Random Esquire

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

I have, for as long as I can remember, believed that I found out that Santa Claus isn’t real when my sister and I snooped in a spare bedroom closet and saw the huge Santa Claus suit hanging inside. But I was not sure how old we were. So I decided to ask my mother last night, while we were taking bites out of the cookies my niece and nephew left out for the fat man.

Me: “How old were we when we found out that Santa isn’t real?”

My Mother: “Hmmmm, I think 4 and 5.”

Me: ”Ohhh, we were just snooping, I guess? When we found the suit in the closet?”

My Mother: “What? That’s not how you found out…”

Me: ”What? I thought that’s how…? We were snooping in the spare bedroom closet and saw the Santa suit?”

My Mother: “No…It was Christmas Eve and Santa came to the house and his pants fell down.”

Me: *Blink* “What?”

My Mother: ”His pants fell down and then you knew it wasn’t Santa.”

Me: ”I can’t …I can’t help but feel that you’re leaving out some crucial details. It’s really weird that we would know it wasn’t Santa once his pants came down. Right? Like, that seems like some sort of red flag.”

We had these older next door neighbors whom my sister and I called Grandma Kay and Grandpa Lou. My sister vaguely remembered that Grandpa Lou had dressed up  like Santa that year.

So then I started to think about it and I could remember a picture from one of our photo albums of my Grandpa Lou dressed up like Santa but sans beard. Instead, he had a white handkerchief across his face like a freaking train robber. Or like he was trying to survive a dust storm.

I said, “Wait… is that the year Grandpa Lou wore a handkerchief as a beard?!”

My mother nodded.

I said, “Let me get this straight. You guys didn’t have a beard and so you just thought you’d wing it with a white handkerchief?!”

My mother nodded.

Apparently, Grandpa Lou came in, proceeded to hand out gifts and then his big old Santa pants fell down and revealed Grandpa Lou’s dress pants underneath which made everyone laugh so hard that they gave up the entire charade.

So I found out that Santa isn’t real when some bogus train-robbing bandit sandstorm-surviving Santa Claus lost his pants on Christmas Eve.

I feel like this isn’t normal.

Little Filthy sleeping on his paws (ab0ve)

PEACH YOGURT – DELICIOUS.

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Black cherry yogurt? ALSO DELICIOUS.

I like to snap picture of the lake when I snag a cab home.

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Dinner party at my sister’s – figs, gorgonzola, honey.

Little Filthy had an upset stomach here. He ate grapes off a table. Thought he might be toxic but the little boy pulled through and was back to himself in about a week. Scary!

There was a lot of travel at the end of the year. Little Filthy disapproves.

Legs got Little Filthy a pumpkin shirt.

Dinner one night.

Unfortunately, Little Filthy has learned that he just needs to climb over the back of the couch to look out the windows. *sigh*

Eggs lined up. These are from the restaurant Next. I was at the Food and Wine magazine event at the Museum of Contemporary Art.

Playing LEGOS with my nephew.

Dinner at the loft.

First snow fall.

Passed out.

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So, many of you have heard about me and have even appreciated my artwork.  I felt it was long overdue for me to welcome you to our family and share some laughs of mine as well.

So you’ve heard of me, the Big Sister who can now just be referred to as BS.  About me – a 39 yr old working mom in a NYC suburb.  Although I’m not from the East coast, I have lived here now for about 15 years which means I have:

1- evolved my ability to be an aggressive driver;

2- temporarily became a disciple of eating (insert food fad here: cupcakes, rice pudding, boba tea, meatballs, ramen noodles etc) and (insert exercise/health fad here: yoga, jivamukti yoga, bar method, blueprint cleanse);

3- a heightened intolerance for people who lack self-awareness (loud talkers on cell phones, people who walk on the side walk in NYC shoulder to shoulder);  AND

4 – a big ego.

I have two kids; I’ll call them Ferdinand (3 yrs old) and Isabella (5 yrs old) not because they’re Spanish but because they behave like royalty.   I’ll spend more time discussing them later – today’s entry is about husbands.

I was recently in Hawaii for work.

Really for work?  Yes, I did work (as least as possible) and yes, I did eat (fad foods:  Puka dog, loco moco) and yes, I did try paddleboarding.  The following week, friends of ours were hosting a Hawaii-themed party so I thought would it be cute if we ALL (the family) wore the same printed Hawaiian outfits.  Me and Isabella in matching MuMu dresses (think Mrs. Roper in colorful Hibiscus prints) with plumeria in our hair, and Daddy and Ferdinand wearing same print in Hawaiian shirts.  This is how the conversation went down.

BS to spouse:  “Hey, I was thinking that for the Hawaiian party next week we could all wear matching outfits, really go with the theme.  All four of us in cute bright printed Hawaiian shirts and dresses.”

Do you all have images of Griswold family wearing matching berets?

Spouse: “Really?? I think you guys would look cute but I think I’ll abstain.”

BS: “But come on, the kids are only young for a short amount of time. I’m only going to be able to dress them for a brief time so if we ever want to do it, it’s now.  It’ll be cute!”

Spouse:  “No”

So, spouse is usually a good sport about things but I’m sure he was thinking, “Geeez, our friends all know you have my nutsack in a sling, do we really have to arrive at a party and announce it with a superbowl ad?”

I think you guys all know the couples I’m talking about here. Where you know that the wife runs the show and rules the household.  I’m not saying that my house is like that but maybe it’s more important for my friends to think it’s run like that.  In the end, the kids wore matching outfits, we just honored the theme of the party by getting shit-faced on mai-tais.

Glad to insert myself into RandomEsq’s blog here  – Mahalo!

Do you have some examples you’ve seen where you can tell that the woman is totally in charge, bossing her husband around?

You remember my mom? The woman who says, “Who is this?” on the phone when I say, “Hi, Mom!” And then gets off the phone by saying, “I have to go. Your father is pouring orange juice.” The mom who asked me what I wanted for a birthday dinner and when she heard my answer said, “No… I’m going to make you something else.”  That one. Yes. Her.

You my recall she now sends text messages. (“Have fun. Don’t spend. Have fun. Save money.”)  What makes her text messages particularly awesome is that 1) English is her second language and 2) like most, she can’t be bothered typing all the words.  Also: Sometimes they are in ALL CAPS.

She sent me a text message today. I saw my phone light up and I picked it up to read this:

“What is mean milf?”

*blink*

I think I froze in place. Then I read it again. Nope, I didn’t misread that. My mother just asked me what a MILF is.

I wrote back, “Ummmmmmm…. It means a sexy mom.”

Pretty good answer, right?

I followed up with “If someone says that a woman if a milf, that means she is a sexy mom.”

That particular text is the equivalent of nervous giggling/talking.

My mother wasn’t buying any of that bullshit.  Her next text message said:

“What stand for?”

*groan*

What could I do?? I said, “It’s stands for “Mom I’d Like to Fuck.”"

I hit send.

Dead silence. Minutes ticked by.  I called. No answer. Then I sent her a text and said, “Are those guys at work telling you bad words??”

So, here’s the thing. My mother works in an upscale store downtown with a bunch of gay men. They like to take her out with them. They like to tell her all about their life. They like to teach her things. They have her listening to Cee-lo and Lady Gaga.

It’s like she runs in a gang.

And so I instantly figured that they were teaching her these words.

Finally, she called me back. She couldn’t stop laughing. She said that a guy used the word today and then wouldn’t tell her what it meant. I said, “A gay guy used it?” She said, “No. A straight guy.”

I told my sister this story. My sister said, “A straight guy said that to her? In what context?”

I said:

“I DIDN’T ASK.”

Some things are best left unsaid.

*sigh*

1. My niece saw Annie for the first time. On an iPad. While on a plane. Going to L.A. Or maybe to the Caribbean. Who knows. It’s a toss up, really. Anyway, the movie introduced her to the concept of poverty and wealth – which prompted her to ask my sister, “Mommy, are we rich?”

You know what my sister said?

“Yes.”

This both makes me laugh and cringe at the same time.  But mostly laugh.

2.  I spoke with my sister this morning. She said, about my nephew, “He’s sitting in the middle of an inner tube. In the yard. With a mouthful of waffle. And a strawberry in his hand.”

I think this is awesome.

3.  Speaking of things that crack me up, I thought my Jesus Rapture picture was very funny. My sister, however, did not.  I sent her a text message that said, “The Rapture is tomrorow!” with the picture attached.

Her response: “wtf??”

Then, “Why do u have a photo of jc w ur name on it”

then, “Where did u get that??”

I said, “You want one, don’t you?”

She said, “No. Not funny to me. Dumb. Read Bossy Pants. That’s funny.”

Sometimes, everything my sister does strikes me as hilarious.

1.  Pardon the relative radio-silence. My grandmother passed away on April 11. Following that week, which I might add sucked, I returned to work only to have that self-implode (while in the middle of an office move) so I’ve been spending all my time with family (cool) or sitting with my work laptop in front of me (not as much with the cool).

For those of you who follow me on twitter, you were with me on this ride the whole time from that phone call to go to the hospital to the sad news the next day. Thank you.

2.  Speaking of my grandmother, I went to bring her flowers on Easter. This mainly involved me wandering around Rosehill Cemetery clutching a bunch of purple tulips in one hand while walking past people who legitimately  knew where the heck their loved ones were buried.  Awesome.

3.  As an interesting side note… at this particular cemetery… the head stone is placed at the head of the grave but the words face away from the body.  It’s like someone took the head stone and turned it 180 degrees. I thought that if I was standing a foot away from the headstone reading it, I’d essentially be standing over her. But instead, she’s on the other side of the headstone. Like, on the back of it.  Is this normal?

My mother informed me that this was that you could read the headstone and not be standing on top of her. Nevermind that you’re just standing on top of some other deceased person. I mean, I suppose it is okay because you can’t read that person’s headstone and look them in the face, so to speak.  What if their loved ones were there at the same time and were like, “You’re…standing on my loved one. Go stand on your own.” These are the things no one bothers to explain to you when you’re cemetery ignorant.

But also, it made me blurt out, “What the heck! They buried her on the wrong side!” when I finally found the grave.

It’s a talent, being this ignorant.

1.  Little Filthy and I went to see my parents yesterday.  No matter how old you are, you’re still your mom’s kid. We were at the library and I walked out of the bathroom to find my mother looking over her glasses at me. I looked down at my pants and the wet handprints I’d left there instead of drying my hands in the air dryer. You know, like an adult. She didn’t say a word – just went back to reading but I’m pretty sure I saw her sigh.

2.  My mother and I were discussing my father’s family. My father has a sister who used to… how shall I say this? She was very…messy and had a hard time throwing things away. This was long before there was a weekly, hour long show to explain the delicate nature of hoarders – when you could still safely refer to such people as the trainwreck that occurs when messy collides with lazy.

I said, “Remember how messy and full her place was? That was before we knew there was a name for it.”

My mother nodded and said solemnly, “White trash.”

I burst out laughing and said, “I meant hoarders.”

She said, “What’s the difference?”

3.  My father finished work and we decided that we wanted steak for dinner. I said to my mother, “We decided on what to have for dinner!” My mom said, “Fish?”

Oh that’s right. See, my parents are Catholic. I’m Catholic, too – that is, if you’re allowed to say that when what you really mean, “I had Catholicism once but it cleared up.”

I said, “Ummm… No. We want steak.”

My mother wrinkled her nose a little. Mind you, we’d had lunch together and she ate some beef. But see, that was a mistake. Now we weren’t just going to accidentally eat some meat – we were going to go to a steakhouse and there was no getting around the deliberate intention to eat meat on Friday during lent.

We got to the restaurant and they had a lot of grilled seafood options. I said, “Check it out, Mom! They have lots of seafood.”

She said, “But… we’re at a steakhouse!”

She had a steak.

Just goes to show.

Steak > Jesus.

(Kidding…kidding……….sort of.)

1.  This is me watching basketball tonight:

“Who is playing?”

“Butler? Seriously? they named a school after a manservant? Well, I can’t say that that makes any sense to me at all. Who are they playing?”

“The Huskies? Isn’t that, like, a clothing line or size for chubby boys? So it’s the servants versus the chubby kids?”

“I gotta go with the servants. The huskies will probably tire by half time or take a break for cookies and juice.”

2. My uncle’s e-mail was hijacked and the entire family received an e-mail from ‘him’ stating that he was stuck in another country and would we mind sending him some money?

My uncle realized what happened and sent a follow up e-mail that said, “Ignore that last e-mail from the hacker. If you want to send money, send it to <his real address.>”

My cousin replied, “The joke is on the hacker. He thought we would send money if you were stuck in another country.”

Welcome to the family.

3.  As my condo buying deal is damn near finalized, I thought it was time for me to break the news to the boy. He’s grown up here and has never lived someplace else.  We sat down at dinner and I told him I had news for him. I then explained that we’d be walking in a new neighborhood, sleeping in a new room, terrorizing a whole new park full of dogs. And then I showed him a picture of the new place.

And you know what? He just couldn’t care less.

My phone rang at 2:30 a.m. on Saturday night. I was half asleep and did not answer. But it rang again and I grabbed it, seeing that it was my cousin. She was crying. She said my grandmother was in the hospital and please try to come as soon as I could… my grandmother was dying.

I jumped out of bed, scrambled to put on clothes and ran to my car.  I got on the highway not even knowing how to get there.

I walked into the ER and saw my family there. I know I had a dazed look. Unable to really grasp this. My father took me within the ER where my mother stood next to her mother. I held my grandmother’s hand and stroked her head and wished that her eyes would open and she would see me, see everyone around her.

My grandmother and I have never had a conversation before. Everything I know about my grandmother has been told to me by someone else, even what she may have said just moments before. We don’t speak a common language.  Everything that has been said between the two of us has been through touch and sight.

She would hug me. I would hug her. She would make food for me and I would watch.  She would see the look on my face when I tasted how good it was. She would hold my hand and I would hold it back.  I would get into trouble and put my arms around her waist while she patted my back. She watched me speak, picked up on my tone, and understood so much of what I said. When I was a child, I would rub her feet because I knew she was tired.

I would have liked to ask her many questions about herself. About her life. About her husband who died so young and my mother as a child. About leaving her country and coming to the U.S. I watched her become a citizen and I remember it so clearly because until then, I had never known her first name.

I sometimes wish I could have had those conversations with my grandmother. But I very, very much appreciate the relationship I had with her. It was always sincere, nothing was hidden, always in the moment, and always without explanation.  There were no words to color or shade a feeling. No chance to say that you did not want to talk about it. No need to feel that you had to.

My grandmother did not die. She has recovered consciousness. It has been a very long time since she was well enough to speak.  But that has not changed anything in our relationship.  Because she knows when I am there, and everything that could be said, she knows – when I hold her hand or touch her face.

In some ways, I’ve never been more clearly understood or felt so obviously loved.

I hope she feels the same.