Stupidity abounds

Little Preston Scarbrough took his family’s car and led police on a high-speed chase last Sunday because he didn’t want to go to church. Preston’s little prank, which could have killed him or others, “drove” mom and dad to sentence their up-and-coming Indy driver to four days in his room, sans television or video games.

Then Mom and Dad Scarbrough screwed up. They accepted an invitation to appear on NBC’s “Today” show.

The family showed up, adorable little Preston in tow. I am not at all convinced Preston understood the gravity of his little joyride. I am, however, positive he reveled in every second of his stardom, especially the front-row “seat” he was given for the show’s weekly concert in Rockefeller Plaza.

The camera loved Preston and its love was not unrequited. Preston’s family loved the camera loving Preston. I assume Preston loved the airplane trip from Utah and his whirlwind tour of New York, too. That’ll teach him, huh? Imagine what this clever lad will come up with when he has a book report he doesn’t feel like writing--or how he’ll get out of visiting crotchety old grandma in the stinky nursing home.

I know most families would love to be on the “Today” show, even though mine would rather guzzle strychnine. But shame on the Scarbroughs for using Preston’s potentially deadly prank as currency for buying 15 minutes of fame.

And shame on the “Today” show staffers who invited them.

The new heroin

I am sitting under the hairdryer at my neighborhood salon, waiting for the conditioning treatment to work its miracle. Magazine in hand, I’m feeling about as relaxed as I can when I’m out in public, knowing I am in constant danger of colliding with stupidity.

Once again, I am not disappointed.

“Who has my ‘Vanity Fair’?” yells an old crone badly in need of some salon magic. No one answers.

She takes it up a notch. “I need my 'Vanity Fair!' I need my ‘Vanity Fair!’” Apparently, 'Vanity Fair' is the new heroin.

What in the world makes her think the magazine is hers? Suddenly, I am feeling better than relaxed. I’m feeling feisty.

“Oh,” I asked naively as I showed her the cover, “is this what you're looking for?”

“Oh my God! Yes. Can I have it?”

“Nooo. I’m reading it. Just started, too. It’s a really, really great issue.” Actually, I consider the magazine pretentious and way over-written. But I was dying to see some previously unpublished photos of Heath Ledger.

Then Queen Bee really fucked up. “Find me,” she commanded, “when you’re finished with it.”

FIND ME WHEN YOU’RE FINISHED WITH IT???? Are you fucking kidding me? Do people not say “please” in The Land of the Entitled?

I was dumbstruck. Puzzled that I hadn’t answered--or, more likely, snapped to attention--this creature stuck out her hand and introduced herself, to which I replied, using my best manners,“Uh huh.”

“I always read that magazine whenever I come here. I’m a Republican and I love to argue with the magazine.”

I jumped right on that one. “Um, I don’t mean to pick nits, but you can’t really argue with a magazine. It’s an inanimate object. You could roll up the magazine, though, and use it as a flimsy weapon when you argue with a living thing, provided the living thing speaks.

"And I gotta tell you: If I ever had any intention of 'finding you'--which, by the way, I did not--it would have evaporated the instant I found out you were a Republican. Step and fetch your own magazine, okay?"

“Oh, but now we’re having a dialogue!” she countered. "Isn't that great?"

“Actually, honey, you’re having a monologue. I’m reading ‘Vanity Fair.’ Really, really great issue.”

Let's have fun!

Wow. Yesterday’s blog was a real upper, huh?

If there is one thing I hate—and oh, how I wish there was only one (or 100, for that matter)—it is people who are unable to say “I’m sorry.” I plan to dedicate a special blog to them in the near future but, for today, suffice it to say that I cannot apologize to you nearly enough for allowing my marshmallow center to immobilize my armor.

More than once since posting what I have dubbed "The Big Boo-Hoo,” I was tempted to remove it. But I kept hearing the voice of my therapist--known by my family and friends as Annie Sullivan--urging me to embrace my pain. So embrace it I did. I left the blog as is and will use that triumph as currency when I try to barter a free session from her on Wednesday.

But today, on the eve of reuniting with The Bitch and my brother-in-title-only, I have bigger challenges to face. The marketing manager at the “retirement village” strongly suggests that we sample an activity or two. Left to my mother’s devices, we’d be first in line for “Margarita Mondays!” But I’m going to push for “Who Am I?” Half the people living in that place probably have no fucking clue. How cool would it be to see what they come up with?

Initially, I was tempted to sit in on a session of “Baking Memories!” but I realized that it requires too much forethought. I would need to figure out precisely what year I brought that disaster of a pumpkin pie to my aunt’s Thanksgiving dinner. Or I’d have to try to remember who saved my sorry ass by lending me a cup of confectioner’s sugar during the middle of the night when the cream cheese frosting on my carrot cake got so damn runny.

I’m starting to feel a little desperate. Maybe the Monday at 2 p.m. slot is just a loser. Sure, I could suggest “Story Hour!” but how, exactly, would I word that? “Okay, Mommie Dearest, it’s time to be infantilized?”

There are two stellar possibilities. I know she could come up with a bitter memory for “Let’s Reminisce!” Or, if I could stand seeing her “life of the party act” one more time, she would likely love “Let’s Sing Out Loud!” Sing out loud? Jesus. As opposed to…what? Sing to ourselves?

[Note to whoever names these courses: Overusing exclamation marks is a sign of laziness--not unlike my overuse of long dashes. They reek of desperation, too, so let them go. Please?]

Okay. Here’s the bottom line on tomorrow. I don’t know which activity we’ll end up trying, but I can promise it won’t be at “Mind Games!” Just being there will be mind game enough for me.

Stranger in a strange land

The Bitch is sitting on the toilet. I am kneeling, all senses fully engaged, between her 87-year-old legs, wiping her ass.

Because of a genetic anomaly, I am able to acknowledge the possibility that I don’t have a monopoly on feelings, so I am talking nonstop to distract her. As I reach for her clean panties [oh, to have the talent to describe how hard it was to type that p-word], she says, “One day, I hope you learn some compassion” and begins to segue into yet another recitation of her woes.

I lost it. Looked right in her eyes and screamed, “Shut the fuck up! I’m sick of your goddamn bitching and moaning. Just shut UP!”

As soon as I helped her back to bed, I went to the kitchen and started to cry, overflowing with shame at having told my mother to fuck off, even though she deserved it. Even though she had deserved it for a very long time.

Then, of course, I got angry—at myself—for crying instead of celebrating what should have been a triumphant moment.

That incident happened more than two years ago, but I have thought about it often this week. On Monday, my brother-in-title-only and I will take her to visit an assisted living community. Signing a lease is far from a done deal, but my real brother, who lives out of town, has somehow made this miracle visit happen.

I know she would be safer there than in the large apartment she loves. I know she’d be busier and far more content. What I don’t know is why this upcoming visit fills me with sadness. If ever I needed to put on a happy face, Monday afternoon would be the time. I fear I won’t be able to pull it off. And I’m afraid of the tears I hope I can hold back until after I take her home.

As always, my sadness makes me feel angry. This time, it also puzzles me. I know I will grieve when she dies, although not for the “right” reasons. What has sustained me for the past I-don't-know-how-long is the knowledge that one day, if I am lucky enough to outlive her, the space I allow her to occupy in my head will shrink to a manageable size. That I can see myself in a light her judgments don’t eclipse. That maybe I can be free.

Bus stop hallucinations

An elementary school friend told me a former classmate of ours has been asking about me. She said that the former classmate, now an attorney, accused me of having beaten her up at the bus stop in 4th grade.

I’m a big believer in taking responsibility for one’s actions, so I’ll admit it: I was among the legions of classmates who bullied her--with good reason. I regret--really, I do--any pain I caused her, but not nearly enough to make amends. That would necessitate my talking to or--worse--seeing her again. I would rather pour lye into my baby blues.

But beat her up on the bus stop? We weren’t even on the same bus, for fuck’s sake. I would have needed a bionic arm to reach her bus stop from mine. Besides which, I would never risk damaging my fist; I’d reach for an RPG, my weapon of choice--at least according to a silly Facebook quiz.

Six years ago, this lunatic decided she wanted to meet me for dinner. She left a bunch of messages on my voicemail. I could tell you I didn’t call her back because my dad had just died and I was institutionalized, but the only thing true about that statement would be the first part. No, the truth is simple. Every dead person I ever knew and loved could be resurrected in my living room and I’d still have to be grossly overpaid to spend five minutes with this chick.

I don't want to hear her histrionic rants about how mean I was. Bygones, honey. Truth is, she owes me a debt of gratitude for giving her the strength and wherewithal to overcome adversity. Especially because she brought it on herself.

What self-respecting, awkward adolescent tries to craft an Oscar-worthy performance from a stupid report? You got up in front of the class, you mumbled--at breakneck speed--whatever was written on your index cards, then you sat the hell back down as fast as you could. But not my little punching bag. She stood up and --with great pride, drama and an overabundance of volume--cleared her throat and announced the title of her project: “CLAra BARton. (LONNNNNG pause.) ANGEL (pause, pause) of the BATtlefield.”

Important note: I’m not a lawyer, but if I were defending me against my friend’s bogus assault and battery charge, I would look knowingly at the jury as I restated the full name of her book report, emphasizing the word “battlefield.” Then I would hint, ever so slyly, that my old buddy had a longstanding fascination with fighting.

Hmmm. I'm liking this court scenario.

So hear this, Clara. Keep slandering me and my niece and I will see you in court. She'll be passing the bar exam next week. Or, of you prefer, I will gladly meet you at a bus stop and, this time--I promise-- I will beat the living shit out of you.

Mommie Dearest: part 1

For the first 10 or so years after I was married, my mother never failed to greet my husband by asking, “Do you still love her?” Never.

Uncharacteristically, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the first time--hell, I can be generous--maybe the first two, it was cute. Not funny, but mildly amusing. Maybe.

After that: not so much. Especially after four years. And then after five and six and seven and... It seemed my marriage needed to last a decade before my mother could cast aside her deep-seated fear that my husband would wake up one day and realize what a horrific mistake he had made.

Thanks for the memory, mom.

My great airport debacle

I have always resented rules, especially when I determine they are stupid and/or inforced inconsistently. Placing a very close second is my dislike for authority figures. I encountered both at the Ft. Lauderdale airport.

It's a simple but moving story: a TSA agent took away my snow globe. Apparently it’s a weapon. I thought it was a stupid rule, but I was more concerned with flying safely than I was about pressing the point. What got me—but didn’t matter a lick to that fat fuck of a TSA agent—was that I purchased the snow globe at the Baltimore airport and flew with it, in my carry-on bag, to Ft. Lauderdale.

If there is a syndrome that is to impotent men what Napoleonic complexes are to short people, this prick could have been its poster boy. He was a strident son-of-a-bitch whose delight in my displeasure was written all over his body, in huge neon letters.

“I don’t care what they do in Baltimore,” he crowed. “That snow globe isn’t leaving here.” He told me I could mail it, but I didn't have enough time.

"Well, then, you’ll have to hand it over.” He took the bag and threw it away immediately. Right in front of me.

Prior to this event, the only problems I had ever encountered going through airport security were caused by the underwire in my bra. So it took me a second or two to process that I was furious at this jerk. I knew enough to whisper my curses, but they came fast and furious, like the orgasms in his dreams.

I began an internal dialogue. “Go get that thing out of the trash.” “Don’t. You could get in trouble.” “He’s an asshole and his rule is ludicrous. Get the goddamn snow globe.” "You really shouldn't. Just get to the gate."

That my son was witnessing this meltdown only fueled my passion to reclaim the snow globe. I was sure the incident was destined to be the film that played in his head whenever he needed inspiration. Sort of like Rocky running the steps at the Philly Museum of Art, but with a better soundtrack.

I was wasting time and I knew it. Quickly, I slipped into my sandals and gathered my stuff from the conveyor belt. Corporal Cocksucker had his back to me; he was busy “assisting” other travelers. Fearlessly, I dropped to my knees, crawled to the trash can and reached my arm right in. Bag in hand and headed for victory, the agent did an about-face. Apparently, he is such a freak that he actually has eyes in the back of his blockhead.

He screamed—and boy do I love when authority figures do that—“Ma’am, what are you doing?”

He was angry at my blatent disrespect. I was angry at my failure to succeed. “Uh. I thought I’d mail it after all,” I countered, not nearly as forcefully as I would have liked.

“I don’t think so,” he smirked. “Once you surrender an item, it’s ours.” He put my snow globe back in the trash, exactly where he belonged.