Monday, February 27, 2006
Improbabilities, Fatigue and the Desire to be Free
The cult-like dice game is a group of VERY saucy dames. The major criterion for a coveted invite, I believe, is a hollow leg. Check!
These dames can swill the sauce, lemme tell ya. But they also wield some very rapier wits, darts, barbs and jabs. They treat me like an innocent piker which, for those of you who know me personally, is probably hilarious.
There was talk of lipo, white girl hair extensions (who knew?), good boobs, flat roll up boobs, mini orgasms, weight loss and gain, midwyffery, and what to do with difficult children. All amid a steady flow of margaritas and cosmos. SERIOUSLY!
When I put Nick in Catholic school I envisioned myself as a perma-pariah amid a gaggle of Lily Pulitzer wearing suburban troglodytes. Not so! You seek your own level, as they say, and I have managed to find the smartass rebels! You see, the beauty of Catholicism is: It is the religion of the Italians and the Irish. PARTY!
Saturday I took the bambini to see my mother and that was nice.
Sunday was another improbable experience, Moira, Sheila and I took the younguns to see Clifford the Big Red Dog at the Warner Theatre. Mmmm hmmm. SCARY! There were lots of Washingtonian yuppies in evidence, “Abigail! Abigail!” “No, Jeremy, you may not have more cotton candy.”
I had no idea how the bambini would react/behave. It’s pretty much a crap shoot with any kid under 5. They did great! I was so proud. Ian sat there, rapt, and watched the whole thing. Daisy sat on my lap for most of it and clapped when she was supposed to.
It was emotional to see my kids loving the theatre—theatre was a big thing in my family—yes, a slightly psycho big thing. So to see their chubby cheeked little profiles, set against the ornate gold filigree of the Warner theatre, where I saw my first rock concert—Meatloaf--was sort of life cyclical. Yup. WEIRD! I also saw Lena Horne there with my whole family. Meatloaf, Lena Horne and Clifford. How’s that? It was also SUPER cute to see my lifelong compatriots, Moira and Sheila, all lined up in a row with all of our pups. It was fun. THANKS AUNT MOIRA!
We came home and it was kind of exciting because Nick went to “8 Below” with one of his friends, MZA stayed home and napped, and the bambini had their own special experience to share. We divided and conquered as a family and it was nice to all get together and debrief. You know?
We ate dinner at TV tables in the family room so we could see the closing night of the Olympics. (Real reason: So I could see the replay of my boyfriend, the lambchop Apolo Ohno, win his 500 meter race. Scrumptious!)
This morning came all too quickly. I can’t get out of bed anymore. I CAN'T GET OUT OF BED ANYMORE. The olde Clydesdale is fading, kids. I lay in bed this morning and thought, “Why can’t I get out of bed anymore?”
It reminded me of an old joke. This really old woman goes to the doctor and she tells him she has a big problem,
She says, "Doctor, I can't pee anymore."
He says, “How old are you?”
She says, “I am 95 years old.”
He says, “Ninety-five years old? You’ve peed enough!”
That’s it. I have worked enough. The olde Clydesdale is ready to be put out to pasture and chomp on oats and run free without the bit and the harness and the saddle.
FREE THE CLYDESDALE!
P.S.--As we were winding our way out of the parking lot after Clifford the Big Red Dog , I was behind a plodding green Range Rover (the Official Vehicle of Washingtonian Yuppies) and Ian, out of the quiet innocence of the back seat, piped up and said, "Could you go any SLOWER, knucklehead?!"
No idea where he learned such disrespectful epithets... |
Cynicism is another word for reality