Raw Drip

We spent the better part of the day trapped at home with the kids weathering Tropical Storm Fay.  Sadly playing into every female stereotype, Fay couldn’t quite make up her mind where to park and spent the better part of the last 24 hours breezily meandering around the Florida peninsula leaving a path of distraction in her wake.  For us, the worst part of the whole ordeal was Adam & Tabitha’s attack of cabin fever that struck at 10 a.m.  Once cabin fever set in, conditions inside our home deteriorated far more rapidly than those outside. 

*****

Like many fellow Floridians, Dick and I monitored the approach of Fay for the past week or so and as her track veered towards our area, we executed on our hurricane safety plans.  Dorky urban dwellers that we are at heart, we dutifully followed the advice in the local newpaper, bringing in our potted plants and other exterior decorative items that could become projectiles in a fierce wind storm.  We checked the batteries in our transistor radio and gathered together our canned goods & some basic first aid supplies.   In final preparation, we gassed up our vehicles and stocked up on non-perishable grocery items at our local warehouse club. 

As we marched out of the superstore, our carts overflowing with boxed gallon jugs of water, assorted batteries, and a lifetime supply of coffee, cereal, crackers & trail mix, I was stunned to see what our fellow shoppers considered “emergency” supplies.  Most other shopper’s carts were loaded with cases of wine, beer, hard liquor, potato chips and cigarettes.  One male shopper even bought a 56″ LCD TV to go along with the new generator and cases of Budweiser him and his children would undoubtedly need to survive the oncoming cyclone.  Clearly his was the kind of emergency shopping that occurs when you send your husband out to stock up on the necessities.

Of course, I can’t be too judgemental here.  There’s arguably a certain utility in all the beer, wine & liquor purchases - inebriation being one good way to get through a day trapped at home with small children.  But the thing that really mystified me was the lack of coffee? Not a single shopper was stocking up.   I mean no electricity, no water or snacks – all of that I can handle, but no coffee?  Now we’re talking Donner party…

My mother has always been a simple person; a middle of the road thinker prone to embracing the cliché.  For instance, my mother has never owned a white cat that wasn’t named Snowball.  To her if you have a white cat, then it should be named Snowball.  Her inability to think with any originality has always annoyed me, as much as my creative, dramatic side has always mystified her.  We are opposites, to say the least.   

Recently, my mother has embraced a new cliché; that of the retiree with the beloved pet.  The object of her infatuation, Freida, is an 8 lb mini-Schnauzer pup.  From the poorly lit photos I’ve seen of her, she looks to be the result of cross-breeding an Ewok with Gizmo.  Cute, if you’re into pets that look like demon spawn.

By my mother’s account, Freida is the most brilliant animal ever.  It’s mere happenstance that her extraordinary intelligence and positive attitude weren’t spotted by the dog talent scouts known to roam the Ohio countryside in search of the next “it” dog.  Beyond Freida’s obvious superiority to other canines, she’s come to provide my mother with constant companionship, an obliging ear and fierce protection.  I, on the other hand, am her inadequate daughter who lives too far away and only feels obliged to call occasionally.

Ever since Freida entered my mother’s life, our conversations are sprinkled with constant interruptions – mostly my mother’s annecdotes about all the cute (mundane) and (un)remarkable things Freida does.  During a recent conversation about a medical procedure I may need to undergo later this year, my mom repeatedly interrupted me to point out that Freida was chasing one of my stepfather’s tube socks around the iving room. 

“Oh, here comes my girl!  She’s such a frisky little thing – always playing.  You know, we just put her toy into an old sock and she’ll play with that for hours on end…”

“Yep.  That sounds like a puppy to me, mom.  So, like I was telling you about the test results…”

“Huh?  What was that, sweetie?  I’m sorry but Freida brought me her other toy that looks like a little mouse, and she’s swinging it around, and squeaking it and, oh my gosh it’s just the cutest thing.  You have never seen a dog as cute or clever as my Freida!”

“Mom.  Focus, please.  I’m trying to tell you about something important involving surgery, no less!”

“You know Freida’s gonna have to have surgery soon, too.  We want to get her all fixed up so no big, nasty boy dogs try to get their way with her.  You don’t want to be a ruined woman, do you girl – do ya?” 

I can only assume her rhetorical question was directed at the dog, since I was “ruined” a long time ago.

*****

My mother has owned numerous dogs, most of whom were relegated to a dog house.  As a teenager, I appealed to her for a dog that could live inside with us.  Eventually, she caved and bought me Benjamin, a white Shitzu puppy.  Poor Benjamin never stood a chance in our household.  My mother, overworked as she was, begrudgingly became his trainer and caretaker when I did as all kids do and flaked out on my end of the dog-care bargain.   I think she was just charmed enough by him to tolerate his constant grooming needs, but not so much that she wanted to take him out for a walk or play with him.  When Benjamin died many years ago after a long and painful decline, I knew my mother would probably never own a dog again.  She even told me as much, saying “dogs are too much of a hassle.”

Because my mother had always distanced herself from her pets – both physically and emotionally, I was surprised to hear that she went out of her way to get a pet.  The stray animal who manages to turn into a pet is something she’s tolerated before, but she actually sought out Freida.  I knew things between her and Freida were really serious when she revealed that she takes her out for walks.  Walking a dog is NOT something my mother does.  Chaining a dog to a post in the yard is more her style.  So when she told me that she walks Freida AND buys her the expensive organic dog biscuits, I knew things had gone too far.  As she proudly described her painstaking attention to Frida’s health, I recalled the dollar store animal crackers my children were forced to eat during their last visit and remarked upon the irony of Freida munching on organic, whole grain dog biscuits while my mother’s only grandchildren are fed cheap generic cookies chock full of chemicals.  For the record, this line of conversation doesn’t lead to good a place…

So what I am to do?  I must admit to a certain amount of jealousy.  I guess I feel a bit hurt and confused about the fact that my mother’s dog has taken on such a prominent role in her life.  Sure, I love my dog, too, but you don’t hear me talking about him all the time.  Heck, I don’t even give my kids that much air time.  I guess I’d always thought that our shared experience as mothers would somehow bring us closer together and that her grandchildren would be the object of all her affections.  With Freida-the-wonder-pup around, my kids and I don’t stand a chance.  We are NOT cute, obedient, quiet, and blindly loyal.  Although, from time to time my kids do take on all the charm of demon spawn. 

Truth be told, I guess another part of me is relieved to have the burden of my mother’s neediness – her oppressive desire for friendship - removed from my shoulders.  If we were naturally best friends that would’ve been a great and wonderful arrangement, but we aren’t.  To me, her role as my mother is the most cherished relationship we could possibly have – richer and more complex than any friendship.  Besides, I have many friends but only one mom.  I guess I just need to remind myself that mom’s had many dogs, but only one daughter.

The word is out. According to the AP John Edwards admits affair . How not surprising. Another wealthy politician in a sex scandal. I don’t want to brag, but I saw this one coming from a mile away…

I’ve found that there are certain stereotypes in life that tend to be true. The case of John Edwards seems to reinforce one of these stereotypes, mainly, the amount of “product” a man uses on his hair and/or body is directly proportional to the likelihood of him being a egotistical liar. Now, before you go and get all defensive, I know that being an egotist in and of itself doesn’t necessarily mean a man is a liar or a cheat (often he’s just a lowly braggart), but it seems to me that A) if you’re going to spend that much effort looking good, at some point you’re going to seek someone else to admire you as much as you admire yourself and for men, B) the most meaningful and pleasurable expression of admiration takes the form of sex. Unfortunately, when you’re a married man who’s pursued this circumstance, this will often lead to C) lying. It’s the simplest equation, really, A + B = C.

Back in 2004, when Edwards was on the Kerry ticket, I took one look at his thick manicured mane and I knew all I needed to know about his odds of making it to the White House. Eye candy VP’s just don’t happen. And that hair. It was way too perfect for a serious, intellectual man. Thick, dark and lustrous, he looked like he stepped off a box of “Just for Men” before walking up to the podium. The contrast couldn’t have been more apparent than during the Vice Presidential debates, when standing across from the Vader-like Dick Cheney, John Edwards looked like a cute frat boy who was all style and no substance. When Edwards surfaced again in the most recent presidential race, I thought the media was finally going to bust open the truth about what lies beneath all that glossy hair when they covered Mr. Edward’s $400 haircut earlier this year. But the media, being all style and no substance as well, only scratched the surface of the hypocrisy, never uncovering the whole truth lurking beneath the overpriced haircut.

Of course, much like many of the well-coiffed men out there, women invest enormous amounts of time and energy on their appearance. Why is that? For the most part, women know that getting a guy to have sex with you is kind of a no-brainer. All you have to do is show up.  So all of our efforts, many of them ridiculous and costly (botox?), must be intended to attract the attention of other women.  Earning the admiration and approval of a man is easy, but from a woman?  That’s just more of an accomplishment.

All I can tell you is that I can sit around with my husband unshowered, no make up on, wearing a stained, stretched pregnancy t-shirt from 3 years ago, gaucho pants that don’t look good on anyone, and I don’t give it a second thought. In the back of my mind I know that Dick, like most hetero men, is essentially a lazy creature. Regardless of my appearance, he has a certain emotional attachment to me, I happen to be female, and most importantly, I happen to be conveniently located. So while I may not be the sexiest looking creature, I’m handy – and availability trumps appearance every time. Besides, remove that stained shirt and those unflattering gauchos and there’s still a lot of good stuff underneath, right at his finger tips.

We can all agree that men are easy.  But the standards for attracting women are harder. The moment a girlfriend calls asking to drop by for a few minutes to borrow a blouse or a handbag, I am obliged to rearrange myself into the magazine cover image of a housewife, lounging at home – never looking fussy, just effortlessly well put together. A quick coat of mascara, some lipgloss, and a bit of underye concealer will get the face looking refreshed and a quick change of clothes to something more tailored will get you to the 50% mark. But the real payoff lies in the hair. If you can get your hair up into one of those cute little french twists or chignons (heck even a jaunty little pony tail will do) you can look as if you spent no time at all grooming yourself, thus reinforcing the most destructive and annoying sterotype of all – that of the woman who always looks as if she rolled out of bed, looking simply chic and naturally beautiful.

While most hetero men aren’t sophisticated enough to grasp all the subtlety required to successfully manipulate both genders via their appearance (see John Edwards), women do it every day. Meeting our dual needs for sisterhood and sex is, frankly, exhausting. So, when we finally find the time to get together we complain about it to each other – the dieting, the hair, the makeup, the clothing, the shoes, the men, and the relationships. Really, it’s a ridiculous, hypocritical ritual on our part, but we cherrish it nonetheless even calling it “Ladies Night Out.” Ladies Night Out. As if it were some sort of freedom! I don’t think I spent so much time getting ready for my wedding as I do prepping for a supposedly relaxing evening out with my girls.