HIT & MISS(ONI)

Missoni for Target!! Mens sweater! Gogogo.

-Text from my son 9/13/11

Yesterday morning, I was minding my own business at home when I received the missive from my son. (Missive. Hahahaha. I didn’t even plan that.) If I were to read between the lines and paraphrase his text it would sound something like, “Get your ass to Target. What kind of mother are you?” It was not yet 8 a.m. Apparently, the kids in the carpool had Missoni on their minds, even if I did not.

Why I took this as a legitimate challenge—a “go for the gold” race into the history books—is beyond me. In reality, it was a summons to get out of my pajamas, get into the car and drive to the Target in West Hollywood. I would argue that the store is not really in West Hollywood but I’m sure that some city official would prove me wrong. (I’ll just say that it’s in West Hollywood the same way the college I attended is in Bronxville, New York. I think people feel better paying a high tuition if the address says Bronxville as opposed to Yonkers. And we can discuss the whole Beverly Hills P.O. thing some other time.)

I must admit, for a moment I thought I was getting a jump on things. It was only about 8:15 a.m. when I got in the car. But, as I was driving up La Brea, I began to fantasize about the big, black Mercedes in front of me. I was sure that we were racing to the same destination. I imagined a fight over a parking space, ending with me telling a bejeweled and well-dressed woman to go to the real Missoni on Rodeo Drive. Her car practically dictated that. When the Mercedes changed lanes, I realized it was a man driving. He continued north on La Brea, undoubtedly to a better world, leaving me in the turn lane for Target. This did give me (false) hope that the entire universe was not headed to one place.

As I turned to go into the underground parking lot, I noticed there were about five hundred cars in the exit lane. Before getting in I was already thinking about how I would get out. I found a place to park pretty quickly, so the exit line could only mean one thing. All those people had already been in the store buying. It was 8:35 a.m.

Stepping off the elevator near women’s clothing and accessories, I saw one empty rack after another, each with a sign above reading “Missoni for Target”. The racks looked like metal stick figures, arms outstretched, with signs for heads. In fact, there were real people in the store. Real shoppers, their carts piled sky-high with all things Missoni. I don’t even think they knew what they had grabbed. It reminded me of a game show on TV when I was young. There was a race through a supermarket. Teams grabbed things off the shelves and the value of the items in the cart determined the winner. People screamed, “Go for the meat! Go for the meat!” It was like that. “Go for the zigzags!”

Remembering why I had come to Target in the first place, I headed over to the men’s department. Cleaned out. I looked really hard, just in case I had missed anything. I had not. What I did find was a cluster of women in a corner of the men’s section closest to the line for the dressing rooms. It looked like a long wait and no one was interested. One lovely (not so young) lady was stripped down to her black lace bra and a skimpy version of bicycle-shorts, trying on clothes. She must do this professionally. As she made her keep-or-ditch decisions, she guarded her “must haves” with her life while offering up her discards to others gathered around. No simple deal, however, as she seemed to offer her “no’s” only to people who would trade her for something else to try on. I’m telling you.

As I soon discovered, this bartering was going on all throughout the store. I’ll trade you this coat for a make-up bag. (“Please, all I wanted was a makeup bag,” said the cute, blonde girl with bangs.) I’ll give you this pillow for that dress. The fact that they serve completely different purposes did not seem to matter. One woman—with no cart and about five items clutched in her hands and hung over her arms—told me that the configuration of what she was carrying was the result of multiple trades. None of what she was about to buy was what she had started out with fifty minutes earlier. All of this was like watching a show to me. I had nothing to offer, having arrived at Target thirty- five minutes after the doors opened. The early bird catches the worm. The mom late to Target catches hell. I started practicing my “you wouldn’t want the sweater if thousands of other people are wearing it” speech.

The number of suitcases people were buying fascinated me, as well. Try to picture the following nightmare without, literally, having a seizure: You are at the baggage carousel, waiting with the rest of the people from your flight. When the buzzer sounds and the conveyor belt starts to move, spewing out 200+ pieces of luggage, how do you tell which zigzagged, striped, black and white, multicolored bag is yours? Really, I ask you. If you get home and open up a suitcase full of cocaine, and some unsuspecting drug smuggler (halfway across town) ends up with all of your Agent Provocateur lingerie and whips, what do you do? I will say, the people buying the suitcases looked like this exact scenario could happen to them. In the future, probably better to stick with American Tourister and a ribbon.

Other important things I learned yesterday morning? The Target in Manhattan was emptied of Missoni merchandise within fourteen minutes of opening. The store’s website crashed at 5 a.m. And when I ran into an acquaintance (I tried to talk her into giving me the men’s sweater in her cart), I said that maybe I should have gone to a different Target. “Oh no…” she said, “The bitches are everywhere.”

Rules Of The Pool

Before going too far with this "pool" stuff, I want to set the record straight. I always like to set the record straight. When I say "Pool" (above in the title), I am referring to the carpool. Certainly, I am not talking swimming pool here.

How can you be so sure? I would never write about anything that requires a bathing suit. As a matter of fact, I have all but banished the two words from the kingdom of my vocabulary. I might still use each one separately. Bathing... as in something that you do in order not to smell. Suit...as in something my husband likes to buy, but only if it is by one designer in particular.

The carpool. I used to be in one when I was a little kid. Activities included swallowing pennies and crawling, from the regular back seat of the car, into the "way-back". Occasionally, it was driven by one famous Hollywood person or another.

When I got a little older, we had a carpool driver. A man who picked us up in his Chevrolet Impala and clicked his teeth, something that fascinated the four of us whose mothers had paid him to drive. I'm thinking they wrote his check, not so much for his driving services, but more as a fee for allowing them to sleep in.

Eventually, like the minute I turned sixteen, I started driving myself to school. It's possible that I actually drove a carpool of people from my street for a while, but I don't remember. It's kind of awful to think that a teenage girl would be responsible for a bunch of other kids in a car. It didn't sound bad then. But now that I am the mother of a fifteen-year-old son, it all looks different.

For the first time in his life (if you don't count one summer program), my son is in a carpool. Which is to say, I am a carpool driver. Along with two other moms and their two kids, we have a system. It feels very official. Mostly, I see it as a device to ensure my son's timely arrival at school. For years, there has been no one else's tardy count at stake. Although he squeaked in under the wire most of the time, there was plenty of anxiety about whether or not a grade would drop a half point after the one late arrival to break the camel's back. I think he reversed the consequences by offering to do his Shakira imitation for the teacher. The guy took him up on it.

So this morning, my first driving the carpool, I have figured out the basic rules. 1) Don't talk. 2) Don't talk. 3) Don't talk. About anything.

Do not mention the skin solution still on your kid's face from last night. Not even quietly, under your breath. This one is a no win.

Do not make it sound like you are any less weird than the weird dad who was in the carpool last year. Apparently, he was weird because he made the kids listen to his choice of radio station. Just because you don't do the same thing, it doesn't make you not-weird.

Don't speak unless you are spoken to. And even then, think twice about opening your mouth.

My best advice? Pretend the car is driving itself.

The Mom Who Mistook The X Factor For A Hat

The Mom Who Mistook The X Factor For A Hat*

(*With apologies to Oliver Sacks, M.D. and no thanks to Simon Cowell)

I’m always saying, “I should blog about this …” or, “My next blog is going to be about that…” and then I get sidetracked. By the time I get around to writing again, I have so many of these topics filed away that I am unable to pick one on which to focus. So I do regular stuff instead, like laundry, or sewing, vacuuming… (Always under the pseudonym, Cinderella, so no one will mistake me for a writer.) Invariably, these activities lead to more observation and indecision.

At this moment, my brain most closely resembles my brothers’ closets—when the boys were teenagers—into which they shoved the entire contents of their lives and then professed to have “cleaned” their rooms. “Boys…” I should have asked them, “What happens when the unsuspecting someone opens the closet doors and ends up trapped under an avalanche?” Note: In similar fashion, you can now find me buried under my own head.

At some point the madness has to stop. That’s what I tell myself. Has to… has to… has to…

I have decided! There is this hat “thingy” I want to write about because I love (I am maybe even in love) with what it is called—a “fascinator”. I think it is my new favorite word, especially since it is basically a hat.

But… I have decided—again! I want to write about Simon Cowell’s new American show, The X Factor. I probably wouldn’t have had anything to say about it if my son had not decided to audition.

Ugh. How to choose? The “fascinator” or The X Factor…

And then it hit me, probably because I had the weekend to myself with plenty of time to drink. Uh, I mean, think. I saw a connection between the two subjects. Inspiration is an oddity, yes. So is a weekend to myself.

A title, miraculously, presented itself to me—The Mom Who Mistook The X Factor For A Hat. I took it as a sign to get to work… right after asking myself, “Why that particular title?” (Not that I was ungrateful.)

I remember what drove me, probably twenty-five years ago, to read Dr. Oliver Sacks’ book, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales. It was the title, obviously. I was not going to pass up anything called The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. (It was definitely the hat that made all the difference.) I can tell you, I would never have been as interested in anything called The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Doormat. That’s something you see almost every day. But—a guy who mistakes his wife for a hat? Come on. That’s too good.

In Dr. Sack’s book, he describes a patient, called P., who suffers from visual agnosia, a condition of the brain in which a person cannot make sense of normal visual stimulus. One is rendered incapable of recognizing familiar objects or faces. It’s more serious than the often asked, “How do I know that guy?” (Like when I saw my dry cleaner on the street once and couldn’t quite place who he was because he wasn’t behind a counter asking me when I’d like my shirts back.)

When Dr. Sacks’ interview with the patient and his wife (a Mrs. P., I suppose) had concluded, P. made an attempt to lift his wife’s head from her body and put it on his own. He thought she was his hat. I’m not making this up. He so completely thought she was his hat. I still remember my favorite part being that Mrs. P. did not seem to find any of this the least bit odd. But that’s a whole other story. I gather it proves we get used to the idiosyncrasies of those around us, although this one comes pretty close to being the mother of all quirky, spousal behavior.

Enough, though, about brain stuff. I only wanted give you a general idea of how I semi-stole a title.

I recently announced (to anyone who would listen) that my new favorite word was “fascinator”. In the wake of all the hoopla surrounding the upcoming wedding—royal wedding, I should say—of Prince William and Kate Middleton, I have been learning bits of new information every day. First, I learned I was not on the guest list. Or let’s just say that I presume I am not on the guest list, since nowhere in People or Us Magazine does my name appear as attending. Nothing to be upset about as I have never met the happy couple and, perhaps, even more importantly, I do not need the headache of acquiring a wardrobe for this, the latest “Wedding Of The Century”. I can watch the event on television, if I so choose, and I can dress in whatever I like. One thing that I might consider wearing is a “fascinator”. From the many publications brimming with fashion 411 about the soon to be Princess Kate, I learned that she often wears one—by definition: a headpiece—dressy, sometimes feathered or floral, sometimes veiled. There seems to be a lot of room for interpretation here, which is probably why you spot them on people ranging from Camilla Parker Bowles to Sarah Jessica Parker. I’m guessing that if you do an extensive enough Google image search, you could also find one on the head of Scarlett O’Hara or Eleanor Roosevelt.

Until I knew that a fascinator was a form of hat, I thought of its meaning as most others might—“a person or thing that fascinates”. Someone who possesses that certain something, that quality we might refer to as… the X Factor.

A couple of months ago, my fifteen-year old son announced that he was going to audition for Simon Cowell’s new show. As someone who has announced this kind of thing to a parent before and not done it (that would be me), I didn’t know what to think. Would he? Wouldn’t he? He would.

Okay. First, while he was downloading applications, parental consent forms, and general releases, I tried to tell him this was going to screw up his Spring Break. I really meant it when I said his Spring Break. Personally, I didn’t care if we went anyplace other than the L.A. Sports Arena. But my husband—kindly—pointed out it would be my funeral once The X Factor foray was done. It would be those close-to-two weeks staring our kid in the face. Two weeks with his friends scattered everywhere from Palm Springs to Florida.

My funeral… A bit dramatic, don’t you think? However, there was no deterring our kid. Everything was The X Factor, The X Factor… and, did I mention, The X Factor?

My husband’s Spring Break suggestion (that we go to New York to hear his mother perform and stay on a few extra days) was a good one, except for one problem. It was almost impossible to get any real information about The X Factor audition process, other than when to arrive. Nothing was ever said about when it would be over—worrisome, as it made me feel as if we might never return. I blew off the New York idea as too complicated, suggesting that we do a mini road trip once we get out of Simon Cowell World. However, once our X Factor hopeful discovered that at least two or three of his friends were going to be in New York City, doing anything else sounded to him like going to prison. My nerve endings were starting to sizzle, but I wasn’t going to lose a bundle on plane tickets if we missed a flight. Nor did I want to arrive in New York late and miss my mother-in-law’s show. No New York. Period. The end.

Setting the alarm clocks for 4:00 a.m. Saturday seemed like cruel and unusual punishment for the first morning of Spring Break. I packed snacks, sunscreen (even though it was dark out), an umbrella (in case of rain or the sun coming up), and wished for a bottle of No-Doze. The official list of do’s and don’ts said “no swords”, so I did not bring one. When we entered the line at 5:15 a.m., it was easy to see that plenty of folks had ignored the biggest DON’T: “NO camping out overnight”. I think this really meant they WANTED people camping out overnight and the way to get people to do it was to tell them it was verboten. As the hours ticked by, it was obvious that the only reason we were told to arrive so early was so the production people could film the crowd for X Factor promos and episode openings. I appreciate getting up at 4 a.m. on a Saturday for this.

Other than staring, one of the things you do when you are standing outside the L.A. Sports Arena in the pitch dark is look for anyone you can talk to. While there are plenty of people (maybe 18,000 give or take) you don’t necessarily want to talk to all of them. Like “the sorcerer”, that’s what we called him, in his long silver wig and flowing, black velvet robe… or “scarf boy”, with a huge, wool muffler tied across his forehead and guitar slung across his back… or anyone who was dressed like Lady Gaga. (You would talk to the real Lady Gaga, of course, but she has no reason to be in the Sports Arena parking lot before dawn.) We chatted with a nice family—a mother and her two daughters who had come from out of town so her fifteen-year old could audition. We had plenty of time to get to know one another, as we didn’t get to the registration tables until after 10:00 a.m. Tick-tock.

The funny thing is, you really never know whom you’re going to meet in this kind of situation. I don’t know if I’m allowed to say this, but I ended up finding out that the “nice family” mom works for the Justice Department. I think the way it happened was we were both trying to avoid ending up on camera because we looked so ultra-stunning at that hour. I made some joke about how bad it would be if someone who had entered the Witness Protection Program ended up being featured in an X Factor commercial and that’s when she said she works for the Justice Department, but not in Witness Protection. I asked if she works for the FBI in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. That would have been something, what with my Criminal Minds obsession and all. It turns out she works in another unit. I’m not going to say which one because I think I should protect her privacy somewhat. And I don’t want to get killed.

Now that we had some friends, we agreed to meet in line the next morning when it was time to return for the actual auditions. We were told to arrive by 6:00 a.m. We made it by 6:30. Once again, we were stuck outside the Sports Arena doing take after take of promos. “I have the X Factor!” Again!! “ I have the X Factor!!!!!!!!” I really don’t.

Tick-tock. At around 11:00 a.m. we were let into the Sports Arena and headed off in search of our seats. The seating determined one’s place in the order of auditions. On the floor of the arena, twenty-four, black curtained, three-sided booths were set up. Each had a chair for a judge and a giant X on the floor where lambs being led to slaughter were to stand. For the next seven hours, we watched as the sections ahead of us were directed to the booths.

There was an exit route for those who made it past this first round. These were the people (including “the sorcerer”) who waved sheets of yellow paper in the air, jumping on to the next level of their careers (which might, you realize, end by the following week). There was another exit route for “scarf boy” (who performed with his guitar, still in its case, slung across his back) and others who didn’t make the cut. At one point, I called my father to ask him if there was any chance that Alan Ladd, Jr. might be auditioning dressed as Elvis. He didn’t think so.

By the time my son got to the front of the line, he had seen many performers come and go. The nice thing was how many people heard him during the day, singing a little in preparation for his turn, and responded. People who worked at the venue selling pretzels who said, “Man, this is your calling.” Other people, much older and more experienced, who said, “You just open your mouth and do what you do. You’ve got it!”

6:20 p.m…Entering the booth, it was clear he got a sourpuss for a judge—someone who wouldn’t shake his hand, a guy with no vibe, which bothers someone like my kid. Nonetheless, he kept his composure and did a great rendition of Amy Winehouse’s “Valerie”. When he finished singing, the judge said something like, “That’ll be enough for today.” He might as well have said, “Go away.” It had the same tone. Finally, I had run out of adrenaline and was over-exhausted. I can only imagine how my kid must have felt.

As we walked down an empty passageway to exit the Sports Arena, we heard voices from behind. We turned and saw it was our mom-friend, from the Justice Department, and her two kids. There we were, both of our “hopefuls” leaving without a golden ticket. I offered to give them a ride back to their hotel. By this time, I guess she trusted me and took me up on it. I imagine that if you work for the Justice Department, you don’t get into just anyone’s car. When we jaywalked to get to the parking lot (her decision and my son’s), I told her if we get caught, she’d better flash her badge and say something like, “National Security…”

Frankly, I was relieved that we would not have to deal with the next round of The X Factor. I believe my son will have the career he wants and he got to go back to 9^th grade two weeks later. He said it best: “I don’t want to be known as ‘that guy’ from The X Factor.”

When we walked into the house at 8:00 p.m. on Sunday night, I asked, “Do you want to go to New York tomorrow morning?” I couldn’t have been any more tired than I already was, I figured my kid deserved a Spring Break and my mother-in-law would love the surprise of us turning up at her show. I called my husband (who cancelled my funeral) and booked three tickets for the 7 a.m. flight to JFK the next morning.

Paid bills, packed, set the alarm for 4:00 a.m. (again), went to bed at three. This made the last two days and nights of X Factor madness seem positively refreshing. At least I knew I had five hours to sleep on the plane before hitting the ground, running, in New York.

As I was dozing off, in the middle seat of the last row of the plane, I had a thought. I forgot to pack a fascinator. You could wear a fascinator in New York. And then I realized… I had one. He was in the seat to my left, his head on my shoulder, fast asleep.

Membership Rewards

Okay. Short and to the point. I thought I was a genius.

My new 2011 American Express Membership Rewards booklet arrived over the weekend. I tend to throw these things out, mostly because the minute I start to think about how one redeems points, I project myself into a realm of overwhelming complications and break out into a cold sweat. I know some people are good at this point redeeming thing. I am not. I would like to be, but I'm not.

I didn't throw the booklet out. Perhaps out of laziness, perhaps out of a secret desire to look through it and see if there was anything really, really worth breaking out into a cold sweat over. I doubt, however, that I can blame Sunday's cold sweat, fever, and puking my guts out on the Membership Rewards booklet. For one thing, it was sitting downstairs, unopened on the kitchen counter while, upstairs, I express shuttled back and forth between the bedroom and bathroom.

Today, Tuesday, while still sipping ginger ale and dining on saltines, I decided to brave it and have a look at 2011's Membership Rewards. As I suspected, I couldn't make heads or tails out of how most of it works. Air travel, certificates, transfer points, hotels, vacuum cleaners. I could even upgrade my Costco membership. I was all out of cold sweat from the weekend but I was pretty much feeling that "toss-the-booklet-in-the-trash" feeling. Until...

On the very last page, the one before the program's Terms and Conditions, I saw the words, "Use points toward tax payments...starting at 200 points." Now, you realize, I have never used any of my points because, well, you know why. I explained it all above. So, I'm thinking that with all these points I have, I might be able to pay a gazillion dollars in taxes. Or at least half a gazillion. Now I'm happy I didn't throw out the booklet.

I went online to find out about this fantastic point redeeming option. I didn't get very far before I realized I would be better off calling a live person to ask about this. I called the 800 number listed and spoke to a very nice woman. I asked her about paying my taxes with points. She wondered if I would mind holding for a quick second while she got me the information. Mind? I was practically ecstatic at the thought of what she was going to come back to tell me. After more than the quick second (but who was counting?), the woman came back on the line and informed me that I have enough points to pay $ 985. of my federal taxes.

My vision of a zero balance owed to the feds danced, like sugar plums, out of my head. The nice woman suggested using the points for air travel and hotels since the points seem to be worth more that way. I agreed. So I asked if she could help me figure out where I could fly to and where to stay... someplace the government won't find me when I don't pay my taxes.

THE FEAR BASED AGENDA

Yikes. And Make That A Double.

Oh, brother. This does not come as good news. I am afraid of everything. Everything. I had a sneaking suspicion that this was the case, but I was afraid, naturally, to think about it. My concern was this—should I realize that everything was a source of fear there’d be no telling what might happen. So I’ll tell you.

The other morning I woke up. While ordinarily a good thing, I can’t say it did a whole lot for me that day. To begin with, it was 5:23 a.m. and I did not have to be up at 5:23 a.m., the worst thing being it gave me way too much time to think. I tried to stop the train wreck by turning on the television, looking for a marathon of any show involving a crime lab, and hoping not to wake and annoy my husband. What I was sort of hoping was that I would be lulled back to sleep with the comforting words, “We’ve found our murder weapon…” No such luck. I got involved in the story and also managed, during commercial breaks, to stare out the window and wonder why it appeared that the sun was not coming up.

I know that the actual time of the sunrise is published daily and I almost-but-didn’t get out of bed to go look online for the information. It was a strange combination of not wanting to know if the day had come where the sun would not rise and wanting to trust that it would be daylight business as usual. I had no explanation for the utter quiet and lack of panic in the street outside—other than no one else had noticed the situation yet.

Of course, it did not dawn on me (no pun intended) that I could have flipped to any number of news channels to see if there had been some kind of monumental announcement regarding the condition of the sun and, therefore, everyone on planet Earth, as well. No. For some reason, I chose to stay with the flirtatious bickering between criminal investigators and, during commercial breaks, imagine that I was the only person, in Los Angeles and the entire universe, privy to the information that the fucking sun was not going to come up.

That, my friends, was the start of another really great day.