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.