Month: September 2015

Boys’ Pink Revolution?

A dear friend recently wrote to share her stress that her son wanted a pink backpack for school. Her son’s a wonderful, mathematically and mechanically-inclined little boy. Nothing “princess” about him. (I’m making myself nauseous dancing around gender cliches.) Brass tacks: he likes wearing his sister’s tutus from time to time, plays with lots of girls at school AND loves building space ships and cars –and the occasional toaster – out of Legos. So. He wanted a pink backpack for school. My friend agonized over it. Of course she’s 100% supportive of her son sporting a pink backpack and couldn’t give a rat’s ass if he becomes a drag queen or a mechanical engineer. But even she couldn’t stop herself from warning , “Okay. We’ll get this backpack…but just be aware…some kids might says it’s for girls.” “Uh-huh,” he responded, undaunted. “Because it’s pink,” she emphasized. “Uh-huh.” After she hit “purchase”, she sent me the link for the backpack. Yeah. It was girly. My friend and I discussed the backpack and laughed at ourselves about …

It’s My Birthday. Calm Down.

Today is my birthday. My 40th. How did this happen? Old people are 40. Not me. People like figures of authority and teachers and parents and people accomplished who have life figured out and are settled in lives devoid of complaint or worry. Me? I’m still 25. And (currently, perennially) unemployed. I don’t have anything figured out. I still have many chapters of life and things to check off my list. How did I get to be 40? Admittedly, I look at pictures of my kids and see a man with lines all over his face in the background and I think, “Wait. Is that really ME?” Somebody called me Mr. Lodge, yesterday. Um…that means I have things figured out. No wonder the Holden Caulfields of the world see adults as phonies. We’re all just faking it, too. Is that a secret to life? I suppose. I’m mildly annoyed by the birthday “event”. I basically “wish away” these pain-in-the-asses where I should be happy or thrilled or partyrific or whatever. But more often than not, …

Scorecard: Daddy vs. Back-to-School

0:1 We didn’t start breakfast or moving until 45 minutes before we needed to be out the door…like…actually walking briskly to school, not just posing for pictures. 1 point: B2S 0:2 Ellison orders “toast, cereal, eggs, yogurt” for breakfast. When I place in front of him pampered eggs and golden toast, he cries because there’s no damn cereal. B2S gets one point. 0:3 Dog shits on the floor by the door. 1:3 No fight over what to wear. Ellison chooses one of my two optioned shirts. Score one for daddy. 1:4 Colton melts down when he realizes he has to stay at home. 0:4 I offer an iPad to muzzle him ( I lose a point) 0:5 I scramble, frantically, with 3 minutes to spare (before we will need to officially RUN on the first day of school) to find the fucking vintage chalkboard (weighing 10 pounds) to write our stupid facebook picture first-day stats. 0:6 Colton has been running around…naked. (I’m leaving him to my partner to manage.) He comes to me with poop …

One More Hollywood Bowl Anecdote

The morning of our performance weekend at the Hollywood Bowl in July, we had a “brunch” final dress rehearsal at 10 am (in blazing sunlight). Our babysitters brought Ellison and Colton. I was able to see them in the audience, which thrilled me. I could see Ellison was transfixed by the show, his glasses glued to the stage. Colton? Not so much. That kid has no interest in live theatre. (Or screen time, for that matter. Ellison could watch the “Yule Log”. Colton couldn’t care less; which is really inconvenient when you just want HIM TO PLAY ON THE IPAD FOR 20 MINUTES SO I CAN COOK DINNER.) The show really stuck with Ellison. He told me, “My favorite part was when you were the daddy of the dirty guys.” After a few questions, I discerned that he mistook me for one of the principals during a song featuring half-dead plague victims dressed in muddy rags. I’m happy he assumed I was front and center. His other favorite part was “the Princess and her mermaids.” …

Eating From Another Century

While the entire country has returned to school (and my homies in Colorado have been edumacating themselves since June), tomorrow is the big day for my pre-k youngster. I’ve put little thought into it. I’m the last-minutest of last-minuters. Heaven help him when he tells me on a Tuesday morning, “I need a colonial costume, a book report on salmon spawning and a slow cooker full of locally-sourced clam chowder, today.” What’s giving me the most anxiety? Food. Tomorrow is only orientation for the parents with an hour-long visit to the classroom for the kiddo, so I think to myself, “I have another couple of days for lunch-packing dress rehearsal.” But who’m I kidding? I’ll wing it. Originally, I’d planned to use my mom’s formula from 1981-1994: PB&J, Capri-Sun, a sprig of grapes (usually past their prime…tasting like wine), and two chocolate chip Soft Batch cookies. I’m not kidding. I ate that 98% of the lunches through my senior year. My beloved mom was too cheap (was that it?) to let me eat “hot lunch”, …