So It Will Make Us Mad

My brother, Mr. Funny, is pretty unflappable, generally speaking. He spent a chunk of time in college working at a store called Fairvilla (warning: link NSFW), which featured things like a people cage, medical-grade horse-size speculums, and something called "The Simian." 


So it takes a lot to shock him.


Something like hearing his sister say the following sentence:


"There was a part in the blood orgy that reminded me of my children."


Let me explain.


Saturday night I went with my husband and his brother, Gilligan, to "Sleep No More," which is probably one of the most awesome experiences of my life. It is, to paraphrase my cousin-in-law, like "MacBeth" on peyote.


An entire building in Chelsea was turned into the hotel set, and the actors go from room to room performing (very) loosely interpreted scenes from The Scottish Play. Guests are given creepy masks to wear, and are instructed to break off from their group and not to speak. At all. People who've been to "Sleep No More" have varying philosophies on how to do it best so that you see all the scenes and don't miss anything important, but honestly, even given the three hour window you have to wander around at will there is no humanly way to catch everything.

The Duke of Juban models the creepy "Sleep No More" mask.

So that's the situation I found myself in on Saturday night: Running silently around a dark, creepy hotel in a "Scream"-like mask, chasing actors covered in stage blood and getting grave dirt all over my feet. (Note to self: Don't wear open-toed shoes to "Sleep No More.")


Naturally there is a blood orgy. I mean, duh. How could there not be a blood orgy at something like this?


And part of the blood orgy reminded me of my kids. I won't say why, but if you've been to "Sleep No More" you know what I'm talking about and you know I'm not a pervert. Well, I probably am a pervert, but not because the blood orgy reminded me of my kids. In fact, I think I am the real victim here. Who wants to think about their precious little babies at a blood orgy?


Charles Manson might. But I am not Charles Manson. Not even a little bit.


Besides, my husband and I were paying a very nice young woman $12 an hour to think about our children for us. The last thing I wanted was to be reminded of them at all, but especially not during a blood orgy. Now, suddenly, I couldn't help but think of them.

The Juban Princeling in the popular "Sleep No More" mask/Darth Vader pajamas combo

One thought lead to another and before I knew it my maternal instinct told me the nice-seeming young woman watching our children was probably a Charles Manson-like pervert who was at this very moment kidnapping my babies and bringing them to a blood orgy. Which is how I wound up being one of the jerks at "Sleep No More" who hid in the stairwell to check my phone. 


As if a Charles Mason-like pervert is going to send me a text message saying, "Got your kids. Blood orgy. Be back by 11."


I tried to shake it off, but the baby carriages in the psych ward didn't exactly comfort me.


Anyone else get accidentally reminded of children, or other family members, during really inappropriate moments?

The Joy(lessness) of a Valentine's Birthday

When you're a kid and Valentine's Day means little more than candy and Strawberry Shortcake/Transformers cards from your classmates, having a February 14th birthday is really not such a big deal.

Then you get older.


Junior high rolled around, and my priorities in life were:

• Do I take the laces out of my Keds, or keep them in?
• Are my acid-washed Edwin stretch jeans acid-washed and stretchy enough?
• Do I have enough pins on my (acid-washed) Hard Rock Cafe jean jacket?
• Is my hair permed enough?
• Do I own enough yellow ribbon t-shirts to support our troops in Desert Storm?

In junior high, most kids didn't have "relationships" yet, and those who did were considered weird and/or sophisticated. My best friend Tia had a boyfriend who drove, and that was an enormous deal. 


What I do remember about Valentine's Day in junior high was that everyone got those shiny silver helium balloons to schlep around.


This was a problem for me, because it was also tradition to get your friends shiny silver helium balloons to schlep around on their birthdays, so that in every class they had to feign embarrassment and be all, "Yes, it's my birthday." 


But since my birthday was February 14th, my balloons from Tia went largely unnoticed. 


At least, I assume they went largely unnoticed. For my 13th birthday I was sick as a dog and had to stay home, and around lunch time I got a phone call from a pissed-off Tia hissing into the phone, "Where the fuck are you? Do you know I have to carry these stupid balloons around all day?"


As if I woke up on the morning of my own birthday with a 102 fever just to piss her off. Somehow she has managed to overcome this kink in our friendship and stick by me for the past 24 years.

Me at 16, circa 1992. Yes, those are clear braces.
No wonder I didn't have a boyfriend.

Then I got to high school, and the pain of a February 14th birthday started to sting a little bit. I had exactly two boyfriends in high school: one lasted for the first two months of my sophomore year, the other lasted for the first three months of my junior year. So, no Valentine's boyfriend to buy red carnations for me. No stupid pink bears to carry triumphantly through the halls. No chocolates to share. 


Most of my friends in high school just happened to be members of the school choral group - like a real life "Glee," but somehow even more gay. For Valentine's Day they did "Singing Valentines," where you could embarrass the crap out of someone by sending half a dozen or so singers to their class to serenade them. Since most of the singing group were my friends, they came to my 3rd period class for my 18th birthday and sang both "That's What Friends are For" and "Happy Birthday." 


To this day, that goes down as one of my best birthdays, ever. (Along with my 30th, when I took a personal day from work to stay home and watch the entire box set of "Firefly.")

Things I am sick of hearing when people find out my birthday is February 14:

• Oh, your parents must extra love you! (Why, do your parents extra hate you because you weren't born on Valentine's Day?) (Also, do you realize this means that for 18 years my parents didn't get to celebrate Valentine's Day alone with one another?)
• Do you get extra presents? (From who? My non-existent boyfriends?)
• Your parents should have named you Valerie! Or Valentine! (Your parents should have named you Dumbass.)
• Is it because you are extra loveable? (You tell me, after I finish punching you in the throat.)
• Oh, that's Valentine's Day! (Is it? I HADN'T NOTICED.)
• Don't you just love it? (No.)

Then I got to college and pretended like I was too existential to care about Valentine's Day. I wore a black knit beret and red lipstick, smoked clove cigarettes, and told everyone within earshot how nothing meant anything anyway.


My 20s rolled around and things got awkward. My girlfriends and I tried very hard to ignore Valentine's Day by focusing on my birthday instead, but even one's best gal pals can't hide from you the sight of all those lovey dovey couples out at dinner. One year we went to Eve Ensler's "V-Day" at Madison Square Garden, and that was kind of awesome. Queen Latifah performed and even Oprah showed up.


However, the year I was dreading happened for my 23rd birthday: the year all my friends had someone to spend Valentine's Day with, and I (still) did not. 


Back then air travel was dirt cheap, so I bought myself a ticket to England and spent the whole weekend in a small town where everyone thought my American accent was sexy and Valentine's Day was not a very big deal and I had to try real hard not to ruin the plot of "Friends" for people.


Finally, at the end of 2002 I met the Man Who Would Be My Husband. By Valentine's Day 2003 we were still too new, so I sent him an e-card and he texted me that he thought I was pretty, and sent me some chocolates and a little ceramic dragon.


And now all 26 of those lonely Valentine's Days don't matter, because all my future Valentine's Day birthdays belong to the man who has spent not one, but now two pregnancies of mine, listening to me talk about my digestive issues in harrowing detail, massaging my swollen feet, and picking up all the slack around the house, and still tells me, genuinely and sincerely, while I'm wearing the same faded grey undershirt (of his) and worn out maternity yoga pants outfit I've been wearing for four months non-stop, that he thinks I'm the sexiest, most beautiful woman in the world, and how he thinks he's the lucky one to get to travel our life paths together.


So, suck it, stupid Valentine's birthday. I win.

Juban Princeling Photo of the Week: 10/15/11

Brunch at Barrio in Park Slope for Daddy's birthday (on Monday). One of these guys has red sangria, the other has chocolate milk. Guess who has which:

Writing Exercises in Real Life

Example:
"Is there coffee?" my husband asked.
"No, sorry, I forgot to set it yesterday," I replied.
"So, is the coffee in there and you just didn't turn it on?" he asked.
"I didn't set it. So no. There's no coffee in there, dumbass." I snarked.
"I'm not a dumbass, you jerk." He made a nasty face at me. "Setting it, and turning it on are two different things."


Better:
"Is there coffee?" My husband blinked in the sudden light of the kitchen and waved a hand in the general direction of our coffee maker.
"Of course, sir." Martha, our devoted housekeeper of many years handed him a steaming cup of fresh roasted brew.
"Did you sleep well, my love?" I stretched out of Warrior II pose and into Triangle Pose.
My husband walked over and kissed the top of my head. "Of course, darling. You are a heavy sleeper who absolutely does not snore. You?"
I smiled up at him and held his gaze. "Of course. You don't snore either, and you absolutely do not sleep with a sharp, bent elbow in my face."
"Excuse me, Madame." Our nanny's familiar voice crackled over the intercom from the Nursery Wing of the mansion. "Your son is awake. Shall I give him his morning apple juice, freshly pressed from apples picked out of your family orchard in your luscious, twenty-acre backyard?"
"Yes, Gertrude. Thank you." I slid easily into Plank Pose and my arms did not wobble even a little bit.


Example:
"Uhhhhhhhhh. UUUUUHHHHHH!" whined my son.
"What? What is it you want?" I tried not to snap at him.
"Want vitamin."
"No," I snapped anyway. "You had one this morning. You only get one per day or you'll die of a toxic vitamin overdose."
He threw his toy across the room. "WANT! VITAMIN! NOW!!!"
"That's it," I said. I grabbed his elbow and dragged him to his room. "Time out for whining and for throwing and for yelling at Mommy." I slammed the door shut, but it failed to drown out his screams of rage.

Better:
The closing credits to "Star Wars" rolled onto the screen. Next to me my son, who had been silent and still all through the movie, sighed with contentment. He leaned into me. "I love you, Mommy."
I put an arm around him and kissed his forehead. "I love you too, Juban Princeling."
"Can we watch the next one now? 'Empire Strikes Back?'"
A giggle bubbled up from my soul. My arm tightened around him just a little bit. "Of course!"
He stayed quiet and still all through that one, too. After the movie he asked, "Can we have Mommy-Princeling Star Wars Day again tomorrow?"
I tickled him a little bit. "Whatever you want, my sweetheart."


Example:
"Blah blah blah mayor stuff blah blah blah," said New York City Mayor Mike Bloomberg.

Better:
"Meredith, I honestly don't know how this city ever survived without you." Mayor Bloomberg shook his head in disbelief as he wrote me a check for a million dollars.


Example:
"My job is killing me," one of my Hottie friends said.
"Mine too. Been working late, plus my dog is sick," said another one.
"My kid won't sleep," said a third Hottie.
"My husband is being a jerk," said another one.
"My mother-in-law treats us like garbage," said yet another.

Better:
"I'm glad we finally did this." I stretched out on the plush lounge chair. Behind me one of the DJCs - Derek Jeter Clones - fanned me gently with a giant palm frond. A second DJC gave me an expert foot massage, making the money I spent to send him to massage therapy school worth every penny.
"Oh yes, me too." One of my Hottie sisters lifted a frozen margarita off a tray proffered by a bartender DJC. "Cheers!"
"L'chaim!" I said, lifting my own frozen margarita because I was not pregnant and could drink alcohol.
A cool ocean breeze blew across our private Hottie Caribbean island.
"Pink, or red?" A third Hottie sister asked no one in particular as one of her own DJCs filed her nails.
"Red!" All seven of us laughed in unison.
"I hope our husbands are doing all right back home." Hottie Beatrix Potter dug into her calorie- and fat-free, yet still delicious, hot fudge brownie sundae, which was designed by a specialty DJC chef to not aggravate her migraines.
"I'm sure they're fine," another Hottie said.
"Can we stay on Hottie Island forever?" I asked.
"Of course we can!" My soul sisters all laughed. "We have no responsibilities back home! Let's stay here and eat what we want and drink alcohol and enjoy our private island! Now, take off your shirts, DJCs!"
And they did.


Example:
"I have an audition tomorrow," my brother told me. "I probably won't get it, and it's for an extras part, but I have to try."

Better:
"Hey Sis, I told Jessie J what a huge fan you are, and she invited you to go shopping with her tomorrow." There were many perks of my brother's job as head writer and featured player on Saturday Night Live. Getting to hang out with my favorite celebrities was just one of them. "And by the way," he added, picking up the check for lunch at Le Cirque. "Thank you so much for suggesting all those jokes and funny stories. I used them in my stand-up act the other night and they killed. They absolutely killed! And please, keep them coming. I am not at all annoyed when people suggest funny things I should include in my high-paying professional comedy career, especially when you text message it to me out of context and I have no idea what you're talking about and your text is full of typos and weird auto-corrects so that it reads like you let your 2-year old mash the keypad before you hit 'Send.' That is not annoying AT ALL."

I smiled. "I do what I can to help those I love."

The Legality of Legalness

I know a lot of lawyers. I mean, a lot of lawyers. Probably more than is healthy for most people. It's good to know a lawyer, for those times when you want to know if you can sue the a-hole doctors who misdiagnosed your abdominal pain so that a month later you wind up in the hospital getting your gall bladder out, and your gall bladder by now is so infected it's twice the normal size and your routine surgery takes twice as long all because the emergency room doctor sent you home yesterday when she should have had you admitted instead. Not that that's ever happened to me. (But if it had, the answer is yes, I can sue the initial emergency room doctor but I will have a pretty lousy case. And I'm lazy. So no lawsuit.)

So, it's good to know a lawyer for things like that.

I keep telling my husband he should get a scales of justice
tattoo because not only is he a lawyer,
but he's a Libra! How awesome would that be! But he
refuses because he is a (sexy) stick in the mud.

But I know a lot of lawyers, which is my burden to bear through life. How did this happen? I have no idea. My father makes his living as an expert witness for personal injury lawsuits, so he knows a lot of lawyers. Then, my roommate here in New York went to law school while we were living together. Then, my husband decided to go to law school and now he's a lawyer.

Lawyers are like ants: where there's one, there's bound to be more. So for each of the lawyers I know, they, in turn, know a whole colony of others. My life is a swarm of lawyers.

I wish I knew this many doctors. I could actually use free drug samples, easy access to prescription pads, and advice on this random dry patch I've had on my left knee for as long as I can remember. How do I need all these lawyers in my life? How does that help me, ever?

(For the record, I know one doctor. One. And while she was extremely helpful last summer when my son cracked my head open and I had to get staples IN MY HEAD, she has yet to give me free drugs even though last month I went to her baby son's surprise bris as a witness to the little man joining The Tribe. So, basically, she's useless.) (And yes, that was a surprise bris.)

So, yesterday I got a pre-summons questionnaire for jury duty, which means my nerd lawyer of a husband is all a-twitter with excitement. The law is, to him, what pop culture is to normal people. He gets excited about Supreme Court decisions the way other people get excited about American Idol. He talks about landmark cases the way I talk about Quentin Tarantino movies. He brought this book with him on our honeymoon. Our honeymoon! Blue skies, bright sunshine, pink Bermudian sand, and my groom with his nerd book. He might as well have worn a fishing hat, black socks pulled up to his knees, and loafers. He wouldn't let me have a Star Wars-themed wedding, but he brought an almost textbook on the honeymoon. Know what I brought? This book. This is a book that says, "I'm on my honeymoon and can't be bothered to think real deep thoughts for real long chunks of time, kthxbye."

(Photo from nerdiest-kids.com)

Of course my nerd husband gets excited when I get called for jury duty. It means I have to come home and talk with him about his favorite subject (the law) rather than just doing what I usually do when he comes home from work, which is to smile and nod and occasionally repeat the last two words he just said so it sounds like I'm paying attention, while in my mind I'm riding behind Gael Garcia Bernal on a motorcycle across South America. No, with jury duty I'll have to pay attention to things so I can come home and regurgitate them to the nerd I married. When my questionnaire arrived he actually studied it then pop-quizzed me on it.

"Is it federal or state court?"
"How the f**k should I know?"
"What does it say?"
"Here, look and see for yourself."
"It says U.S. District Court. What do you think that means?"
"I think that means if you don't drop it you're sleeping in the bathtub for the rest of the week. I don't care what it means. It means I'm going to jury duty soon. Now STFU and let's watch some reruns of last season's True Blood before the new season starts."

Blah blah opposing counsel blah.

I know people generally hate jury duty, but I kind of like it. It's hours and hours to catch up on my reading, and lord knows I have enough of that to do. Thanks to Barnes & Noble's Free Fridays on the nook, I have dozens of e-books to read. DOZENS. Even ones I don't particularly want to read. They are free, and I'm a Jew, and I will take pretty much anything if it's free. So I have a nook full of books I might never otherwise give a second thought to, but because they were free I now have to read them all. HAVE TO.

And anyway, in my mind all court is like TV court, a point that gives my husband no small amount of agita, which he totally deserves for making me help him study for the Bar while I was pregnant with our child. To me, jury duty is like getting to be an extra on "Ally McBeal" or in the movie Chicago, both of which ARE TOTALLY HOW OUR AMERICAN JUDICIAL SYSTEM REALLY WORKS. Trust me, I have any number of attorneys to back me up on that.