Fashion (Sub)concious

Every once in awhile—okay, like maybe once in the last twenty years, until one recent day—I will look at a word and not know what it is I am seeing. The letters seem vaguely familiar, but that’s about it.

Sure, I have often seen a word and been bothered by the fact that I don’t know what it means. I have some four million year old SAT scores as proof.  But there is context and a dictionary to solve that sort of problem.  And with a son on the verge of taking his own SATs, I am overcome with the urge to learn a whole bunch of new words.  Really.  Maybe with a glass of wine and a nibble of cheese.

But, what I mean to discuss here is this:  Even if only once or twice, I have looked at a word, one that I have both seen and used before, and then turned it into something it is not.  The first time it happened, the word was heredity.  Heredity.  The noun.  Genetic makeup.  You know what I am saying.  Heredity. 

On one particular day, though, all I could see when I looked at the word heredity [huh-red-i-tee] was something that sounded out in my head as [here-ditty]. Rhymes with, “Here, kitty.”  This was a long time ago.  I have even laughed about the experience, unusual only in that I did not see it as a sign of some sort of fatal brain malfunction.

Now here I am, some (plus a few more) years later. I go out to my car. Folded over in the door handle is a flyer.  Ordinarily, I would crumple up something like this without reading it.  I don’t know why I look.  Maybe it is the joy of it not being a parking ticket. 

I don’t know how to scan things, so I am going to try to recreate it here, in my own, old- world way.

                       PSYCHIC

             “SOULMATE SPECIALIST”

                    Reuniting Lovers Permanently,

                              even if taken by another.

                         i    can    help     you

                   In Love Business and Health

                Palm and Tarot Card Readings $5. Special

               CALL NOW!

This is exactly how it was written.  I have left off the phone number and address for obvious reasons, the first two being to save you the $5 and to save you from making a fool of yourself—because, yes, I am that nice.

Here is what I saw in first looking at the flyer: PSYCHIC, which had turned into a word that sounded like [sy-sheek]—a made-up word, perhaps, but not one without meaning. I do believe that what I thought was being advertised were the services of a fashionable person who is also in the business of psychology.  Maybe, I surmised, the woman was a psychoanalyst with that extra ounce of panache—or, someone who was offering their expertise to a psychiatrist in desperate need of a wardrobe makeover.  Finally, it started to sound like the title for a magazine article about what the well-dressed psychologist might wear.

Obviously, I was wrong.  This was just another psychic flyer (no, the flyer itself was not psychic), one of the many that finds its way to the windshields and door handles of cars all across Los Angeles.  I read on.

“SOULMATE SPECIALIST”

Reuniting Lovers Permanently,

even if taken by another.

I guess it’s got something to do with “soulmate” being the important distinction here. Yet, I started to wonder about what would happen if a person were to be reunited with his or her lover (“even if taken by another”).  What if the “another” came to the psychic afterwards, looking to be reunited with the lover who is now “permanently” back together with his or her ex?  Isn’t this already a Taylor Swift song?

Then I started to worry.  Three years ago, I wrote a blog piece about a fortune-teller and her daughter who had been murdered by a client seeking to be reunited with her ex-boyfriend.  I don’t know what worried me more—the prospect of another homicide or the fact that I thought I had written that other blog piece like, maybe, a year ago, not three.  I thought about calling the psychic from the flyer to warn her about crazy people, but I decided that if she were worth her salt, she’d know already.  Clearly, the deceased fortune-teller had lacked some critical seeing-the-future skills.  I read on.

i    can    help     you

In Love Business and Health

Let me first say to the psychic whose flyer was on my car, “I can help you with grammar and punctuation!”  Not only because you need help, but because I want to know, are you able to assist in only “love business” or did you mean love and business? Bring on the comma if you meant the latter—which might bring you a larger client base, as well.  Just trying to help.

One thing is for sure.  I don’t want any information from the psychic.  No future stuff.  But if she can tell me whether it’s okay to wear blue suede boots with a black dress, I’m going to call Bloomingdale’s to see if the Stuart Weitzman’s are on sale. Come to think of it,  she should be able to tell me that, as well.

Big Love: The Clean(ing) Version

Remember the TV show, Big Love?  The one where the Mormon guy had a bunch of wives and there was always some kind of trouble happening? It’s not really that hard to imagine there’d be a lot of “issues” under those circumstances.

This makes me think that Mitt Romney must have more than a presidential campaign to think back upon when you consider that somewhere, tucked into the branches of his family tree, there are—supposedly—six polygamous men with forty-one wives between them.  Unless you are the descendent of a Mormon or a sheik, these kinds of figures are probably not applicable to your own family tree.  Okay, maybe that’s not entirely true.  In the garden of ancestry.com (if you were my husband or me), you might find forty-one spouses rustling about in the leaves and boughs, but, thanks to the invention and option of divorce, you wouldn’t necessarily find them eating the same piece of fruit at the same time.  Although, that might not be entirely true, either.

None of this was really of any concern to me—until recently, that is.  My husband sent me to Bed, Bath & Beyond a few months ago to purchase, well, I guess there’s no other way to say it: his new wife.  I call the Dyson, handheld, cordless mini-vacuum his new wife because he told me, after using it to dust-bust his recording studio, that he wanted to marry it.  All I know is that he gave me assurance that he did not want to end our marriage—comforting, you can imagine.  Rather than taking the whole thing too personally, I suggested he bring the new wife around to the house and let her clean up some shit there, too. 

And, you know what?  I have to say that I saw what he saw in her.  At first, I let them hang out and do stuff together.  I didn’t mind not getting in the way.  Really, let them do the cleaning.  I still had the laundry, the cooking.  Actually, I take back that last part.  A long time ago, our son said, “Mommy, you are not a cooker.”  Fine, let’s make it sewing.  I still had the laundry and sewing.  The only other thing I needed was a fairy godmother—and, maybe, someplace to go.

After a little while, though, I felt like I was letting my prince-of-a husband down.  Aside from the fact that he had thrown me over so easily, what kind of woman lets her man and his new wife do all the cleaning?  “A thoughtless bitch,” is what I hear you saying.

When you get right down to it, I wanted my husband back.  He is no Mormon.  He is no sheik.  One wife per customer where I come from, buster.  The trick was going to be how to snatch him back. In this type of case, it had to be a fight fire with fire thing. (Or, should I have said vacuum with vacuum?) I would have to bring home a new mate, one that would make my husband jealous.

I slapped on a little make-up, found something nice from my closet to put on, and took myself to Bed, Bath & Beyond.  The salesman had to contend with a lot of questions about all of Dyson’s full size models before I chose the DC40 multi-floor upright.  Mostly, I wanted to know about the DC41 Animal because when you’re shopping for a new mate, the Animal part might be important.  Just so you know, it’s made to clean up pet hair and that saved my husband a hundred bucks.  Yes, I made my husband pay.  I reasoned, if my plan worked and won him back, it would be our money.  And, if things didn’t turn out as hoped?  Well, he started it, you know.  You can’t just say you want to marry something else and not expect to pay. 

(I'll) Drive, He Said

There’s nothing like a good road trip down memory lane when you get to the intersection of “I Love This” and “Fuck, I Hate This” and you can’t decide which way to go.  And so it is that my husband and I did a little reminiscing this past week.  My husband is Bob.  I say that just in case he gets more than one mention.  Then I don’t have to keep saying, “my husband… my husband… my husband”.

When our son, Owen, was around five or six years old, we took him to LEGOLAND.  That made us, like, “The Best Parents In The World For A Day”.  Actually, I think it was the weekend at the nearby Four Seasons with the mini terrycloth robes that made more of an impression.  “Fance,” is what Owen called the place upon his arrival.  But it is LEGOLAND that we thought about this week.  Specifically, the Driving School ride.  Like the sign says, “Strap on your seatbelt and put yourself in the driver's seat in real electric cars to earn an official LEGOLAND^® driver license.”  Hahahahaha.  A driver license. So cute.

Owen got into the real electric car and off he went.  He was doing pretty well for a five or six year old.  He stopped at the traffic lights, which I took as a real sign of ability in the driving department. Bob and I watched from the railings along the side.  I’m sure this is how people do it at the Indy 500 or the Monaco Grand Prix.  Good job, honey! 

It was midway through the ride when Owen approached his first left turn. We yelled to him—a little motivational support, if you will.  I remember it as something like, “…turn the wheel, turn the wheel…now, straighten it out. Straighten it out so you don’t hit the curb…” Our suggestions were welcomed like those from a backseat driver, only worse.  He finished the turn, jumped out of the car in the middle of the road, and ran, shouting the words, “I never want to drive. EVER.”  And how happy was I?

Our next discussion on the subject of driving came when Owen was around twelve.  We were in the grocery store parking lot.  He made the announcement from out of nowhere.  “I think I’ll wait ‘til I’m eighteen to drive,” is what he said. 

“Okay.”  That’s what I said.  Then I called Bob.  He agreed—it was one of the greatest days of our lives.

Kids have a way of not remembering the things they’ve said.  Parents remember because we need things to recall later on, when we have nothing better to do.  Or because… oh, forget it.  We just do.  So, when Owen was a young teenager, forgetting that he was never going to drive or not drive until he was eighteen, he decided it was time to learn how to drive a real car.  Bob thought it would be great to teach him in a rental, at midnight, in the K Mart parking lot in Bridgehampton.  I thought so, too, because there’d be no other cars around.  Apparently, there are a lot of people who have the same idea. I’m going to put this scene in a movie if I write one.

Bridgehampton, to Owen, became synonymous with driving.  By the next summer, I was willing to let him drive us—on the back road—from my sister’s house to my cousin’s. Under strict orders NOT to get in the car until I came out of the house, I found him backing up and turning around in the driveway, his twelve-year-old cousin shouting instructions.  That ended the driving for that summer.  I’m now wondering why he was willing to listen to my nephew and why he did not jump out of the car like at LEGOLAND.  Kids.  They must like each other more than they like adults.

And then odd things started to occur.  Owen turned fifteen. He passed the fifteen and a half mark without any interest in getting his learner’s permit.  As a matter of fact, he didn’t care about driving in the K Mart lot or on the back roads that next summer.  His sixteenth birthday came and went.  He could have had a permit and a license by then. The shift only took place as more and more of his friends started to drive.  The first two or three didn’t faze him.

One day over the break from school last winter, Owen announced that he had finished his online driver’s education course and had booked an appointment for his permit test. He took it and passed.  I booked some of the required behind the wheel lessons and he took over booking the rest of them.  He drove and drove and drove some more. And he took care of the arrangements for his behind-the-wheel driving test for last week. I know he would have made it for the day he was eligible to take it, but there was no availability until a week later.  It appeared to be the longest week of his life.

Leading up to the day of his test, we did a lot of things together, all at Owen’s request.  I would ask if he wanted to bring a friend.  He said no.  I think it was exactly like when kids are little and start to separate, only to come running back. It was exactly like that.

So, last Friday, the boy who jumped out of the car at LEGOLAND got his driver’s license.  And, like I said at the beginning, it’s completely great and completely, fucking not great all at once.  I have more time for me but I don’t like it yet.  I slept until eleven o’clock this morning and almost climbed back into bed at three this afternoon.  This is ridiculous, though, I have things to do.  Like rob a bank to pay for the additional auto insurance.  But at least I know who can drive the getaway car.

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.