Why I will only draw your portrait if your head is made of ice cube or box

"Draw me something," my friend's daughter pleads. "Draw me something so I can color it!"

The usual nervous response: My mouth goes dry. I realize this when I release my smile and both sides of my top lip are stuck on my bicuspids. Everyone has their tell, I guess.

"I can draw you a rainbow, how's that?" I suggest. A rainbow consists of eight concentric half-circles, culminating in a puffy cloud at either end. I can do that. I would feel more comfortable if I had my drafting compass, or at least a protractor, but I'm pretty sure I can draw it freehand if I concentrate and hold my breath.

"No, I want an animal. A dog or a cat. Or a dog and a cat, in a pet store. And Selena Gomez works there."

"Heh. Listen, small person, I don't do carbon-based life forms. How about a three-dimensional box? Or a hexagonal prism?"

Blank stare from the kid.

"How about a very real-looking ice cube floating in a cylindrical glass of lemonade, which has been left sitting on a flat surface at exactly noon on the vernal equinox at the equator, so that there are no shadows cast in any direction? And guess what? It's Miley Cyrus' lemonade!"

"Or..." she bargains. "Or...a puppy and a kitten in a pet store, and if you want to draw an ice cube in there, you can if you want."

"Fine," I relent. My mouth feels like paste now. The worst thing about disappointing kids is how they try to play it off like you didn't disappoint them at all, but inside you know they're wondering if there's something wrong with an adult who can only draw boxes.

It doesn't bother me that I can't draw, but I'm tired of embarrassing myself and being a constant disappointment to every child I know. So a few months ago, I enrolled myself in a drawing class.

The first day, the teacher pairs us up, and explains that our first activity will be to draw a portrait of our partner. The tricky part, and the part that makes absolutely no sense to me and makes me hate her hard in her damn hippie face, is that we are NOT ALLOWED to look at our papers at all during the activity. So...that means prolonged eye contact with a stranger, while drawing a portrait of that stranger, while they watch you draw a portrait of them, while you have no idea what you're drawing, while the entire room is silent save for the soft sounds of pencil on paper. It will be a quiet, reflective time, a time to nurture your artistic spirit, a time to create, a time for you to become closer to you, says Damn Hippie Face. This means it will also be "No fart time," I remind myself. Seriously, Becky. There's really no leeway this time. It's super quiet in here.

My partner is a young, chubby, painfully shy, semi-mustacheod Japanese boy. I introduce myself to him and hold out my hand to shake, and he introduces himself to the wall and holds out his limp hand like a princess requesting assistance down from her carriage. I immediately recognize him as one of my Aspergerian brethren, take two of his fingertips between my thumb and index finger, shake them delicately, and sit down to draw his portrait.

Alright. Draw the boy, but no looking at the paper. The trick, I decide, is to not take your pencil off the paper at all.

Hm, he's got kind of a round face, I observe. I draw the shape of his head, then promptly lift my pencil off the paper. Dammit. Too early in the game for stupid mistakes like that.

I feel for the edges of the paper and reorient myself with where I think I've just drawn the head, being careful not to peek, and I add an ear to each side, pretty confident that I've estimated their exact location within a few millimeters.

I learned back in elementary school that the eyes are supposed to go at ear level, so I trace a short line with my finger from where I ended the last ear, and draw his eye. Then a fingerspace, and the other eye.

I bet nobody else in this class has figured out the trick to this game, I think to myself, smugly. Everyone else is gonna be like, "Becky! How'd you figure out where the eyes go without even looking!" and I'll just shrug and say, "Spacial intuition, I guess."

Wait til they get a load of this.

The nose. I don't do noses. You get nostrils, fella, that's all.

This boy has got a great mouth, really full lips. I definitely need to showcase his lips, they're his best feature.

You know what's weird? Nobody ever notices that little divot between the nose and upper lip! Why does everyone forget to draw the divot? It's called the philtrum, I believe. Well, I don't leave out the details, I'm an observer of the world! The beauty of the human face is in the details!

Crap, my paper slipped. It's okay, it's okay. I found my place, I think. Aaand... (carefully drawing, eyes squinting up at the ceiling so I'm not tempted to peek)... done. Philtrum complete.

Alright, this is challenging. He's obviously trying to grow a mustache, and it's not coming in very well. Do I just ignore the mustache? He's only got about 9 hairs, but they're so long he's clearly been working on it for some time now. That's weeks of growth right there.

Alright, it's decided. The mustache stays.

Lookin' good, Tom Selleck!

"Your wire-rimmed glasses really compliment your facial structure," I tell him. His lip quivers, and he stutters a thank you.

"I haven't peeked even once, but I have a good feeling about this portrait," I smile. "I think you're really gonna like how this turns out."

We're really bonding now, becoming fast friends. "Maybe if it turns out as good as I think it's turning out, I can make you a copy and you can give it to your parents as a holiday gift," I offer generously.

DEAR MOTHER AND FATHER:

JOYEUX NOEL ON THIS MOST HOLY DAY

OF THE BIRTH OF OUR LORD AND SAVIOR.

WARM REGARDS,

STEVEN

Done! Phew. Look at me, finished with minutes to spare! May as well work on his hair a little, go over the lines with my pencil and make them darker. Add a little contrast and weight to my portrait.

I'm not sure where my original hairline started, but maybe if I count three fingerwidths down from the top of the page and start there...*scribble scribble smug artsy haphazard I-could-do-this-in-my-sleep, sketching-while-I-stare-off-disinterestedly-at-the-far-wall face*

Oh! And eyebrows...I forgot to add eyebrows...*blindly measures fingerwidths, scribble scribble*

"Time's up!" chirps the teacher. "Pencils down, take a look at your portraits and share them with your partners."

I open my eyes and gaze down upon what I'm sure is my finest, and my only, artistic achievement to date, and:

Me: GAAAAHHHH! NO! NONONO!! NO! (lays on desk, covering paper with torso) NO! NO! NONONO!! (rolls paper into a tube, sticks it down front of pants) NEVERNEVERNEVER!

Teacher: Oh, let me take a look. If you put effort into it, a piece of your soul will shine through like crystal sunlight pachouli clouds...

Me: BACK OFF! BACK THE FUCK OFF RIGHT NOW I SWEAR TO GOD!! (Tears a corner off the paper, pops it in mouth, chews) I'LL EAT THIS WHOLE FUCKING THING, I SWEAR IT.

Teacher: Becky. Sweetie. Let me just take a look...

Me: (claw swipe) REOOWWW!! HISS! (stuffs another wad of paper into mouth)

Teacher: Hon, don't eat your portrait. Shhh, it's okay. Becky, come on. I'm sure it's...let me...let me see...(pulls paper out of my pants, loosens my fingers one by one)... It's okay sweetie, let go, good. Let go a little more, and there. See? Now what could be so bad... oh.

(sucks in air through clenched teeth)

Oh.

Me: I didn't even... I DIDN'T LOOK! I WASN'T ALLOWED TO LOOK AT WHAT I WAS DRAWING!

Teacher: The eyes, the eyes are just so (tilts head sideways)... and is that... is that a tooth? A buck tooth?

Me: It's the PHILTRUM! The LIP DIVOT! My paper shifted up and I didn't realize it!

Students: (whispering behind hands, shaking heads in disapproval)

Me: I know, I know what you're thinking, and I agree, it looks bad. Really sorry. It was totally unintentional.

Japanese boy: Hey. Don't feel bad. I kind of like it. You drew my mustache really well. Really long on the sides.

Me: Really? You like it? I noticed your mustache right away. It's quite silky, really.

Japanese boy: Thanks. I've been growing it for two months. (proud smile)

Teacher: Aw, that's sweet. (smile)

Me: S'nice. (smile)

Japanese boy: When it's my turn, I'll draw your mustache really good too.

Me: (sad face)

Drink the blue Slurpee, see how deep the rabbit hole goes

Me: (EXCITED GRIN)

Jack: What?

Me: (EXCITED GRIN)

Jack: What did you do?

ME: (EXCITED GRIN, EYES DART TO THE LEFT)

Jack: No. I'm not playing.

Me: Yes! Play! (HAPPY CLAPS) Best game ever!

Jack: Nope. (Walks around the kitchen making Nana lunch)

Me: Cold, cold, FREEZING, oh you're an ICICLE!! You're getting warmer, warmer, aaand colder, colder again...You're frozen again. Okay time out, maybe I should explain...when I say you're warmer, that means you're closer, see? And when I say you're getting colder, you don't want to keep going that same way! You don't want to be an icicle, get it? Ok, ready? Time in! Warm, cool, cold, colder, FREEZING BRRRRR!!!

(THUMP from inside the cupboard)

Jack: (Sigh)

Me: (EXCITED GRIN)

Jack: She's in the cupboard. Game over. Leave me alone.

Me: Maaaaaaybe, maaaaaaybe not. Go see!

Jack: Fine. (Opens cupboard)

Jack: oh my goodness. i can't believe it. dog in the cupboard. what a surprise. i was not expecting this outcome. There, you happy now?

Me: AHAHAHAHAAA!! YAY!! (runs in circles) HIDE JUANITA HIDE JUANITA HIDE JUANITA! (clapclapclap) HIDE JUANITA HIDE JUANITA HIDE JUANITA! (clapclapclap)

Jack: Poor Juanita.

Me: What are you talking about? She LOVES this game. I mean, look at her!

Juanita: AYAYAYAY!! ARRIBA ARRIBA!! (skittery run around the kitchen)

Me: AGAIN! AGAIN!

Jack: Nope, I'm leaving.

Juanita: HIDE ME! HIDE ME! (scrappety scrappety claws taking a sharp corner)

Me: Yes! One more round!

Jack: Not playing. I'll see you later, I'm heading out to...

Me: Okay, we're ready!! Open your eyes!

Jack: ...What do you mean, open my eyes? Becky, I was standing right here with my eyes open when you hid her. Two seconds ago. Right here. Eyes open. Saw it.

Me: No you didn't.

Jack: Um...yes. Yes I did. You took that empty box, and then you hid Juanita under it.

Me: No I didn't. She's somewhere else. Somewhere not under that box.

Jack: Are you feeling okay? Your eyes look a little...crazy right now.

Me: Ready...GO! HIDE JUANITA HIDE JUANITA HIDE JUANITA! (clapclapclap)!!

Jack: (points to box) I'm going to guess that she's under the box.

Me: You're getting warmer! Warmer!

Jack: What do you mean, warmer? She's under the fucking box, Becky!

Me: HIDE JUANITA HIDE JUANITA HIDE JUANITA! (Crosses arms over chest, Russian high kicks around the kitchen) Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi!

Jack: Oh my God. I think I know what this is. You had a Slurpee today, didn't you?

Me: Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi! (sticks out blue tongue) Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi!

Jack: Alright. This makes sense. I'm just gonna stick around and help you ride it out until you crash.

Me: (deep squats) Crash? Whatever. This is the REAL ME, Jack. (air punch, air punch) The sugar just lets me be ME! (walks like an Egyptian)

Jack: Right, settle down. Here, have a sandwich, maybe steady your blood sugar, okay?

Me: HIDE JUANITA HIDE JUANITA HIDE JUANITA! (clapclapclap!)

Jack: What? No, game's over, Becky. She's right over there licking her furgina.

Me: HIDE JUANITA HIDE JUANITA HIDE JUANITA! (Eyes dart toward sandwich, EXCITED GRIN)

Jack: What're you looking at...HOLY SHIT! How'd you do that?!

Me: *champion arms!*

Jack: Oh. Okay. I see what's going on here. You photoshopped her. This whole thing, this whole conversation...it's just a blog post, isn't it? I'm just a fucking character in your blog post again. You know what? This is bullshit. I don't even know what's real anymore. It's like we can't even have a genuine interaction anymore, everything's gotta end up as a post, I'm not your fucking puppet you know and...DON'T YOU DARE STRIKE THROUGH MY DIALOGUE! DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE!

Me: Kinda rambly, Jack. You're bringing everyone down.

Jack: It's just kind of disrespectful when... I mean, I feel like I'm being exploited... Oh Jesus, you know what? Forget it. You are SO RUDE.

Me: I know what would make you feel better. How about a nice hot cup of...HIDE JUANITA!

Jack: I think you're off the rails. I don't think you should ever Slurpee and blog again. I think you're just confusing your readers now.

Me: That's interesting. You know what I think? I think HIDE JUANITA!

Jack: Wow. PacMan. Way to be relevant, you fucking whacko. Can I go now?

Me: Okay, okay! Wait! The Juanita Von Trapps would like to say goodbye. (Blows Captain's whistle) Children! Children! Jack is leaving the blog post! Come bid him adieu!

Jack: (rubs temples)

Me: Haha! Dog heads, it's funny because of the dogs heads, haha all the same outfits, Liesl and Kurt, knee socks, (yawn) my head feels funny. Do you hear static? This doesn't feel like my usual tongue, mnyuh, mnyuh. Knyow wha Jack? I think this is... (head roll)... this is the best post I've ever...(head roll)... riders of Rohan... (drool)... what say you... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

Jack: That'll do, Becky. That'll do. (hits "publish post")

Fin.

Psst, hey. Do you want to see more Hide Juanita? Click on my secret Hitler video portal on the sidebar. -->

Or maybe it was the Stooge. You know, the hot one. Yes, there IS a hot Stooge. (Also: Mmmm hot stooge.)

Kid Me is sitting in a booth in the back of the hotel lounge when I arrive. She taps the ash off the end of her cigarette, finishes a conference call on her cell and waves me over. I don't know whether it's the avant-garde shaggy bowl cut, or the irreverent light pink Catholic school jumper with faux pocket flaps, but just being in her presence makes my palms begin to sweat. Kid Me lives up to her reputation as one of the most intimidating public figures in modern American society.

Me: It's been a long time, Kid Becky. Thanks for taking the time to sit down with me, I know you're busy and...

Kid Me: Hey, you got boobs.

Me: Uh. Yeah.

Kid Me: They're boingey. That's good. I always wanted boingey ones. I bet boys are lining up around the block to slime all over them.

Me: Um, well...sure. I get...slimed?...now and then.

Kid Me: I can't wait. Seriously. I can't fucking wait to get slimed. You're such a luck-out. *lights cigarette* Okay, Old Becky. I haven't got all day. Shoot.

Me: Oh. Alright. *cough* Let's see. *shuffles papers* Okay, yes. So, Kid Me, if I remember correctly, you enjoy school and are an excellent student. Your determination to do your best work, to be your best person, to accept nothing less than your best, is inspiring to many. Your work ethic is evident in everything you do.

Kid Me: Thank you for noticing. It's true. I do believe that with a solid work ethic and determination to work to our greatest abilities, we can be better than we ever thought possible. My schoolwork, my education, is my top priority.

Ah yes, but of course. President Dwight D. I.Wanhorsr.

Say, was that the bell for snacktime?

Me: What many people don't know about you is that you're not only a scholar, but an accomplished artist as well.

Kid Me: Oh, no, please. I try.

Me: Don't be modest. Your collection entitled "Ink on index cards", currently on exhibit at the MoMA, has been celebrated for its minimalist humility, its raw honesty with regard to the human form. You tear down all preconceived notions of gender and challenge our notions of masculine vs feminine in a way that likens you to a young Frida Kahlo, or Nan Goldin.

Big booby, small booby, hangy pippi

Felt tip pen on paper, 1980

Kid Me: Yes, well. My hope is that a piece like "Big booby, small booby, hangy pippi" will lead people to reevaluate their own attitudes toward gender and sexuality. Plus look at the pee-pee coming out. It's so funny because he's making pee-pee on the floor. It's like pssssssssssss everywhere!!

Me: You're mature beyond your six years, Becky. What would you say is your favorite piece, your best work, as judged by the artist herself?

Kid Me: (laughs) Oh, you're not gonna make this easy for me, are you? Wow. It's really...it's hard to say. It's impossible for me to judge the value of my own work, as so much of its inherent value, for me, depends on public reaction. I guess, I would have to say that I'm most proud of my 1982 work, entitled "I am a lion and I look radical."

Me: A favorite of mine as well. This piece has such a positive message. I am a lion, and dammit, I look radical! If only we all had Lion's self-esteem. Was that the message you intended to deliver, when you created this masterpiece?

Kid Me: Yes, the message that we are whatever we believe, which is an important notion in this era of conflicting messages from the media about who we're supposed to be. Plus I'm super good at drawing lions. Seriously. Look at his mane. So radical.

Me: Totally radical.

Kid Me: No duh.

Me: Becky, you love your parents, that much is obvious from your work.

Kid Me: I do. Very much.

Me: You have recently opened up for public viewing your very private collection of love notes composed by you to your parents throughout your youth. Never before has an exhibition brought its critics to tears by the sheer power of its pure, unabashed love. It's been hailed as a celebration of daughterly love and appreciation, and the exhibit's opening on Mothers' Day of this year drew record crowds. This exhibition reminds us of everything that is beautiful and rewarding about parenthood.

Kid Me: My mom and dad are my inspiration, this exhibition is my way of saying thank you. I owe them everything. They worked so hard to give me the perfect childhood, and I am forever indebted to them. I take every opportunity I can to thank them.

Me: Your dad was quite ill, in and out of hospitals for a long time, wasn't he?

Kid Me: Yes, I...(sniff)...I...just give me a second.

Me: Of course. I'm...I'm so sorry. We can come back to this, if it's easier...

Kid Me: No, no I'm fine now. (sniff.) My dad. Such a great man. I truly wouldn't be where I am today if not for his support and love. When he was sick, it was a dark time. Very scary. We never knew from one day to the next if he'd make it. His illness had a profound impact on me, and I felt it was my duty to share some of our correspondence from this period of time.

Me: The love...the love is clear. It radiates through in these letters. One can't help but be moved.

Me: One last question...

Kid Me: Oh no. I know what's coming.

Me: Yeah, I know you do. But everyone wants to know. I have to ask.

Kid Me: (laughing) Alright, go for it.

Me: The name "Larry" seems to recur often in your work, and speculation as to the identity of this person has led critics to label it a modern day Mona Lisa mystery. Everyone's dying to know, Becky. Who is Larry?

Kid Me: Oh, yes, Larry. The mystery of this "Larry". Let me explain. Larry, you see, is more of an abstract concept than a particular individual. Larry is you, Larry is me. Larry is everyman. Larry is love, and death, and fear. Larry is...

Me: It's Larry from Three's Company, isn't it.

Kid Me: *sigh* He's so radical.

You can lay next to my Nantenna, enna, enna, ay, ay, ay...

Nana's Nigerian Nurse and my dog Juanita are having some kind of Mexican standoff in the kitchen.

"Blink!...Blink!...I say blink now! You will blink!!" she tells Juanita, shaking a finger in her face. Nana's Nigerian Nurse believes Juanita's failure to blink constitutes a direct threat and that this subversive non-blinking behavior must be eradicated, lest she become feral.

Juanita finally blinks, and Nana's Nigerian Nurse rewards her by poking her in the neck with a carrot, then inviting her to Lake Tahoe for a mani/pedi.

I'm only half listening to this, because I'm busy walking around my mom's kitchen with my laptop balanced on the palm of my hand, trying to find a wireless signal. There's one bar, if I stand by the front door. The second bar flickers as I follow Nana's motorized stair seat up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, my brother and his laptop are pressed up against Nana's bedroom door.

Jack: (whispering) It's in there, there's a signal in there!

Me: Well, knock on the door! Go in!

Jack: *ick face* I don't wanna.

Nana, from the other side of the door: COUGH! CROUKGH! KHRACKKAGHHHHY!!

Me: Ew.

Jack: Yeah.

Me: Knock.

Jack: You do it.

Me: You.

Jack: You.

Me: (knocks on door and ducks behind the corner)

Jack: Wha...you ASSHOLE!!

Nana: Mmmmmnnnhrrrr. Ehhhh? Ehhhhh! Mmmin!

Jack: Fuck.

Jack opens the door and walks in, as I crawl back to the open door and lay down on my stomach in the doorway with the laptop peeking around the corner. Two bars.

Jack: (yelling) HI NANA, YOU'RE LOOKING GOOD TODAY!!

Me: (chin on hand, confirming facebook friends, updating status, twirling hair)

Jack: HOW ARE YOU FEELING TODAY, NANA?

Nana: Rrrrrroooohh...

Me: (wireless disappears, reappears, flickers, one bar, no bars, one bar...) Oh no! EFF! Psst, Jack! It's spotty out here! How many bars you got in there?

Jack: (whispering) Um...I have 'bout this many *middle finger* bars, shithead!

Me: So...one? One bar? Jack?

I shimmy on my belly into the room and reopen my laptop next to her bed. Three bars.

Me: (whispering) Jack! I think the router's behind her bed! I'm gonna sit down in bed with her, but I need you to introduce me before I stand up, so I don't scare her.

Jack: Introduce you? Um, what? Should I sound a trumpet, perhaps?

Me: No, are you kidding? Way too loud, it would kill her. Maybe just go "Ber-berberBERRRR!" with your fist on your mouth, and say "I now present...your granddaughter BECKY!"

Jack: Ah...no.

Me: Well, I can't just stand up, that would be weird. She'd know I was lying on the floor next to the bed.

Jack: Maybe just rise up really slow with your arms out, like an angel.

Me: Or maybe I can do that pretend climbing up the stairs thing? That's always a hit.

Jack: You don't have the leg strength, you know that. You tried that for the nieces and nephews at Christmas, got halfway up the "stairs" before your legs gave out and you collapsed behind the couch. Scared them to death.

Me: Yes, but first of all? I'm not drunk right now. Second? Nana's not a crybaby bitch like some toddlers I know. Okay, whatever, I'm tired of this. Engage diversionary tactic. Heads up.

I fling my shoe across the room. Jack ducks, Nana turns at the sound of the shoe knocking over a lamp, and I plop into bed next to her.

Me: Well, what in God's name is all that commotion? Heavens to Betsy, am I right, Nana? *Opens laptop*

Jack: How's the reception?

Me: Pretty good. Preeetttty good, could be better. Nana? Nana? Could you lift your arm for me? Nana?

Jack: What're you doing?

Me: Physical therapy. Jack, hand me that spoon. Nana? Nana? Nana, hold onto this spoon, and LIFT it up HIGH! Stretch! Reach to the sky, Nana! Jesus wants his spoon back!

Jack: Oh my God. You're using our 103 year-old Nana as an antenna. You're going to hell.

Me: Four bars.

Jack: Scootch over.

The savvy ladies' guide to making your car go vroom

The last time I brought White Lightning into the car service place, the man popped her hood, cleared the leaves and parking tickets out of the way to get a closer look at the gross parts, and yelled at me because somehow he could tell that I don't bring my car in as often as I should.

Man: You have NO oil. I'm surprised your car hasn't exploded. Wasn't your oil light on?

Me: Well, yeah, but ALL my lights are on. The magic genie bottle light, and the bright idea light, and exclamation mark, and there's one that looks like hot toast, and one that looks like Lee Iacocca crying... I can't believe EVERYTHING my car tells me, you know. She's kind of like the car who cried wolf.

Man: When was the last time you serviced this car?

Me: Um, a few months ago? They vacuumed the whole thing, put a little hangy banana on the rear view win...

Man: No. Serviced, as in maintenance.

Me: Serviced, yes. Spic and span. Maintained. Got the footprints off the windshield even. The plucked eyebrow hairs off the vanity mirror. The works. Yep.

Man: Everything under the hood is a mess. I can't believe what I'm seeing. This is just careless and I don't have time...

Me: Hey, is that a tank of Gatorade in there?

Man: What? No. That's antifreeze.

Me: No, I'm pretty sure that's Gatorade. Right there across from the slide projector, see?

Man: Does that make sense to you? A slide projector under the hood?

Me: Well, whatever. I don't know, man, pipes and tanks everywhere. Looks like a fucking Decepticon took a crap under the hood. I don't want any part of it. Just fix it.

Man: Ok, well, go to the service desk and fill out the forms in triplicate, and I'll...

Me: GAH! Boring!! Sorry, I zoned out for a sec. Go to the what? The...sandwich...duck? And fill out deformed tickletits?

Man: Listen to me. Go to the service...

Me: Boring!!

Man: Go to the...

Me: BORED!

Man: G...

Me: No! *squirt bottle* No!

White Lightning never got her tune-up. So when my friend Ani and I packed up the car this weekend to head off to the beach and White Lightning didn't start when I turned the key, I wasn't too surprised.

Me: Don't worry, I got this. *dials phone*

Ani: Nope, gimme the phone. Remember we talked about when it's okay to call 911 and when it's NOT okay to call 911? Remember? Medical emergency, yes...

Me: ...Injured hummingbird, no.

Ani: Home intruder?

Me: Yes.

Ani: Shredded the roof of your mouth eating Oh!s cereal?

Me: Maybe? If it like, REALLY fucked up your mouth? No? Ok, fine, no.

Ani: I'll pop the hood and find some jumper cables, you look for your car's instruction book.

Me: Kay. Probably in the glove box.

Ani: You find it?

Me: Nope! Still going through my papers in here, let's see...registration...insurance...

Me: Triple A card, maps, official vehicular documents...

Ani: You got it yet?

Me: Almost, yeah. I think I found it... lots of documents in here... s'where I keep my files, my paperwork...

Ani: Lemme help, I'll come help you find it.

Me: NO! Don't look. I mean, you just do your job and I'll do mine. I'm fine here, it's all very organized.

This is not counting the ticket I had to use as

an emergency panty liner on my last road trip.

Me: Hey, um, you know what? Screw it. We don't need that book. It's just jumper cables, easy peasy. Connect em up, clip em on to the things. Be careful though, there's something you need to remember. I think the rule goes something like, red touches black, get back jack. Red touches yellow, kill a fellow.

Ani: Great, these cables don't even have a yellow one. Just red and black.

Me: Red touches red, you be dead.

Ani: So... nothing can touch anything, is what you're saying?

Me: Black touches black, freak attack. Touch the wrong node, car explode.

Ani: I don't want any of those things to happen.

Me: Just hook those two up to your battery, and then gimme a sec because I need to hide behind the garage real quick, and then hook the other clamps to my battery. Just don't touch the clamps to each oth...

Ani: *FTTT!!* WAAAK! SPARKY!!

Me: WhatdidIjustsay! What. did. I. just. say.

Ani: Well YOU do it then!!

Me: I'm all the way over here, that doesn't make sense. You.

Ani: Fine...okay... let's see... aclippy here, and aclippy there, and I did it! All hooked up!!

Me: ...*happy clap!*...

Ani: ...*champion arms!*...

Me: Aw, look. It's cute.

Ani: What?

Me: Our cars! They're like best friends!

Ani: Oh! They are! The cables look like a friendship bracelet!

Me: SO CUTE!!

Ani: We should just drive like this, hooked up with cables, side by side, all the way to the beach.

Me: Yeah, it makes me sad to split them up now.

Ani: *wistful sigh*

Me: *contemplative melancholy head tilt*

Me: Do you think it's done transferring energy?

Ani: I think it works better if we start both the cars.

Chimp date. Also known as the time I stayed up super-late plucking my eyebrows just so they would look pretty through the eyeholes in a gas mask.

Dear Sir:

Listen. I'm not usually one to complain. I understand that things don't always turn out the way we expect them to, and that sometimes we just have to roll with the punches and move on. I want to move on, I really do. But I would be remiss if I didn't express my disappointment regarding our recent encounter. I don't know about you, sir, but when someone describes the baby chimp with whom I have a scheduled playdate as "charming" and "well-behaved," I expect my goddamned baby chimp playdate to be charming and well-behaved. Is that unrealistic of me? I don't know. You tell me.

Ok. Maybe put yourself in my shoes for a second. Say Christmas is approaching, and your friends and family are asking you what kind of gift you would like, and you're thinking, "Jesus Christ, what version of gift-herpes are they gonna come up with this year? I wish these people would take their Bath and Bodyworks candles and their Mary Engelbreit calendars and just go fuck themselves."

But because you are such a good person, you don't say any of that out loud. Instead you say "Oh, I really don't want anything," which you say with a slight air of passive aggressive resentment, because everyone knows full well that all you've ever wanted for Christmas was for somebody to learn the guy part of "Baby It's Cold Outside," so that once, just once, you might have a duet by the fire one cozy Christmas Eve, instead of it being just you, alone and drunk with a stupid sock on your hand who has no idea how to do that overlapping lyrics thing and sounds nothing at all like Louis Armstrong.

And you're hoping, at the very least, that none of your friends gives you photos of their kids set in a frame whose longest side is greater than the cross-diameter of your trash can, and you're already planning your annual December 26th Bath and Bodyworks scented candlelight vigil to commemorate the rest of the Bath and Bodyworks candles that you're burning in a bonfire ten feet away from the vigil, and wondering if this year will be the year that your family finally understands that your post-9/11 freak-out ended years ago and that you are no longer in need of any "defense against biochemical attack" themed gifts...

This is why they invented self-timer.

...particularly a gas mask in child's size small from your mom, because she really wants grandkids but "No pressure!!" she says. Right mom. No pressure. *eye roll*

But suddenly, you are inspired. You realize what it is that you want, what you've always wanted and were unable up until this very moment to articulate.

Me: I want a playdate with a chimp.

Mom: A playdate?

Me: Yes. With a chimpanzee.

Sister: Becky, that's ridiculous.

Me: Really? Ridiculous? Have you seen Jack's list? He wants an armored bear costume for his dog so they can play Golden Compass in the back yard, for Christ's sake.

Mom: Well. That's just silly. He's not getting a Golden Compass armored bear suit for the dog. That would truly be ridiculous.

Iorek Byrnison, ladies and gentlemen.

Mom: Alright, besides a date with a chimp, what would you like for Christmas? How about some more Ciprofloxacin? Maybe if you're a good girl Santa will bring you Cipro, huh?

Me: You guys, Cipro's nice and all, and it's true what they say, you can never have enough Ciprofloxacin, but... see, I've tried to explain this to you before, it's just that surviving an Anthrax attack just isn't as important to me as it once was.

Sister: Okay, yeah, I get that. People change. Priorities change. You grow.

Me: Exactly. Protecting myself from biochemical warfare just... I don't know... I guess I'm just over it, and don't get me wrong, hoarding antibiotics will always hold a special place in my heart, but a girl gets to a point in her life where she's like, enough. Enough with the antibiotics, and the blow darts, and the propane-fueled generators. This Christmas, I just want a hug from a hairy little primate.

Mom: Ooohhhh, sounds like someone's feeling maternal!!!

Me: Suck my dick, mom.

Mom: Well, you just better hope Santa didn't hear you tell your mom to suck your dick.

Me: Santa can take my load all over his fat old man tits.

Mom: Well, you just better hope Jesus didn't hear you tell Santa to take your load all over his...

Sister: Yeah, anyway, so the chimp thing. I really think we can make it happen.

And they do. Are you still with me, sir? It just so happens that somebody knows somebody who trains chimps for commercials. And your Christmas wish comes true.

Now, let's back up a little. This is not your first chimp experience. You know what to expect. Years earlier, you had met a baby chimp.

She had held you by the hand and walked with you, climbed into your arms and hugged you around your neck, unzipped her purse to show you the contents (chapstick), applied it to her lips, applied it to your lips (no thank you), applied it to her lips again, and back to yours (no thanks I'm good), tried once more (well okay *puckers up*) and by the time you said goodbye you wanted to carry her everywhere and buy her a whole carton of chapstick for her sad empty purse and make her your baby and your best friend all at once, kind of like the way you feel now about Kurt from Glee.

And now, years later, you get your very own chimp playdate, and you're bursting with anticipation.

The morning finally arrives, and the doorbell rings. You've waited so long for another chimp hug. Those extra-long hairy arms draped around your neck, those tiny legs resting comfortably on your hips. Those agile, almost prehensile lips reaching out for a kiss.

You open the front door and reach your arms out. Come to me, my new chimp baby-friend. I will love you with everything I have to give, unconditionally and with abandon!

But from the moment you open the door, you know something's different. You think back to your old pal from years ago...

...and compare her to this new chimp friend. You can't quite put your finger on it, but you have excellent intuition and there's something unnerving about the expression on his face.

You can't see his other hand because he's taking a crap in it.

Hmm. Let's compare.

This chimp doesn't so much wear his diaper as he does rip it off and dip his hands into his own shit and proceed to cop a feel on every woman and fat man in the room. It's pretty hard to deny having just been felt up by a chimp when you're wearing his shit handprints on your boobs.

This chimp doesn't so much wrap you in a warm primate embrace as he does climb to the tops of bookshelves and perch on curtain rods and then dive-bomb onto the heads of passersby, attacking...

-Nana as she rolls by in her wheelchair: Ooof! Mercy me, be careful, little boy!

-Nana's Nigerian Nurse: Dat monkeh has de devil een hees haht! You stay ay-way from me, demon creachuh!!

-8 year-old nephew: He's trying to steal my eyeballs! Get him off my face!! YOU CAN'T HAVE THEM!!

-Sister: Oh my god, he's got my ponytail. Let go my ponytail, GOD why are is this chimp such a DICK!!

-Nigerian Nurse: Yes, I ay-gree. Dees monkeh is a toe-tal esshole.

Now, am I being unreasonable here? I don't know about you, sir, but where I come from, baby chimps carry purses and share their chapstick and keep their diapers fastened. They don't dip their shitstained fingers into people's iced blended mochas and they don't try to eat people's Nanas' wheelchair seat cushions and they don't try to strangle people's Nanas' Nigerian nurses by their braided leather bolo necklaces. It's positively animalistic and I won't stand for it.

You'll be hearing from my lawyers.

Good day sir.

In which my mom brings it like an animal

Me: What the hell is going on in there?

Jack: That's mom. She's doing your P90X workout DVDs in the next room.

Me: Holy shit! Is she okay?

Jack: I know. It sounds like a cat in a room full of tall lamps.

(From behind the door, CRASH!)

Mom: I'm okay! It was the chair! The chair fell over!

Jack: She keeps kicking the chairs over. She won't wear her glasses while she's exercising, is the problem. I went in there to check on her and she kicked me in the hamstring.

Me: What's that swooshing noise?

Jack: That? Why, funny you should ask. That...is a hula hoop.

Me: Um... There's no hula hoop in P90X.

Jack: Yes I know. She's made some interesting substitutions.

(From behind the closed door, the sound of hula hoop skidding across the wood floor)

Mom: Whoop! Yikes!

(Bare feet plod plod plodding across the floor, hula hoop is recovered, whoosh-whoosh-whoosh resumes)

P90X guy: Yes! You are an animal! When I said BRING IT, you BROUGHT IT! And you made it YOUR BITCH!

Mom: Wooo!! YEA!! *whoosh, whoosh, whoosh*

Me: Well, hula hoop is good for your abs anyhow... strengthens your... core...

Jack: *shaking head*

Me: What? No?

Jack: *sigh*

Me: She's hula hooping around her neck again, isn't she? She's gonna crush her trachea, I swear.

Jack: It's the only way she can keep the hoop up.

Me: So... when the P90X gang starts in with the pull ups, you're telling me mom participates by spinning a hula hoop on her NECK? Does this make any sense to you?

Jack: She changes it up, though. Like when they do deep lunge kicks she does the "She's a Maniac" run in place thing from Flashdance instead. And when they start doing those pike sit-ups, she sings "Louie Louie" and does that hitchhiker thumbs-over-the-shoulder move. And sometimes when she gets confused she just shrugs and does that dance from the 20's where you put your hands on your knees and then touch your knees together and send your hands off to the opposite knees.

Me: Oh, yeah, that's a classic. You know what? We should make her a new workout DVD. We can be all YEAH, YOU ANIMAL! GRRR!! WORK IT! MAKE THE CHARLESTON YOUR BITCH!

Jack: Heh. YEAH, DIVAS! WE'RE GONNA PAUSE HERE AND GIVE YOU 30 SECONDS TO GO FIND YOUR GLASSES, BECAUSE WE'RE ABOUT TO DEMONSTRATE A BRAND NEW MOVE CALLED WAGGLING YOUR FINGER IN THE AIR TO BIG BAND MUSIC!

Me: ALRIGHT YOU ANIMALS, YOU'RE GONNA PUT YOUR MOTHERFUCKING RIGHT LEG IN, AND THEN YOU'RE GONNA PUT IT RIGHT BACK OUT, LIKE THE DIVA THAT YOU ARE!! 20 REPS, IN AND OUT, GOGOGOGOGO!!!

Jack: HAHAHA!!

Me: Heehee! Oh, we should stop. We're mean.

Jack: We are. She's 65 and she's doing most of P90x for God's sake. That's pretty cool.

(From behind the door, hula hoop skitters across the floor and crashes)

Mom: YOW! Oof! Dang butterfingers!!

Jack: You did P90X a while ago, right?

Me: Pff. Yeah, for maybe a week. I got bored.

Jack: It's repetitive, huh.

Me: Same thing over and over.

Jack: Yeah, I don't know how she keeps up with it.

(The door to the next room opens and mom peeks through.)

Mom: Hey guys, could one of you grab the blue painter's tape for me?

Me: Painter's tape?

Jack: Ab Ripper X.

Me: ...??...

Jack: You know... for the hopscotch part.