Convo with Georgia

Miss George is back in school, in Photography, let's just say VERY close to where I work, so she has occasion to pop into my office here and there to share what's on her mind. Yesterday, for instance:

Georgia: I really wish I didn't have to work tonight. I still have to shoot fruit--I'm thinking pomegranate, cut open all sloppy and gross looking, like awful lips-- sometime between when I get off tonight and six in the morning, when I'm meeting A to get sunrise shots.

TR: Rough schedule.

George (Brightening a bit): I did have time to get a Fit Shake, though.

TR(Obligatory question): How was it?

George: That GIRL made it. She's SUCH a bitch. They were out of big straws, only had little ones, which, of course, would sink down and get as lost as I am in Photoshop, and what good would that do me, so I asked if they had any more of the big ones, and she gave me a look like I was asking her to be my Maid of Honor. PLUS, she didn't fill the cup up. Terrible customer service. She should NOT be working with the public. I mean, neither should I, but if I'm not nice to people, I don't get tipped, and she's probably making about eight dollars an hour whether she's nice or not, and that inch in my cup that she didn't fill is the biggest part of the cup and that's significant. Fit Shakes cost over six bucks, and it should be mashed up against the lid. Oozing out even. It's not like she buys the acai herself.

TR: It's better when the guys make it. They usually blend too much and put the leftovers in a little cup for you to take with.

George: Exactly! And then I got out to my car and took a sip, and it wasn't even a Fit Shake. I don't know what it was, but I wasn't going to drink it. So I had to go BACK in and tell her. Then she screamed at the guy taking orders that he had PUT IT IN WRONG and glared at me while she made it again. NOW I have to go work the patio, and it's a hundred and twenty degrees out, so I'll be sweating like Fat Elvis.

TR: Come get a hug.

For Georgia

Happy 21st!

Don't Know Where She Gets It

Georgia calls me this afternoon from her car. I'm sitting in the college cafeteria, waiting for my 5:00 class to start.

George: Ugh! I hate going straight from work to the gym and having to change clothes there!

TR: Why don't you go home, decompress, change, and THEN go to the gym?

George: No, then Manny will get all excited I'm home and I'll feel bad for leaving him again.

(Sound of her parking, turning off the ignition)

George: Oh my god, it's so crowded! It's ridiculous! All these people I've never seen before--In three weeks they'll be at home, sitting on their asses, watching The Biggest Loser, and eating Pringles--so much for their resolutions. In the meantime, I can't get on the treadmill.

TR: I know. It's the same at the Y. I hate it. They should have special hours for people who join in January. An initiation....So I have two back-to-back classes tonight and they're across campus from each other. I don't know if I can hoof it in 15 minutes.

George: Can't you drive?

TR: It would take me longer to drive and find another parking space.

George: But you wouldn't be walking in the cold. Hey, I gotta go.

TR: OK. Love you. Have a great day.

George: You too.

Tangia Conversation

Biggy swears that I did not so much give birth to Georgia as that I divided myself in two, split into two versions of myself, each of whom can be called Tangia (pronounced Tonja). This morning we chatted briefly on the phone:

G: Greg's sick too?

T: Yeah, but of course he's sicker than I am. So I have to take care of him.

G: Of course.

T: This morning, he said, "I CAN'T miss work," and I said, "Sure, the WHOLE company is going to crumble if you're out one day. You are THAT important." He couldn't even sit up to take his Nyquil.

G: You know what I hate?

T: Where should I start?

G: No, I mean what I hate right now--what I'm thinking about.

T: You have to take a shower.

G: YES!

T: God, I hate showers. Nobody except you understands the whole getting wet thing.

G: Right?

T: The best part of taking a shower is drying off.

G: Exactly. And the worst thing ever is if I have to dry off immediately and get dressed. I need to sit for at least half an hour in my towel.

T: Because you can't really get dry. No matter how many times I wipe the back of my arms with a towel, they're still wet.

G: And under the boobs.

T: And under my ass cheeks. But yours haven't fallen yet.

G: Something to look forward to.

T: It's not just showers, either. I always think I want to take a long hot bath, and then I get in, and I immediately think, "Ew, it's wet. I need to dry off." I think I have a cat soul.

G: Or a Chihuahua soul.

T: But Fay always wants to get in the tub with me.

G: Until she does get in. Then she wants back out.

T: That's so true! She's just like us.

G: Anyway, I've GOT to go take a shower and get ready for work.

T: Thank god I don't have to take a shower today, because I'm sick.

G: Love you.

T: Love you too. We'll talk later.

Neighborhood Menace

It's no secret that in general I'm not big on kids. I'm not one of those women who thinks children are innocent and adorable and should be handled with infinite tolerance and good humor. It might be different if I had a surplus of tolerance and good humor, but I have barely enough to ration on the adults I am required to be nice to. Medication has helped. Things that caused me to dissociate in the past no longer phase me: a baby crying at Publix, a toddler throwing a tantrum at Target, a third-grader picking his nose at PTA...My nerves adequately lubricated with seratonin, I am able to abide these events with a sort of detached fascination.

In any event, those close to me will not be shocked that I'm about to rag on a neighborhood kid.

R has had the run of Hershey Woods since he was about three years old. He was riding his bike in traffic when he should have been napping in a playpen. One summer, Georgia's friend Anna babysat him during the weeks of break, and since George was watching Lo that summer, they got the two together to play. Georgia and Lo reported daily on R's antics--the whirling dervishness of him...his habit of disappearing, along with all the snacks in the house and change from the piggybanks.

When I met him myself for the first time, I was struck by how beautiful and charming he was. He seemed wiser than his years and as buttery as Eddie Haskell. I knew he was trouble. He'd come over to play when I was home, and I'd find him in my bedroom closet, taking inventory.

One morning, a little before 8:00, he came knocking at the front step. I tried to ignore him because I didn't feel like putting on pants, but after about half an hour of his relentless pounding and the dogs barking, I finally surrendered and got dressed. He showed me a collection of drawings he'd done--self-portraits it looked like he'd sketched with his foot and then slept on. He was peddling them door-to-door for 20 bucks each.

I told him I'd spent every cent I had restocking my pantry after his last visit. I offered to call his mother to pick him up at the other end of the street. He lives a good mile away, after all. No minor distance for a seven-year-old. And how he'd managed to evade the neighborhood mutts (I swear there's a doggie bounty on his head) was luck beyond my fathoming. Even I didn't want him to push it.

That happened a few years ago. Now he's in middle school, just finished sixth grade. He still rides his bike like a demon. He looks hopped up on steroids. He has the golden hair, fixed smile and plastic dazzle of a child model. He hasn't lost his talent for appearing out of thin air. I'll be getting the mail and suddenly he's right behind me. 'No one's home,' I tell him, and I was just leaving.'

So Jack told us this story during dinner tonight: Around 2:00 this afternoon, R came a'knockin.' Jack, who was home alone, figured it was one of Lo's friends and saw no need to answer the door. He continued to watch House or whatever marathon he'd gotten sucked into until, like me, he realized that stalkers cannot be deterred. Better my son learn this early, I guess. Jack answered the door:

R: Hey, do you still have your go-kart?

Jack: Yep.

R: Can I see it?

Jack: Not right now. I was taking a nap. I'm going back to sleep.

R: Well, I think we have a new motor you can have for it.

Jack: That's ok. We're fine with the one we've got.

R: Can I just see it, anyway?

Jack: No, you need to go on home.

R: Gosh! I rode all the way up here--just to see the go-kart!

Jack: Oh my god, R, fine! You can look at it.

(R follows Jack down the driveway to the storage shed. R notices spider webs all over the doors.)

R: Can you get those spider webs off?

Jack: You want to see it; you get 'em off.

R: I'm not gonna touch them!

Jack: Stop being a little vagina and open the door.

(Jack finally opens the door. R beholds the go-kart.)

R: Can I have it?

Jack: NO, YOU CAN'T HAVE IT!!!

R: Why not?

Jack: For one thing, it's not mine to give away!

R: I thought it was yours.

Jack: It belongs to the family....Besides, who would even ask something like that?!!! GO HOME!

(R is royally PO'd and huffs his way back up the driveway.)

R: Can I at LEAST have something to drink?!

(My son, ever the humanitarian, actually goes inside and gets him a Coke Zero.)

Worse and Bad

Georgia, who turned 20 this month, came in from Athens yesterday and spent the night. This morning:

TR: George, run up to Publix and get me some tampons.

Georgia: No way! Forget it!

TR: Pleeeeeease... I'll give you a twenty and you can keep the change.

Georgia: Really? Hmmmm...let me think about it.... Fine. But I'm going just like I am.

TR: That's great. I think you should mess your hair up even more and buy nothing but Tampax and a chocolate bar.

Georgia: You realize this will be the first time I've ever bought them.

TR: You're such a baby.

Some Things They Never Forget

Yesterday, I was out and about with Georgia (Remember, she's 19) and Lola:

Lo: Hey, Mom, I didn't turn in that form you signed for our class store.

TR: Why's that?

Lo: Because I changed my mind about what I want to make. Instead of potholders, I'm going to make clay monster heads.

TR: That's fine.

Georgia (suddenly angry): I know what I wish you'd NEVER signed for me!

TR: What?

Georgia: That form in fourth grade science.

TR: Huh?

Georgia: The one giving me permission to dissect. There were cow brains and frogs and baby pigs...I just hid in the back while everyone else did it. It was sick! I'll never get it out of my head.

TR: And it's all my fault?!

Georgia: You signed it.

Voicemail from Georgia

Mom!

Number one: Thanks for telling me to google Harlequin babies, because now I'm gonna have nightmares for the REST OF MY LIFE!

Number two: I'm having pains in my leg that feel like restless leg syndrome mixed with a migraine mixed with a toothache, so call me back and let me know if you think it's nothing or if I'm going to die from a blood clot or something.

Wanted: New Running Partner

About two weeks ago, Georgia told me that Blaise wanted to do a 5K race with some people he works with, so he’d elected her to train him. He’s as much of a jogger as Biggy, so I didn’t give it any mind. I just figured she’d hit the streets with him a couple of times, listen to him whine about the heat and his shin splints and how STUPID and BORING running is—like Greg does—and that would be that. George and I would go back to our lovely routine, pounding the neighborhood pavement while discussing such deep subjects as toe cleavage and laser arm-hair removal.

Like I said, that was two weeks ago, and Blaise has worked up to three miles, jogging half of that. When they’re not jogging, they’re at the Y, working out on the weight machines. And I’m stuck with two hours of Damien Rice on my Shuffle, because I’m too depressed or lazy to load new music.

How am I supposed to compete? Sure, she likes to boss me around, and no doubt she misses making me cry, but Blaise has the beautiful blond curls and the Ashton Kutcher smile. And Blaise can run with his shirt off.

So what if I bore her? So what if we once shared one body?

Team Trivia

Here's a sample of last night's brilliance at Suburban Tap:

Chopper (the Team Trivia Host): Your category is Fictional Characters. The question is, What fictional character's name meant "white face" in Ape language?

Blaise: Who was the main character in Planet of the Apes?

TR: Oh my god, what WAS his name? Charlton Heston played him. Raquel Welch was in it with him, riding a horse.

Blaise: And Marky Mark was in the remake. Jack, did you see the remake?

Georgia: I did. But I was about TEN!

Biggy: Think, y'all! Ape language!

TR: I still have that image of her on the horse. When I was a kid, I wanted to grow up to look like that.

Blaise: C'Mon...Marky Mark...Ape language...No one remembers what they called him?

(Wham song coming to an end)

Biggy: We have to put something down!

Jack: How about Cracker?

Biggy: Na...I'm putting Nilla.

TR: Ha! Turn it in.

(Song ends)

Chopper: Ok, again, the question was, What fictional character's name meant "white face" in Ape language? And the answer is: Tarzan. Your next category is Sports. The question is, What 1992 American Olympic gold medalist figure skater played Princess Jasmine in Disney's Aladdin on Ice?


TR: Who was the girl Tonya Harding beat up? The one with long dark hair?

Biggy: Kerry something.

Blaise; He said Gold medalist. Kerry didn't didn't win the year she got clubbed. You sure it wasn't Michelle Kwan? What year was she?

Biggy: Michelle Kwan's not American. No, I know it's that Kerry girl. What's her last name?! Kerry....Kerry...

Georgia: Does he mean she WON the medal in '92, or could she have won it any time? The question's not clear.

Jack: I wouldn't know anything about Disney on Ice.

(Meatloaf song coming to an end)

TR: Just put down Michelle Kwan, since we don't know Kerry's last name.

Biggy: AAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!! Fine! (Writes it down, goes to turn it in.)

TR: Her last name was Something-aggin. Something-aggin...Kerrigan. NANCY KERRIGAN! Catch him!

Blaise: It's too late. He already put it in the pitcher.

(Biggy comes back, sits down.)

TR: Nancy Kerrigan!

(Biggy slaps his forehead, which takes a while. Meatloaf song ends.)

Chopper: Your question was, What 1992 American Olympic gold medalist figure skater played Princess Jasmine in Disney's Aladdin on Ice? The answer is: Kristy Yamaguchi.




*Note: Girl on horse was Linda Harrison, not Raquel Welch.

Projected Family Portrait

For the month of July, it's Camp Georgia at our house, as we're paying George to take care of Lola until she (George) leaves for school in August. The sisters have made a loooooong list of activities to while the while and have already checked off 'see Mim's Island,' 'baking day,' 'walk to Publix,' and 'go to the World of Coke.' At Camp Georgia, Lo must say please and thank you. She must brush her hair. She doesn't eat junk food and she has to exercise. I recommend Camp Georgia. It's money well spent.

I don't have much money, however, because Georgia is also cooking for us. You might think that sounds wonderful, especially since she's an awesome cook, and it is. But she sends me to the grocery store with epic lists--full of strange, foreign items, such as buttermilk and pineapple-not-from-a-can. Monday, we had oven-fried chicken, twice-baked potatoes, warm rolls, and fresh fruit salad; Tuesday, it was French bread pizzas from scratch; yesterday, a home-made chicken casserole; and today, country-fried boneless pork chops, fresh corn, peas, and muffins. At every meal, Biggy acts like a pig in mud. He tells my daughter over and over how good everything is, glancing sideways at me with an expression born of nine years of Old El Paso Gorditas and Tuna Helper. He never knew it could be like this.

But I've got news for my husband: my lack of kitchen skills has kept him fit and trim. Three more weeks of these dinners, that will be us above: Biggy, Stella, me, Jack, Blaise, and Lo (who'll be fine because she won't eat real food).

VayCay

Again this year, we're fortunate to be hitting the beach at Fripp, courtesy of Portfolio Center, for the annual PC retreat. A full week of sunning, jogging, and biking for me, and watching others crabbing, fishing, and swimming (Remember, I only pretend I might actually get in the water). Neither of my big girls are coming, which means I'll be without my usual allies and exercise partner.

We leave in the morning, at 10, according to Biggy's always-rigid vacation departure schedule. He acts as though a time-sensitive million dollar prize or a drop-deadline awaits us at the other end of the drive. Whereas I like to sleep in, drink some coffee, coo at the dogs I won't see for a week, pack, read my email, pack some more, then get on the road, my husband likes to start crackin his whip the night before: "You need to pack your suitcase so I can start loading the car..." He thinks we should sleep fully clothed, wake up at his pre-determined time, and sprint to the car.

Anyway, I've gotten off track. So Biggy and I are upstairs, discussing how we need to get to the island in plenty of time to pick up the golf car he's reserved when Jack walks in and sees Biggy's new Adidas sitting on the bed.

JackMan: Whose shoes?

Biggy: Mine. I got them so I can jog at the beach. Since there's not really any place to ride my bike.

TR: It's fun to ride around on the island.

Biggy: I know, but it's not really exercise.

TR: Whatever. I'm just glad you're going to jog with me. You are bringing your bike, though, right?

Biggy: I plan to bring three--your monkey bike, Lo's BMX, and mine--for me and Jack to share.

Jack: Yeah, I won't be riding.

TR: Oh, you are going to ride with me! Georgia won't be here, so you guys are going to have to take turns filling in for her.

Biggy: OK, Jack. I'll complain on Monday and Wednesday, and you can do Tuesday and Thursday.

Jack: Sounds fair.

Georgia Tree

I added ice cream spoons and sticky lizards (in honor of the reptiles that get in her dresser drawers in Costa Rica). Oh--and cookie cutters that came free with Splenda.

One More Way I've Failed My Children

Both Sadie and Georgia have lovely penmanship. You'll have to take my word for it, since, no doubt, you've never received a thank you note from them. My own handwriting can be nice but depends on how inspired I am by the writing instrument. I love gel pens and fine, fluid ballpoints. The style of it changes so often, I don't recognize my own signature from one week to the next. Yet I pride myself on its looking cool.

Jack and Lola have the penmanship of a donkey. Christy Brown had better handwriting. But I've never worried about this or nagged them about it, because I figure cursive is going the way of the filmstrip. I'm all for evolution, not one to lament the lost art of cave drawings. As the person who spent an hour a day in fifth grade coaching Pam Crawford to shape her script from monkey scratch into strokes worthy of an Illuminated Manuscript, I've come to the conclusion that there are better things to do with your time. Pulling out your eyelashes, for instance.

Jack types faster than I can. Lola can translate both English and Pig Latin through facial expressions alone. Who cares if their signatures look like hoof prints? Greg gets on to them occasionally, telling them to slow down on their homework, to write neatly. I make faces behind his back and remind Lo that if she hurries with her spelling worksheet, she can go practice Chess. After all, they don't give trophies for handwriting.

But I have to admit, the conversation I had on the phone with Jack this morning makes clear my message has been sent, giving me pause for concern:

TR: Hey, Go into the kitchen... Do you see that peach-colored slip of paper on the counter?

Jack: The litte square one?

TR: Yeah. Now, look on the back, where it says re-deliver, and check that, and then sign my name on the line and put it in the mailbox.

Jack: How do I sign it?

TR: Just put T---

Jack: I don't know how to write a cursive T.

Nature or Nurture?

After Georgia left for Costa Rica on Monday, I found this lying on her bed:



Lola's planning to race BMX this weekend. I just discovered this in her book bag:

Thank God For Small Favors (0.5 mg)

Tomorrow, Georgia has to go back to the dermatologist to remove more of the area where her biopsy was. Turns out, she had some “atypical” cells-- something that could possibly turn bad in ten years, so they wanted to be safe and get it now. I’ve already had to cancel the procedure once, because George pussed out, and when I told her I’d rescheduled, she swore she was going to cancel it again.

I tried everything to change her mind. I guilted her, explaining how I’d have to spend the last dwindling days of my youthful middle age worrying about it constantly, how I’d be reminded every time I saw the letter C or ate a raisin. I warned her she could lose her leg, and reminded her she’s far too clumsy to jog with a prosthetic. No matter what I said, though, I got the same answer: NOT going.

When I finally gave up and called to say I was canceling again, she said very casually, “Yeah, I’m going.”

So today, I called the doctor’s office anyway:

TR: Hello. My daughter Georgia has a 10 o’clock appointment in the morning for minor surgery. I don’t know if y’all keep notes or anything, but Laurel can tell you that this girl is the biggest crybaby that ever had a freckle. This is the second time the surgery has been scheduled, and I’m only about six percent sure she’ll actually show up.

If she does show, it would be best not to keep her in the waiting room with the other patients and to make sure she’s in the most remote part of the building when they cut her—unless your rooms are sound proof. Also, I suggest removing all surgical instruments and syringes—especially syringes--from view until she’s safely tied down.

OR you guys could just prescribe some Xanax or Ativan, and save us all a lot of trouble.

Nurse Dottie: Oh, I don’t think you understand. This is a very minor procedure. We’ll numb the area and put a little ice on it; I promise, she won’t feel a thing.

TR: No, Ma’am, I don’t think you understand. This is a big girl, 18, who acts like a three-year-old at naptime. Can you imagine chasing and holding down a hundred-and-twenty-pound toddler? Go ask Laurel, the PA who worked on her before.

Nurse Dottie: Hold for just a moment, please.

(James Taylor)

(Botox commercial)

(Dionne Warwick)

Nurse Dottie: Ma’am?

TR: I'm here.

Nurse Dottie: We’ve called in Xanax. Have her take one tonight, another tablet two hours before arriving in the morning, and there’ll be a couple of extra if she’s still upset tomorrow afternoon.

TR: That's what I figured.