A Walk in the Snark (17 page)

I will admit to being completely enslaved by my addiction to coffee. Sometimes it’s the only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning. Well, okay. There are the kids. Anyway…

I learned only recently that not everyone names their coffeemakers. That’s just so strange to me. It’s such an intimate relationship. Who doesn’t share that kind of info?

I mean, it would be really weird if I told you the name of my boobs—wait. Did I just say that out loud?

Some people name their cars. Or their, er, private parts. Me, I’ve named my coffeemaker. Yeah, that’s right. Don’t you judge me.

See, Joey and I have a very special relationship. When I shuffle up to him each morning, sleep still in my eyes, pants askew, T-shirt wrinkled, and hair mussed from restless nights filled with dreamless dreams and children’s limbs, he gurgles alive and says to me the same thing he says every morning, “How you doin’?”

What kind of chick can resist that?

Yes, I admit to being a child (just go with it) of
Friends
. They were uh, there for me.

My younger sister says that I always seem to relate real-life incidents to a
Friends
episode and she is not far off.

Not in a creepy can’t-tell-the-difference-between-Ross-and-David-Schwimmer-way but more like, “Yeah, of course the flowers on my bedspread all point towards the top, because that’s where the sun would be. Doesn’t everyone?” a la Monica when she was explaining to Richard that he had no weird habits as she did. Like that. (Though what she said does make perfect sense.)

I think back to those innocent (I said, go with it) early days when we would watch
Friends
as a nation. We could hardly wait for 8:00 p.m. on Thursday nights to roll around for the start of “Must See TV”—remember that? Where there was no DVR to pause your show for a pee break—you had to wait for a commercial. No iTunes, no Hulu. We were ripe for a show that followed our indulgent twentysomethings around, who lived exciting lives that many of us could only dream of, and we embraced it wholeheartedly.

I didn’t want to miss a second of seeing what cute clothes Rachel and Monica were wearing that week; or what Rachel’s perfect hair looked like; or what weird, crazy junk they were putting in poor Phoebe’s hair; or how much grease they used in the guys’ hair (definitely a hair theme here…huh); or what joke they would give Chandler (could he BE any funnier?); and whether Ross would get married again (and again, and again); and then there was
our
Joey.

I, for one, did not want to miss a second of his trademark line, “How you doin’?” delivered not so much as a question but more as a “Babe, you look hot tonight and when are we gonna do it?” sort of thing. Goes totally against all of my feminist leanings and principles, and yet still had me laughing like a schoolgirl. The fact that he was dumb as a stump helped. And that he was cute. And could snap open a bra with one hand (“It’s not my first time.”) Classic.

Phoebe asked Joey once what he thought of her when they first met. He said “Excellent butt, great rack.” Her response? “Really? That’s so sweet. I mean, officially I’m offended—but sweet,” as she puts her hand up to her mouth and giggles in a girlish manner. I love this line because it so captures the
essence of what men are all about at their core
.

No matter how we women trot out our brains, our humor, our amazing talents, men are simply programmed to laser in on our racks when they meet us. It just is what it is.

Therefore, I have learned to accept that and even embrace it. Many women have not, and are uncomfortable and even offended by that; many of you may disagree with me. Hogwash. I say hey, listen girls, you have breasts (I’ll let you in on a little secret: they
know
). Men will look. Let ’em look. I think, and I’m sure I’m not alone in this, that
having breasts gives us power over men
. A certain allure, if you will, that can have them eating out of our hands. I even know some men that will agree with that statement. I am not saying flaunt them—though certainly feel free if that is your thing—all I’m saying is that men will look, so use that in your favor, not against it.

So, what do
Friends
and boobs have to do with my coffeemaker, Joey?

Well, I probably did not realize the importance of having my sweet, sweet Joey at the ready every morning (heads out of the gutter, people. We are talking about my coffeemaker here, jeez) until I had two children. It was then that I knew I had outgrown my dearest
Friends
. No longer did I have the time, or the energy, to run to the coffeehouse for a cup and some social time, as they did in their show. No longer did I find their problems very believable or relatable (not that I really did in the first place—I mean, did you
see
the size of Monica’s apartment? I
lived
in NYC. I know.) So I invested in a top-of-the-line coffeemaker that makes me a fresh cup whenever I want one. Lovely.

As for my breasts, well, I could go all Seinfeld on you (think about it…) but for now let’s just say that although I live in the OC, the OC does not live in me.

And we will leave it at that.

***

TREASURES

While we may differ radically in our cooking styles (he cooks, I don’t), and our need for caffeine (I freak if I run out of coffee, whereas he just looks at me like I’m crazy), my husband and I both agreed early on that we wanted children. And we definitely wanted a girl.

We waited seven years to have our first child, Anya. She’s named after JP’s beloved Greek mom, Anastascea, who sadly, passed away before he and I ever even met.

We needed a nickname, so while on bed rest I saw the animated movie
Anastasia
, where the Russian grandmother called her granddaughter Anya.

Soon after, I yelled loudly for JP; he thought I was in labor. Nope. Just finally figured out what to call our girl.

Jeez, calm down, dude.

(Anya, dressed for Halloween, 2010)

Eleven years ago, in July of 1999, I entered the hospital.

I was miserable.

I was pregnant.

A smartass male nurse, the type with the witty repartee you see on TV but so rarely encounter in real life, particularly when in labor and your sense of humor is half-mast at best, sauntered in around midnight, began my evil Pitocin drip and handed me a very pretty little Haldol capsule.

Jose said, “Enjoy, chica. This will be the last night of full sleep you will have for eighteen years.”

Brother was so totally not kidding.

And yet…

It sounds cliché to say that I wouldn’t trade a second of time with my daughter, Anya, but it’s true. Well, maybe those two broken arms. Those weren’t much fun, to be honest.

And I can do without the drama queen meltdowns she seems to be quite fond of these days. And all the “in a minutes,” that seldom come to fruition when I “remind” her to do her chores.

But I digress.

Actually, the above isn’t entirely true. Because what comes on the opposite side of the broken arms and the meltdowns are the hugs, kisses, snuggles, and talks. The bonding and the closeness, the tears and conversations about the unfairness of the world, the beauty of the stars, and caressing the sweet softness of her little brother as he sleeps.

Precious treasures that I keep folded closely, inside my heart.

Her gift to me.

Happy birthday, baby.

***

CONTACT

Parenthood is everything you think it will be and so much more (plus Mama Drama if you have a girl.) But there is no escaping this situation if you’re a parent. You think you’re immune. But you’re not. There’s no place I’d rather have been than alone on a train platform, on my way to anywhere but here when they told me my kid had lice.

But you can’t. You must buck up. And yet…

Men and women handle icky kid situations differently: Women drink vodka as they handle their inner freak-outs. (Then later they go shopping.) Or ya know, write about it.

Men hand over their credit card; then leave.

In other words: marriage, baby.

I guarantee you will start scratching your head as soon you read this word:
lice
.

I know I did the second I got The Call from Nurse Ratched at my daughter's school on Friday when she told us to come pick up our 11-year-old contagion immediately because her head had been infested with microscopic critters and she must be removed from the premises before she infected the entire school and they all died a hideous death within seconds.

A slight exaggeration.

On our way out the door, as fate would have it, our exterminator arrived. He offered to tent and fumigate our daughter and could have a crew out by day’s end.

We said we’d wait and see.

No sooner had I arrived full of questions than Nursey quickly bum-rushed me right back out with my toxic-waste dump of a child. As she padlocked her door, Ratched was very clear about one thing as she donned her gas mask—only use RID®, the chemical pesticide that is considered most effective but can potentially burn your kid's scalp and cause blindness. Your child may have no hair left and be blind, but by golly, she will be lice free.

Now, get the hell out.

I went straight to CVS and bought one of every lice-removal product they had. Okay, two. But which would work without turning my kid into Sir Patrick Stewart? ("Make it so, Mommy.")

One of my most germophobic (though quite lovely) friends fortunately knew of some highly effective natural rosemary oil-based products called
Fairy Tales
—I promptly bought the whole line. Her kids are always bug free—works for me.

Too late for me (why wasn't I more germophobic, damn it!) but at least I could use the product line now and reap the, er, benefits.

Talk about a Brave New World.

After I came home and slammed a few vodkas, I began treating my girl’s head. The instructions also say the adults should check each other.

Now there’s some
sexy
fun for a Friday evening.

I checked my husband, who has short, gray hair. Easy. Nothing. My head, one big itch since I heard the word lice (I can see you scratching), is sitting politely atop my neck in anticipation, waiting for that awful confirmation, as husband looks at my scalp with a magnifying glass.

“What am I looking for?” he asks with an impatient sigh. I’ve already shown him the lovely pics from the Internet. “Well, I can’t tell,” he gives up in frustration.

And then he leaves. Because
that’s what men do
when faced with a crisis of the yucky kid variety (see also, “Men are from
Seinfeld
, Women are from
Friends
.”)

I drink more vodka.

At this point my same lovely germophobe friend texted me that she had called in
The Hair Whisperers
. They are apparently like the Cesar Millan of lice—except the bugs don’t just obey, they ya know, die.