'll! This really cool guy, Ted Lyde, asked me to come and have a conversation with him. This morning we talked for over an hour about all sorts of things.

You can listen to it at this link.

Talking with Boys, Part 759

Henry, your face looks wonderful! Your skin is all cleared up!

See, I told you Mom. Picking at it constantly works.

After-School Conversations

I caught Sophie lying like this and listening to Eva Cassidy singing Imagine.  Still life with cup and purple ball.

Imagine all the people living life in peace

I caught these guys in their version of conversation, responding to my own shout from the living room. Here's how it went:

ME:

HENRY! What's the deal with you leaving your socks in the living room at night when you take them off? THERE ARE AT LEAST THREE PAIRS LYING ON THE FLOOR AND YOU NEED TO CUT THAT OUT!

HENRY:

Oh, yeah. Ha ha ha ha ha. Ok, MOM! 

OLIVER (interrupting):

Yeah, Henry, you're such a pig! You leave your boxers in the bathroom every morning after your shower. I like to pee on them!

SOUNDS OF PROTEST AND MUFFLED SCREAMS

ME:

YOU GUYS! PLEASE! ENOUGH!

OLIVER:

HE'S KILLING ME! HE'S KILLING ME!

HENRY:

You can't just pee on my clothes! You can't even say that you did!

ME:

YOU GUYS! PLEASE! ENOUGH!






Five minutes later.

HENRY AND OLIVER:

See you later, Mom. We're riding our bikes up to the video store.

Riding in the Car with Boys and Other Stuff

to Elizabeth L.

This morning I had an exhaustive conversation with several LAUSD worker bees because despite it being only the third day of the 2014-2015 school year, and the sixth year that Sophelia Bedelia has attended this school and therefore the sixth year that she has ridden the bus in the afternoons, there are problems. I've told you before that we refer to the Special Education Department of the LAUSD as                                        D O W N T O W N because for as long as I've known it (which is going on seventeen years!), whenever there are problems, anyone who works for the LAUSD blames it on  D O W N T O W N.

Like today. Apparently, DOWNTOWN has eliminated the position of SPED coordinator at our school because -- well -- who knows why? We had a rather nice and efficient coordinator last year, a welcome replacement for the retired Wicked Witch of the West, but I guess it was asking too much to see some continuity. I believe he has been shuffled back to another classroom and a new person is temporarily in the school office, but she obviously had never heard of Sophie nor did she know anything about her IEP, the wheelchair bus request which is in the IEP and the fact that the aide assigned to ride the bus with her was also assigned to ride with another kid who is apparently quite a handful. I'm not going to belabor this clusterf**k and tell you everything that has transpired because it's boring and very first worldish, but I kept Sophie home from school today so that the new bee could figure out the problem, and after the telephone call I felt overwhelmed and crazy again because remember: It's the small stuff that is going to kill me. I calmed myself down by imagining a trip to D O W N T O W N where I imagine I'd find some nasty little man behind a curtain, sort of like Oz.

Anywoo. Let's move on to riding in the car with boys.

Today's conversation and arguments revolved around Burpsnarts. The Brothers were actually arguing over Burpsnarts, which they explained are when you burp, sneeze and fart all at once. I repeat that they were having a conversation and actually arguing about this, and while it didn't come to blows, I fantasized a bit about slowing down and jumping out. Because I am a responsible woman, though, I refrained from it and in my mind thought about dining out with James Joyce and Nora and then getting on a private plane with my friend Elizabeth and moving to Bora Bora.

Riding in Cars with Boys, Part 43

I'm so grateful to have these boys. It's been my experience that boys are -- well -- simple. Today we drove about the neighborhood, doing errands, shooting the shit or breeze or what have you. Hey, Oliver! I said, Who do you want to invite to your poker/blackjack party? Since Oliver got back from camp, he's obsessed with playing blackjack, wants one of those poker sets and in an attempt to keep him happy and engaged with his friends from his old school, I came up with the brilliant idea of a small party. He loves the idea. We can have a bunch of guy food, I added, picturing buffalo wings, chips, something fried. I miss throwing kid parties -- it was something I did with a wild abandon when my three were younger. I'm not kidding. I love a theme, too. What do you think girl food would be, Henry wondered. He might always be thinking of girls. Probably gummy penises, said Oliver, and they both started cracking up while I narrowly avoided swerving into oncoming traffic and screamed.

Fishing and Plumbing

All this waiting and talk of miracles makes me nervous, so let's bring it back down to the everyday.

I'm enjoying going back through photo albums, of which I have many, and especially as my boys get older and bigger and more -- let's say it -- teenagerish, I'm trying to remember what it was like back then -- in the olden days. Those two boys right there are growing up, and they're taxing me more than I can elaborate on the old blog. Let's say this, too: they don't kiss each other anymore, and their interaction with Sophie is minimal. I think about it every single day but write about it even less -- the toll the seizures have taken on those boys.

Wouldn't it be incredible if Sophie's seizures stopped? I said to Henry yesterday as we got ready for dinner. (By the way, she only had a scattering of seizures yesterday and was otherwise quite calm, if a bit sleepy.)

 I want her to talk, Henry said. He hasn't said that in a long time. When he was small, he wished on birthday cakes and threw coins into fountains with that wish. He whispered it into my ears and probably Santa's. During the first couple of years of Catholic school, when he got a bit Jesusy, he told me that he prayed every night that Sophie would talk. When she didn't talk, he told me that he didn't believe in God, and I told him that I understood but that we don't ever really know why things happen and why they don't. I don't know when the desire for her to talk or the wish that she'd be "normal," began to fade for him, but I imagine it's happened as subtly as he has grown up and away from the boy you see in that photo.

Do you want her to talk so that she seems more like a normal person? I asked him. Asking questions of a fifteen year old boy is like fishing or maybe even plumbing. You put the bait on the line and fling it out, far. Then you start reeling in, slowly, before you lose your concentration or nod off. When things get stuck, you need to put your hands on your hips, cock your head and just look around, first. There's no telling whether it's just stopped up from everyday stuff or there's something more insidious, like tree roots and dirt in the mainline. I can fish and plumb with line and snake.

Sort of, Henry answered. I really just want to know what she has to say.

About the marijuana? I asked, or whether the seizures bother her?

About everything, Henry answered. I want to know what she thinks about it all.

Boy Conversation #2,368,921

There's a constant war going on in the car between The Power That Is (that would be myself, The Driver) and the Big O. It involves the radio. I prefer KCRW -- both the talk part and the music. The Big O prefers KISS FM which plays the same three or four songs over and over, although sometimes he'll switch to the station that plays fairly decent "old" rock and roll or another pop station that plays one or two songs over and over in between commercials. This morning, I managed to keep The Big O from twiddling with the dial because of an enthralling episode of This American Life, a story that recounted the discovery of pork bung masquerading as calamari. Pork, what? The Big O asked, incredulous? Bung, I said, evidently a slang term for rectum. He still looked confused. I stared straight ahead and said, you know, butt. For once, the Big O was quiet and listened avidly. He didn't touch the dial. When it was over, he shook his head and said that can't be true. That's just stupid.

Later, as we waited in the drive through line at In 'N Out, he switched the station from KCRW to KISS FM which was playing the song of that guy, according to The Big O, that Miley Cyrus had twerked to. I pretended to not know what twerking was, mainly to see if he really knew (which he did), and then I asked him what he thought about that whole incident and he replied the following, quite priceless answer.

Mom, you know it was MILEY CYRUS? You know her, right? First she was Hannah Montana? Then she started singing? Then she got old? Now she's twerking? 

He shook his head. I felt compelled to tie together pork bung, bad pop music, the perils of old age and twerking, but I refrained and shook my head. That can't be true, I said, that's just stupid. Oliver turned that guy off so we could roll down our window and order our lunch.

Stealing Jimmy Dean

Bonnie Parker, 1934

The woman in front of me in the check-out line had at least thirty cans of dog food on the conveyor belt. She was dressed in tiny shorts and a tee-shirt, her hair too blonde for her age, her voice brassy and loud, too loud for the grocery store line at 10:00 pm. I felt judgmental. I had promised The Brothers that I would buy some of those frozen biscuits with sausage and cheese for this morning's breakfast. The Brothers have to take onerous state standardized tests this week, so a hearty breakfast is in order, and the crap will ease their hearts if not sharpen their brains. The cashier was a buoyant young man, trim and neat, and he kept up a constant stream of chatter as he scanned each can of dog food. What kind of dog do you have? he asked the lady. Oh, he's a mix, she replied. What's his name, the cashier asked. It's Salad, the lady said, and then quickly added that her dog had seizures and that's why they called him Salad. The cashier looked blank but laughed quickly and loudly when she clarified. His name was Caesar, but he started having seizures so we call him Salad, now. As the cashier put the last can of dog food into the woman's bag, I pulled out my pistol and shot straight through the can with such force that dog food splattered both cashier and customer who were both struck dumb as I picked my way through the mess and walked out of the store with the Jimmy Dean sausage biscuits stuffed into my bag. I nodded at the thin sliver of moon that shone down on the parking lot, stepped into my car and peeled off, toward home.

LA Conversation

Maypole Dance, California, 1900s

The boys and I walked with Sophie up to our nearby Yogurtland. While standing in line, balancing Sophie and enduring the stares, I overheard two little girls talking to each other. No more than three or four years old, they had just gotten out of a nearby dance studio and were dressed in tutus and tights. The dark-haired girl had a frilly red gauze skirt that looked like a cross between Black Swan and Carmen Miranda. The blonde was dressed in a traditional pink ballet tutu. The mother of the blonde was your typical harried Los Angeles mother -- I conjectured that this was her only child, and her nanny hadn't shown up that day at work. The dark-haired girl was squired by a very handsome metro-sexual who looked faintly European. I conjectured that he was a screenwriter from Brazil, married to a studio executive.

Dark-haired girl: Hi! Did you just get out of dance class?

Blonde girl: Yes! Hip-hop?

Dark-haired girl: Yes, hip-hop! What's your name?

Blonde: Gemma. What's your name?

Dark-haired girl: Amaranth


Take this exchange wherever you want.