the pieces of my life

Gebre Gebremariam finished today in 2:08:14. I finished today in 2:00:47. Impressive, no? We’ll just overlook the fact that Gebre ran a marathon and I was running a half marathon.

I wasn’t in the mood for my run today. I wasn’t trained, I wasn’t feeling up for the hour and a half drive to get there, and I certainly wasn’t in the mood for a 13.1 mile run. But I did it. Because I am a glutton for punishment. I was so disappointed not to run Chicago this year, that I wasn’t going to let myself miss my annual half marathon. I made it up in my Chicago training to  18 miles, but my podiatrist had given me a brace for my foot and I found when I wore it, my knee would hurt. So I abandoned my marathon dreams for this year. I wrestled with it–what was I trying to prove? It’s not like I haven’t run a marathon before–but it still bothered me. My running became lackluster. Today’s half sucked pretty badly. Some races you run and you think, “This is amazing! I’m strong, I’m powerful, I’m feeling good!” Today all I could think was, “This sucks this sucks this sucks. What the F do I run? This sucks. How much longer?”

The scenery was beautiful, but it was seriously chilly and windy. The tide was so high that the waves crashed onto the street, making for wet toesies. But I just didn’t like it. Not enough to pull a Haile Gebrselassie, who has decided, at five years younger than me, that he’s too old to run. But enough that I’ll be taking a little break from serious running. I need to embrace my strengths. Like drinking. I’m a great drinker. So I’ll stick with that.

So here I am at my old post by the door, waiting to give out candy. I really hate Halloween. Seriously. Growing up it was stressful–“What will I be? What will I be?” in the days before the online Halloween costume stores was angst-inducing. My mom would end up throwing a sheet over me and calling it a day. And now? I find costumes annoying. I eat too many miniature Heath bars. My kids–like all kids–go door-to-door begging for candy that they’re not even going to be allowed to eat. (At least at our house, the Switch Witch still comes, so the kids get something for their chocolate-y bounty). It’s a freakin’ dumb holiday.

As Adam is forced to do the dirty work of following the kids around, I get to sit and relax and think about what I’m going to write about starting tomorrow, as my friend Brian has convinced me to Nano again, and I haven’t a single idea. Oh, what, I should finish my old novel? Yeah, that would be a good idea. But instead I’ll start something new (okay, the old novel is 98% finished and I need to get out my query letters, but let’s not go there now). Got an idea? Send it to me!

But now–oh wait, there’s the doorbell!. Okay, I’m back. Now, I’d like to discuss Rocky Horror with all of you. Glee this week was all Rocky Horror, as all you Glee-heads know. My husband–and this will come as no surprise to you–hates Glee. I mean with a passion. But for me, well I–and this will come as no surprise to you–love Glee. Love. Love, love, love. I aspire to be Sue Sylvester. Glee rocks on so many levels.

This week’s episode proved that once “Toucha Toucha Touch Me” is in your head, no amount of time will erase it. It just comes back. (You might find this shocking, as well, but Adam also doesn’t like Rocky Horror.) But what is really upsetting is when I realized it’s been thirty–yes, thirty!–years since I first saw the movie. It was a lovely fall night, much like tonight, that I went to see it, a young twelve-year-old “virgin” waiting to be introduced into the ways of Brad and Janet. We had a sleepover at Liz Newcomb’s house, and the whole troop of us went. To the midnight show. We walked there. The group of us. The group of twelve year olds. At midnight. Is anyone else getting this? All our parents sanctioned us walking to the midnight showing of Rocky Horror. Ah, 1980. Free wheelin’ fun.

The movie was amazing. Every little thing impressed me, from the flying toast to the dressed up folks lip-synching every word. Did I know what a transvestite was? I don’t think I did. Did I have any idea what Janet was singing about? Not a clue. But it was fabulous.

The thing is, Liz Newcomb, who was a year older than me, was a thirteen year old who looked about eighteen. And her boyfriend was about eighteen. His name was Rat. I kid you not. And Rat’s job was he was the manager of an arcade. Truly, truly. So after the movie, we all headed over to the arcade. Where Rat opened every single machine and flipped some little buttons so we had free games all night. Make that morning. Someone ran to the store and bought a huge box of donuts. And we ate. And played games. All freakin’ night. We were the coolest kids on the planet. This night was a defining night of cool for me.

Until we got back to Liz’s house. At 5 a.m. And all of our parents were there. Because apparently, while we were sanctioned to see the midnight show of Rocky Horror, we apparently were not sanctioned to disappear for three hours to God know’s where in the wee hours of the morning. (Note to any of my young cousins who might be reading this: We had no cell phones. I know! How did we function!) Parents were called, as were, I think, the police. Because apparently five 12 and 13 year old girls not coming home at 2:30 a.m. is cause for worry.

My parents weren’t pleased. I think I was grounded. But to their credit, they were curious enough about the whole thing that they came with me to a midnight show of Rocky Horror a few weeks later. And they came again, once or twice.

I’m over Rocky Horror, although the music still gets my hips a shakin’. And I’m not letting my kids out unsupervised in the middle of the night when they’re twelve.

But you know what? I can still kick your ass in Centipede. Thanks for that, Rat. Happy freakin’ Halloween.

I love it when my girly girl goes tough! Hockey season has started!

I’m puttering around the kitchen, listening to the girl babble.

Pie: I’m going to Dartmouth, to Dartmouth. I’m going to go to Dartmouth.

Me: That will make Daddy happy.

Pie: Dartmouth, Dartmouth, I’m going to Dartmouth!

Me: Why don’t we call him and you can tell him that?

Pie: No! If we call Daddy, I’m just going to tell him that I’m going to NYU!

People have asked me, “Why are you in therapy? You’re so together!”

This morning I noticed a status update from my mom on Facebook. It read:

“Carol K. Brown Anybody in the Miami area have a rifle (unloaded) or toy that looks like a real rifle that I could borrow for something I want to photograph? Or a nasty looking gun?”

I think that pretty much sums it all up!

Our DVR is so backed up that it’s randomly deleting stuff. I don’t like it when my stuff is randomly deleted. I told Adam to get me one with more GBs. He said there wasn’t one. So now we’re on a mad dash to watch all the shows we’ve saved. Which means I get to blog, because Grey’s Anatomy is on our list and I can only watch the non-gory parts. Adam tells me when it’s safe to look, and I’ll chat with you guys when it’s gross. I think we’re pretty close to done with the show.

It’s the end of the weekend, although we really don’t have weekends anymore. Hockey has started. The boy has hockey now twice a weekend and next week the girl starts, too (at different times). That plus Hebrew school plus drum lessons plus the usual birthday parties (two this weekend) and playdates (two this weekend), and weekends are pretty much kaput.

I’ve been working the haus frau thing to the max. We went apple picking a couple of weekends ago, and the kids wanted the BIG bag for apple picking. “What are we going to do with twenty pounds of apples?” I asked. “Puh-lease!” they begged. We caved. This was the first year when the kids did all the picking. In the old days, they’d pick for five minutes and then we’d take over. Not this year. They were picking machines. We had to stop them when the bag was overflowing–definitely more than twenty pounds.

And I used them. Every freakin’ last one of them. I used apples in salads, apples with peanut butter, apples in oatmeal. I made apple butter, apple sauce, apple-pumpkin muffins, apple-apple muffins, apple crisp, mini-apple pies, apple fruit roll-ups.

What else can I tell you while Dr. Altman does her heart surgery? Pie has reverted back to impossible bedtimes. It’s gotten to the point where tonight, as she was whining her way upstairs, that Doodles shook his head and announced, “This is not going to end well.”

The boy lost a front tooth. He tortured me with it for a while first–pushing it out of his mouth at odd angles–but it finally came out. He put it under his pillow. The tooth fairy came. She left a dollar and a note. Unfortunately, she wrote a joke in her note (Why do vampires brush their teeth three times a day? So they won’t have bat breath). The next morning, the accusation came: “Mom, you left it, didn’t you?”

Me: Why would you say that?

The boy: Because there was a joke in there and you know lots of jokes.

Hmmm. Didn’t think about that. I leave jokes in lunch boxes. The tooth fairy leaves jokes in her notes.

Me: Well, what was the joke?

The boy: Why does the vampire brush his teeth?

Me: I don’t know. Why?

The boy: Um… what was it? Oh, because his teeth are batty.

I could honestly say: I’ve never heard that before! Nope, not me.

He better watch himself. Next time, the Tooth Fairy just might leave him apples.

Let me preface this post by saying I’m on a train to Poughkeepsie, I’m severely hungover, and I’m sitting next to two backpackers who wish to perpetuate the stereotype of Europeans and their dislike of frequent showers.

So as most of you know, I have my children’s lives plotted out down to who they’ll roommate with in college. And up to now, everyone’s pretty much accepted it.

And then, yesterday:

Pie: I’m not going to school here.

Me: Of course you are. You’ll go to Tisch just like your mommy. You’ll live with Mimi, who’s also going to school here [a bonus about being friends with me: I’ll also plot out your kids’ lives].

Pie: I don’t want to.

Me: Yes, you do. The school color is violet. Purple is your favorite color.

Pie: I’m going to go to school in Arlington.

Me: Sweetie, there are no colleges in Arlington. But you don’t have to worry, because as soon as you come to NYU for school, we’ll be moving to New York, too! That way we’ll be right near you at NYU and really close to your brother at Princeton.

Pie: I’m not going to NYU and I’m not living with Mimi!

Me: Oh?

Pie: Yes! I’m going to Princeton and I’m living with Doodles!

Doodles: Oh man! I don’t want to live with Pie in college!

Me: Oh hush. It’s a wonderful idea! Absolutely, Pie. You can go to Princeton and live with your brother.

Doodles pouts. Pie is happy.

Pie: But you can still buy me a purple NYU shirt. I’ll still wear it.

Me: Oh joy.

This is what happens when you forsake the GPS Lady in favor of the Google: A four-hour drive turns into a five-hour ordeal that still has hours to go.

The GPS Lady wanted us to take 84 to 91, which gets you off 84 pretty far north. The Google wanted us to take the Hutch. Which means miles and miles and miles of 84. No problem. Unless there’s a shooting on 84 that shuts the highway down on both sides for ninety minutes.

Freakin’ Google. Of course we left a full 40 minutes late because Pie decided to have a little temper tantrum about going, so the extra hour on the Pike didn’t help.

Once in the car, Pie took a two-hour nap. Then she got carsick, which necessitated a Coke. Which means I’ll have the Daughter Who Doesn’t Sleep in the City That Doesn’t Sleep. Thank God she’s willing to come out with me for martinis later.

We are all totally punch drunk. The boy is trying to sleep and the girl is trying to talk. She’s done math in the backseat (“2 + 2 + 2 = 6. It’s the same as 3 + 3”). Periodically she checks in on the shooting: “Shooting a policeman is a bad idea. It’s like the Libyans,” which took a little deciphering to understand. Finaly she says, exasperated, “Like in ‘Back to the Future'” and of course Michael J. Fox goes back in time because Libyans are shooting him. So we have to, once again, explain why the Libyans were shooting at Michael J. Fox and at that point I turn up my iPod, which then leads to me explaining what “bitch” means. One of these days I’ll censor the songs on my iPod but given that we have nightly dance parties to Cee Lo Green’s “F You” song, that might be a bit like shutting the barn door after the horses are out.

Where was I? Oh yes, punch drunk and trapped on a highway. Freakin’ highway. Freakin’ Google. 38 miles till my martini. Follow the olive-paved road! Follow the olive-paved road! If there’s only a beer behind the curtain, I am going to be pissed!!

I’m tormenting my children. We’re having a French drain system put into our basement, which means all of our subterranean belongings need to be brought up to daylight and stored in a pod. That’s right a pod. Not just any pod. A pod the size of Saturn. For some reason, my husband deemed it necessary to store a room’s worth of belongings in a pod that looks like one of those portable buildings all South Florida schools had when I was a kid–portables that fit 30 kids, a teacher, desks, and wall posters that reminded us of hurricane procedures.

So what do you do when you have a freakin’ fifty foot pod in your driveway? Why you talk about pod people. Of course.  I explained it the best I could: “These bodies! They’re people… but they’re not! You go to sleep at night. And you wake up a pod person! You look like you. But you’re not you. You’re a pod person. ” Could you resist? I don’t think so. Do I need to tell you it’s biting me in the ass because it just means I now have two little people in my bed at night? And I’m thoroughly creeped out because I can’t stop thinking about pod people.

Adam (who is one of Boston’s top 15 innovators, thank you very much) is currently on the left coast and the pod is out there mocking me and I should really, really go to sleep because I’m was so tired today, but now I’m completely wound up because the Dolphins/Patriots game is on and you know I’m not going to sleep till the fat linebacker scores.

Speaking of football, I do  love that I’ve taught the girl to trash talk her kindergarten teacher’s assistant. I got a report that Pie gleefully went up to her and taunted, “The Patriots are GOING DOWN!” The boy may have gone to the dark side (but only when I’m around) but the girl is a loyal Dolfan.

Ugh, I get so worked up over these stupid games. This is why I had to give up football. Because it makes me tense. I don’t like being tense. The only thing worse than being tense is having my father say, “Why don’t you be past tense?” which just takes my tenseness to the next level. Maybe it makes me present perfect tense. Because I have perfected tense.

Okay, you all don’t know this, but it’s been about a half hour since I was writing, a half hour in which I had to pour myself a big f’ing glass of wine because my beloved Dolphins are F’ING UP BIG TIME! Do you know what it’s like being in enemy territory all the time? They need to freakin’ win for me. They owe me.

This game is painful. I should just go to sleep. Because it’s painless you know. I just need to give in to the pretty space flowers.

“Less than a month ago, Santa Mira was like any other town. People with nothing but problems. Then, out of the sky came a solution. Seeds drifting through space for years took root in a farmer’s field. From the seeds came pods which had the power to reproduce themselves in the exact likeness of any form of life…Your new bodies are growing in there. They’re taking you over cell for cell, atom for atom. There is no pain. Suddenly, while you’re asleep, they’ll absorb your minds, your memories and you’re reborn into an untroubled world…Tomorrow you’ll be one of us…There’s no need for love…Love. Desire. Ambition. Faith. Without them, life is so simple, believe me.”

One of us… one of us… one of us.

Must get more wine. Don’t talk to me tomorrow. It won’t be pretty.

Doodles: So you went to film school?

Me: Yes, I did.

Doodles: And you studied acting?

Me: No. I studied filmmaking. To study acting you went to acting school.

Doodles: So what did you study?

Me: Directing. Screen writing. Editing. Animation.

Doodles: So how come you became a regular writer?

Me: When I got out of school I realized I liked regular writing–prose, it’s called–more than screenwriting.

D: Did you show your movies to the public?

Me: No. Just to my class.

D: How come not to the public?

Me: There was no way to do it.

D: YouTube.

Me: There was no YouTube when I was in school. There was no Internet.

D: What do you mean?

Me: I mean it hadn’t been invented yet. There was no Internet. No e-mail.

D: So how did you get in touch with people?

Me: I called them.

Pie: Or you could write them a letter!

Me: That’s right. I could write them a letter.

Doodles: But no Internet!

Me: Nope. None. No YouTube. No e-mail. No Club Penguin.

Doodles: Wow. Just wow.

Wait till he finds out we had only four channels and we had to watch shows when they were live on TV! Bring towels, though. I think his head might explode.