Questionnaire

Henry’s new teachers (he’s got two this year) mailed us a questionnaire. We received it in June, so naturally we filed it away until last night, hours before his first day of second grade.

This has been an extraordinarily challenging couple of weeks, parenting-wise. Camp was over, school had not yet begun. It was hot and humid, as it generally is this time of year. Most of Henry’s friends were out of town. Henry was bored. We were out of things to do. And we fought. All three of us, in different permutations. Eight-year-oldness, at least around here, has been a preview of adolescence and all its sulky, dramatic horrors. I didn’t like it. Scott didn’t like it. We were exhausted. At the end of the day we’d put Henry to bed and watch Lost on Netflix. We started at Season 1 a couple of months ago and we’re already nearing the end. We’d watch episode after episode until we were falling asleep. Somehow it was comforting to watch. Our kid was being difficult. We were undoubtedly being difficult right back. But at least we weren’t trapped on an island, fighting for our very lives!

So last night we filled out the questionnaire. How would you describe your child? What does your child most enjoy? What are your child’s greatest challenges? I struggled to answer it. Could I even accurately describe my own child? Could I get past my own anger and frustration and hopes and projections and see him for who he is? Damned if I know. Sometimes I can see us hurtling toward some future where we don’t understand each other, not even a little bit. I hope that's not true, of course, but it's not as outside the realm of possibilities as I once thought it was.

I found out last week that someone very dear to me died. She died last year, and I had no idea. She was 85, so it’s not like it was unexpected, but it hit me hard.

Lois Hunt was my voice teacher. I was pretty serious about singing, when I was in high school, and then I found Lois. I went to her a couple of times a week. And Lois, well, she took me seriously. Is there anything you want more, when you're a kid? She had a talent I suspect few adults really share: to consider a teenager like I was--a goofy, depressed, anxious, semi-formed being--a peer worthy of attention.

Lois didn’t mess around. She had little patience for my antics, and she gently dismissed my frequent attempts to deflect her attention. And believe me, I tried. I thought if anyone really got a look at me, they would find out how wrong I was, how hopeless and awful. What that would mean, I didn’t know--there were no words for it. But all those fears were beside the point when I was with her. I was there to work, and I was expected to be serious, and I was. When I was at Lois’s house, I was okay, and I would be okay, and I knew it.

Lois and I spent a lot of time together for only a couple of years, but they were important years, as anyone who’s endured high school knows. I was struggling. After my lesson, we’d talk. She’d make me tea and show me pictures from her storied musical career. I’d play with her cats and tell her about my latest troubles. I don’t recall her giving any advice, although I’m sure she did, but I do remember feeling understood. If there had been a questionnaire back then, if someone had wanted to know about me, I would have asked Lois to fill it out. Even though I only saw her a couple of times a week, and even though she didn’t have the considerable task of raising me.

What do I most enjoy? How would I describe myself? What are my greatest challenges? I’m still not sure. I still sometimes think that if I could call Lois and we could catch up, she would lead me to some answers. And I hope that someday, if I can’t help Henry know who he is, he finds someone like Lois who can.

An unpleasant encounter

I am lucky to have come across merely a few dangerously unstable people in my life. Here is one of them.

It was 1996, it was the end of the workday, and I was exiting the office of my Web 1.0 job. I was the managing editor of a webzine. We called them webzines, sadly. It was the kind of webzine that purposely misspelled words, and interviewed super-hip bands I had never heard of. I was 27, but I already felt too old to work there. One of my fellow editors was still in college. That seemed about right. During my first pitch meeting I mentioned this thing I heard about called “Burning Man.” It was new to me, but from the looks on everyone’s faces, I might as well have suggested we write about Jewel. The editor-in-chief rolled her eyes and I knew I would never recover from that faux pas, or any of the trillion others I would commit because I had no idea what was cool. I spent most of my days at the webzine trying to look like I understood what everyone was talking about, or cringing at all the ironic typos.

We were housed in a small, narrow office building just north of Houston Street (of course), the kind which is mostly occupied by business that employ leggy German models (as one does). Just standing in the elevator among all those cheekbones was enough to destroy any last shreds of self-confidence I had left by the end of the day. I was rushing out of the elevator on the day in question when I saw a woman just outside the door, studying the directory. She was a handsome lady—in her late forties or fifties, I’d say, blonde and immaculate, and let’s just all picture Martha Stewart, because I would swear that’s who it was. Although I’m sure it wasn’t. I’m 83% sure.

While she studied the directory, she was blocking the exit. I was sure she saw me, and anyway in order to leave I had to hit a red button that emitted a piercing beep when the door unlatched. You could not help but hear this when you were outside. It deafened anyone within a block radius. I assumed, therefore, that when I hit the button she would look up and move. I waved at her, but she kept gazing at the directory. The pride of Deutschland was lined up behind me. I hit the button, paused, and slowly opened the door. I opened it a few inches so I could say “excuse me,” but before I could say anything I saw that she was bending over, like she was examining something on the ground.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “Oh God.” She was clutching her ankle. Which, it immediately became clear, I had hit with the door. Now, because I hadn’t opened the door so much as gently nudged it forward, I could only imagine that she had some sort of injury that I had aggravated, with my door-opening. Still, I felt terrible. My frantic need to get some distance from the building had caused me to injure an innocent bystander.

I began to apologize. A lot. What else could I do? I apologized and apologized. She wouldn’t acknowledge me. Her hands were trembling. I shuffled aside to let the assorted beautiful people out. They were unaffected by our non-leggy psychodrama and they glided down the sidewalk, leaving me alone, standing behind Martha Stewart. She was hissing some stuff. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know what she was hissing.

“I’m really sorry,” I repeated. “Can I get you something? Oh dear. I guess you didn’t hear the alarm go off, huh?”

This, it turned out, was the wrong thing to say. When you strike a person, accidentally or not, you do not imply that it was in fact their fault. Especially if, say, they’re looking for a reason to come unglued.

“You mhurrhurr,” she muttered, and I gingerly touched her shoulder to ask her if I should get her some ice. And then I was on the ground.

I did not expect this turn of events. Even today, I’m not clear on how I got down there. She must have knocked me down, but all I can recall is how confused I was. I was up there and now I am down here. Well.

What happened next occurred in a matter of seconds. Martha Stewart screamed “You little twit. Look at what you did. Look at what you did.” And every time she said “you did,” she thrust her foot toward me, only it was into me, so actually she was kicking me, right around the knee area.

I was trying to figure out if she was kicking me with the injured foot or putting all her weight on the injured foot in order to kick me--because after all, if you have an injury, you should really wait a few days before you use that body part as a weapon—when the people arrived. Almost immediately a crowd had gathered. This is the wonderful thing about New York City. People will not hesitate to step into the middle of any fight—at least, when the involved parties are unarmed, female, and one of them is wearing an expensive pantsuit.

“She assaulted me,” Martha Stewart screeched. She really seemed to mean it. I assaulted her! Could it be true? Was I carrying so much pent-up rage throughout my day that I had to unleash it on someone’s ankle?

But before anyone could even turn to me to get my side of the story, my victim headed off (without a limp) down the street, shrugging people off of her, screaming expletives until she could no longer be seen.

And what did I do? I ran the hell away (in the other direction). People were looking to me for clarification, but more than anything, I wanted to escape. I got on the subway and tried to make sense of it, but it was like trying to decipher the angry rantings of a paranoiac. I hit a lady and she yelled and then I was on the ground and kick run what? I told the story to Scott, and maybe a friend or two, and then stopped. It was not a fun story to tell. It exhausted and confused me. Then there was the secret conviction that it was actually my fault. Why hadn’t I waited a second longer before opening the door? Why had I mentioned the alarm?

I probably shouldn’t add that I spent weeks unable to sleep because I was frantically recreating the incident so that I said the right thing and she didn’t call me names. Fortunately I was in therapy at the time. Not enough therapy, I suspect. At any rate, I am happy to report that I no longer believe I was the responsible party. Mostly. I’ve made some real progress!

I’m not even sure why I’m telling you this story now, 14 years later. I guess because I still think about it. I wonder about that lady. What did she think actually occurred? Did she tell her friends over cocktails about the young woman wearing crushed velvet and platform shoes who brutalized her foot? Or did she slow down after a few blocks, realize she wasn’t limping, and think, “Dear me, I seem to have overreacted again”? Maybe I can get on her show someday, and ask her.

The Internet can help in many ways but not in every way.

So first I was thinking of this news story I remembered from when Henry was a baby. He had this Fisher-Price Aquarium thingy that strapped onto his crib. It had fish bobbing around and various interactive doodads and it played music and he loved it. But that's not the news story! Can you imagine what a terrible story that would make? "Fisher-Price Aquarium Has Doodads, Music." No no no. No, the story I was trying to recall is how Walmart made a knockoff of the item, and alarmed families discovered that underneath the music, in a barely perceptible whisper, you could hear the words I hate you. But did this really happen? I was so tired then. I also remember exposing myself to the UPS guy, but I couldn't have done that, right?

But the story really did happen. ("A Vancouver, Wash., family discovered the toy they unsuspectingly attached to their 6-month-old son's crib utters the words "I hate you" amid the rhythmic ocean sounds designed to lull the baby asleep.") And I really did flash the UPS guy. Thank you, Internet!

Then I was trying to remember this movie that I saw probably 30 years ago. (And at this point you're thinking, Alice, don't you have anything better to do with your time? But I don't want to do those things, you silly goose; I want to look up obscure news stories and movies I half-remember. It helps me get through the day.) The movie was about a modern gal living in modern times who has these vivid dreams or flashbacks of living in Ye Olde Pilgrim Times, where she's being called Goody whatever-her-name-is and men in pilgrim hats are judging her sternly. And then she's put in a shallow grave and giant stones are placed on top of her so that she can't breathe. Then (SPOILER ALERT!) she's with her husband or friend or SOMEONE, driving in a car, and she turns away and turns back and he or she is wearing Ye Olde Pilgrime Costume! SHRIEK! And he or she drives our protagonist to some secluded wooded area and the shallow grave is waiting for her and AIIIEEE! Anyway, this movie scared the crap out of me. Where were my parents? Probably going to key parties or taking Valium. Oh, the seventies.

Anyway, searching for Stoning Pilgrim Movie or Pilgrim Nightmare or Movie I Saw in the Seventies hasn't gotten me anywhere. If you know of this movie, don't be shy. I'm beginning to think I made it all up. It wouldn't be the first time.

This weekend we were visiting my parents for Easter and as Henry crammed his maw with Chocolate Bunny, my mom and a family friend were discussing this incident when we were all on vacation together, in this cabin in Vermont. There was a propane gas leak and we had to evacuate the house in the middle of the night. I was maybe five. My mom was busy congratulating herself for being the first to notice the smell, when I realized something. Something important!

"Was this house on a hill?" I asked my mom, who said yes.

"And the driveway was steep? " Very steep, said the family friend. And it led right down onto a busy road.

And poof, years of recurrent nightmares—running out of a house in the middle of the night in footie pajamas, trying to make it down a steep icy driveway, cars below, terrified of falling—EXPLAINED! All that therapy for nothing!

Truly, sometimes one's family is better than the Internet. Then again, they couldn't help me with that damn movie, either. So it's pretty much a tie.

BALLOONS.

He's balloons-on-his-feet nuts!
Originally uploaded by finslippy.

A few years ago, Scott and I went with our friend Mike to see a couple of our other friends in a play. It was in one of those theatres that are so far Off-Broadway they’re practically in the East River. We were late, so we ran in, not even stopping to grab programs, and sat down in the audience. The lights went down. And then they went up.

On the stage were several foppish dandies mincing about. “What’s this play about, again?” I asked Scott, who shrugged. They were wearing satin knickers and powdered wigs. We were led to understand that one of them was Benjamin Franklin. “Where are our friends?” I hissed at Scott, who looked as baffled as I was. The people on the stage were in France, which we knew because they said things like “Here we are in France.”* One of them spoke of the Montgolfier brothers, or maybe one of them was a Montgolfier? “The hot-air balloon,” he declared, scratching at his hosiery, “will be the invention of this century! Nay, of any century!”* It went on like this for some time. None of our friends were on the stage. I looked around us at the five or six other people in the audience. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. Then I caught sight of someone’s program. On the cover was the word “BALLOON.”

I can’t remember the name of the play our friends were in, but it was not “BALLOON.”

“Oh my god,” I told my husband, “we’re in the wrong theater.”

“Oh no,” he said. “Oh no oh no.” He whispered to Mike. Mike put his head in his hands. We looked at each other. We knew we couldn't laugh. There were only eight of us in the audience. The poor actors would see us laughing, and the poor actors did not deserve that.

Unfortunately, the one Monty Python sketch I know is “The Montgolfier Brothers in Love”, and in fact this is the only sketch whose lines Mike and I have recited to each other lo these many years (“Every time you sing a song, it is in some way obliquely connected with balloons ... everything you eat has to have ‘balloon’ incorporated in the title ... your dogs are all called ‘balloon-o’ ... you tie balloons to your ankles in the evenings”), and there we were in this tiny theater with the Montgolfier brothers right in front of us, preening as Benjamin Franklin held forth on the fall of Versailles. It was torture. Every time one of them boomed, "BALLOON!" I was sure I would lose it. We couldn’t just walk out (think of those poor actors!). And we didn’t know if there was an intermission.**

None of this is in any way related to the party our friends had for us last weekend, except that there were many balloons, although not the hot-air kind. We worried that Henry wouldn’t be entertained enough at the party, but the brilliant Emily, party co-organizer and the best babysitter/girlfriend Henry will ever have, borrowed Star Wars guys from a friend and then stuffed her home with helium balloons. Henry loved the Star Wars guys, natch, but then someone tied balloons to his ankles and all at once he was beside himself with joy. He was hopping and twirling and laughing maniacally as balloons bopped him in the face.

I felt kind of the same way, except without the balloons.

We could not have better friends.

(*Dialogue invented for illustrative purposes.)
(**There was. And we made a run for it.)