Thursday, July 29, 2010

The 20 year old mirror

I have the pleasure of hosting my two nephews next week. As we're going to be spending a lot of time at the pool, I thought I'd arrange for some swim lessons for them. They live on a farm, so they're more skilled at goat herding and egg candling than swimming. So, after talking to the girls' swim coaches, I was referred to one very handsome lifeguard to teach the boys. Cha-ching! Hot Lifeguard will be at my beck and call! Sort of. Anyway, Hot Lifeguard asked for my number so he could call me with his schedule because he's taking a class (yes, he's that young). I told him, whatever, he could call me or text me if it's easier. His response: "Yeah, I usually like to call the moms, because, you know, sometimes they..." and he kind of trailed off and looked at me knowingly. "I know how to text! My phone has a keyboard!" And Hot Lifeguard just smiled and nodded, "yeah, you're a cool mom." So, after a few more minutes of chit-chat about my nephews, he leaves with, "okay, I'll call you tomorrow." Uggh. Hot Lifeguard talked to me like I talk to my parents, pitying them when they talk about their computers or phones. Hot Lifeguard, who wears his swim trunks alarmingly low, does not wish to throw himself at the temple of my wisdom, experience, and mature beauty. Hot Lifeguard thinks I'm old. This is how 20 year olds see me. Sigh.

What's that you've got there? A plum?


Today, I laughed sinisterly to myself listening to my husband describe his trip to the doctor. I had arranged for John to see the doctor because we needed some paperwork done for our insurance. I had assured him that it would be a quick visit, in and out, just height, weight, some blood tests, etc. Apparently the doctor had other ideas. John was informed by the nurse that he had to don a gown, doctor's orders. Not one to argue (unless it's with me), John complies. He told me that he knew something was up when the female doctor came in accompanied by a nurse. Before he knew it, the good doctor had reached up under his gown and given his scrotum a good roll around. Note: turning your head and coughing is not necessary. The sack past muster, and John thought he was in the clear, when all of a sudden a finger was probing his arse (thank you Outlander). "You are 40 now, so it's important to check your prostrate regularly," the doctor said authoritatively. "You'll be pleased to know that you're stool does not contain any blood." Now, coming from a medical family, I like to pride myself on knowledge of tests and anatomy, but I couldn't figure out how the doc had come to that conclusion without a proper sample. Guess what? A sample can be procured in a non-traditional manner, essentially "pulling out a plum." I believe the vet had done this for Van and Lily, but I always imagined it was because they were dogs and nobody really cared about their dignity. So, today, not only did John get our insurance forms filled out in a timely manner, but also discovered that old age brings other benefits other than wisdom and discounts.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

How Does Lesbianism Start?

I have a particular fascination with popping zits and tweezing. Some people may even call it a sickness. For the most part, I control myself and only subject my husband and myself to my "picking." Once in a while, my friend Rebbecca falls victim to my compulsion, and I gleefully hold up my trophy of a long, almost see-through facial hair (visible only in certain lights). She used to be weirded out by this rather familiar overture, but over the years she has come to accept that I am disabled and, therefore, is tolerant of it (much like a sighted person is tolerant of facial fondling by a blind person).

Rewind. I am eleven years old. My sister, Ola, is sixteen. (My sister shares my disability...genetic?) She has a huge whitehead in the middle of her back. It's the kind that practically has a neon sign that demands to be popped. Ola cannot reach the zit to properly pop it, so she calls me into her room to take care of it. Ola had her shirt pulled up, and I was eagerly and clinically considering her back, deciding when and how to pounce. Before I could begin to squeeze, we heard my mom yell, "Hey!" Startled, we turned to her and she demanded that we leave the offending zit alone. This, she told us, is how lesbianism starts. Well. We immediately jumped apart, because neither of us wanted to become an incestuous lesbian couple.




Sunday, July 25, 2010

What is a boater?

Children of immigrants, of any variety, should be familiar with the term, boater. A boater is an immigrant; as in, "he/she just came in off the boat." (Note: a boater may have also arrived by airplane). It's usage is generally derogatory or insulting, meant to insinuate that the person in question is ignorant to modern, first world ideas and technology. Not all immigrants are boaters...some are able to seamlessly integrate into their new culture without causing undue stress or embarrassment to themselves or their children. A distinguishing feature of boaters is that they seem to be completely oblivious to the ridiculousness of their behavior. Instead, they feel that everyone else is preposterous.

In my case, I am the child of educated boaters. As far as immigration services were concerned, my parents were ideal additions to the country. My mother a doctor, my father an engineer; 40 years later they still make valuable contributions to society. Society ended at their doorstep, however. Within our home, all who crossed the threshold were subjected to the sometimes kind, sometimes cruel, emotional cocktail that is my parents.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Child of the 90's

To those who know me, it's not a secret that I very much immersed myself in all that was grunge whilst in high school. My dad didn't know what hit him: he'd order flannel shirts from l.l. bean because he thought they were "ehleegant" and warm, and then they'd disappear. Only to reappear tied around my waist in a much less elegant fashion. I wore doc martens with flowered dresses and black lipstick and cried when Kurt Cobain killed himself. I had a leather jacket with Marlboro reds and a zippo in the pocket, along with a mickey mouse charm that I suppose was meant to be ironic. I shopped at Le Chateau (conveniently located down the street from Churchills...hurray for clove cigarettes) and clearly remember being so excited at having found a perfect shirt: silky white, cut low, ruffles down the front, and tied at the waist. The shirttails could be tied modestly or show a little skin for a more risque look. I wore this shirt with a long skirt and platforms to my senior photos. I loved my outfit, but hated my hair.

Fast forward to tonight: My mother unearths a photo album containing the proofs from my senior pictures and my 7 year old wonders: why is mommy dressed like a pirate?

Monday, July 19, 2010

Again...another thwarted talent

Today I'm going to a parent meeting for "A Finals" swimmers. This means that my daughter is one of the best swimmers in her age group. She's on the younger side, so this is quite a feat. People often marvel at her natural talent, and assume that John or I must have been swimmers. This is a sore spot for me because I have no idea what talents I could have had since none were ever developed. I have to assume that I am the source of the talent since John was not a swimmer, but I'll never know because I am convinced that my parents only took me to swimming lessons because my father thought swimming would be a useful skill for the apocalypse.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Is Swimming Gay?

Since I spend the majority of my summer at the local pool, shepherding children to and fro swim practice, I've become familiar with some competitive swim practices. These include speedos and shaving. The technicalities have been explained to me, drag and physics and thousandths of seconds and what have you, however when shaving becomes a social event, I have to wonder: Is swimming a gay sport?

Wanting to get to the bottom of this mystery, I did some googling. Verdict: Swimming is not a gay sport. Group shaving is definitely straight, or at least bi. However, soccer is queer as all get out. Truthfully, I'd heard rumors, soccer being very European and all, but I wasn't convinced. I guess I was the last to know, even though the signs were there, just like my high school boyfriend. I am glad to know that each time I cut oranges into quarters and gossip about families who forgot snack last week, I'm actually a civil rights crusader.

For more information on soccer's gayness, please see the Onion.