Incognito Breeder

Like Ordering a Pizza

I needed to book my babysitter for this Friday. She's a busy girl. I called her cell phone, she had switched service providers. I called her house, I left a message with her Dad. I really needed to book a sitter before I could confirm my plans. I needed to confirm my plans to proceed. She called me back, I was in the shower. She left her new cell number. By the time I got the message, she was in school and I was in work. I would not be able to confirm my plans until after 3pm. This was unacceptable.

Then, I had an idea.

I sent her a text message. I almost never send text messages. I never think to. But a text message was the perfect means for communicating with a 17 year old as she changes classes.

"BBsit G-Man Fri?"

Fifteen minutes later... "Think so, chk sched, time?"

"8ish"

"Sounds home to ne."

I confirmed my plans. I feel so Paris Hilton.

Conversation at Easter Brunch

(after the cat almost escaped out the front door)

You should get one of those tags, at the PetCo, with the engraving machine, and put your phone number on it—but not their name—in case they escape.

They have those tags, but with their names and our phone number.

Oh, I wouldn't put their names on the tag. Someone could take advantage of that, if he knew the animal's name, he could call it, and the cat would come and someone with bad intentions could just keep your cat.

But if someone would just keep my cat, why would not having the cat’s name deter him?

Well, it would make it more difficult, the cat wouldn’t respond to him.

My cats don’t respond to me unless I’m brandishing a can opener. I don’t think it would matter. If anything, I thought putting a name to a lost animal would make the finder realize that the animal has a pre-existing loving home situation.

It’s like putting a kid’s name on his backpack, it gives an abducter some familiarity with the abductee.

(author’s aside: yes, this did start with a discussion of cat tags)

Yeah, I don’t know. I do that with the G-Man, I don’t put his name on his clothes, but I did tatoo our phone number on his ass.

(pauses for a moment to realize I'm being sarcastic, ignores me ) I just think it’s safer for the animal.

It worked for awhile, but we’ve moved like—what? Six or seven times? The kid is lucky he can sit down. Maybe a microchip would be more effective. My vet offers that.

For the cats?

Cats, kids, anything to keep from having to hang fliers around town.

You’re not right.

Nope. Now have another mimosa, Happy Easter.

Nix the Cool Mom

The G-Man and I are walking that fine line, that tiny, little stretch of DMZ between “Momma, can you wipe my ass?” and “Ma, can I borrow the car?” He’s this cool, little person with his own personality and he’s too young to hate me. So, we get to hang out. We watch movies together, talk about music, go to bookstores. It helps that I’m going through a belated adolescence and share many of his interests. This might not work if I was still in what I like to call my “Natalie Merchant” phase. That’s the time in a young woman’s life when she takes herself and everything in her life waaayyy too seriously. Too much Nina Simone, (and not the Put Some Sugar in My Bowl-Nina) not enough Kylie Minogue. Too much Meryl Streep, not enough Lindsey Lohan. That’s the time when you just can’t appreciate that a song like Baby Got Back is a positive, feminist manifesto. It’s a sad, serious, sensible shoes and Michael Stipe kind of time. No fun at all.

It helps that I’m out of that phase. G’s friends all think that I’m the “cool mom.” Of course, once you label yourself the “cool mom” you become immediately uncool. There’s nothing lamer than a 30+ year old adult trying to impress a bunch of third graders. To take the piss out of myself, I once joked with the G-Man that I almost won “Coolest Mom in New England,” but I lost to a lady from Hartford, Connecticut who was a champion Dance, Dance, Revolution player. “If only we had PlayStation2, instead of GameCube,” I lamented.

The funny thing is, as hip and sarcastic as the G-Man can be, he tends to be a bit literal. Yesterday, he got a pretty good report card, so I took him to the local comic book store. The last time we were there, G asked Comic-Book-Guy-Bob about Silver Surfer—who is he? what’s his story? When we stopped in last night, the CBGB had put aside three, 25 year-old, Silver Surfer issues for my boy—gratis. G was appropriately surprised and grateful, “What’s this for?” he asked.

“Consider it part of your ‘Good Report Card’ comic books,” I offered.

“You get comic books for a good report card?” CBGB asked, “You‘ve got a cool mom, there.”

“Coolest in five states,” stated the G-Man, “Damn that Dance, Dance, Revolution.”

Just a Thought

Are bike racks the gold-plated, spinning rims of the Gap set? Am I getting all “Jetta” when I put my Thule fairing up on my $100 Camry? (That's right, I said $100 Camry, I got a price so nice, I could buy it twice.) Who do I think I’m fooling?

I use my racks a couple of times a year, tops. And that’s not counting moving a love seat for a friend, or bringing home a Christmas tree. The basic purpose of a my Thule rack is to represent the ghost of my early twenties, Me: B.G. (Before G-Man) It’s advertisement. It says, I’m white, I own at least one Dave Matthew’s Band CD, I have a college degree, I shop at Trader Joes. Of course, if I had Yakima racks it would also say, I’m a card-carrying, Subaru-driving, white-water-rafting lesbian. But I’m not, so I’ve got the Thules.

Electric Boogaloo, Who Knew…

…in my 30s I would become a hip-hop photographer? Certainly nothing I predicted. If you've got some downtime, check out the pics from the Kool G. Rap show. Word.

Ah, Navel, I Knew Ye Well

It's been too long, belly button, friend of mine. I've been so preoccupied with the world-at-large that I've neglected you. I apologize. It seems like only yesterday I would stare at you for hours and contemplate Deep Thoughts. Thoughts, I was certain, the whole world was waiting with anticipation for me to share.

I miss those days.

I rarely see you lately, except to note that you are no longer folded under the weight of my widening belly. In my hiatus from gazing upon you, I've taken to getting some activity, losing some poundage. Perhaps, if I keep it up, someday others will gaze upon you lovingly, as I once did. Perhaps. Although belly buttons do seem a bit passé.

It's a fashion thing, huh? I haven't seen Britney or Beyoncé sporting a midrift-baring, half-top in ages. Maybe that's not due to changing tastes, though. Maybe they've just moved on. Beyoncé is working her classy Hollywood, gold-lamé, French singing, Mrs. Z mogul-action and Brit's been busy parading around the trailerpark with that Blue-Light-Special, Timberlake knock-off, common-law boy-ho of hers. They're no longer engaged in navel research. They've found other things in the world to concentrate their energies on.

Maybe it's my age. I'm well into my 30s now, certainly in 30 years I've learned everything there is to know about you, belly-button. You're pretty much established at this point, got your shape, your size, your general lint-y-ness, your position laterally and longitudinally. You're not bringing much more to this relationship. You can be like a distant cousin to me, or an old college friend, someone I don't have to call everyday, someone I can check-in with occasionally, a little howyadoin', a little letchaknowIwasthinkinaboutcha.

But I can't stare at you everyday. I can't find another interesting thing about you to share with the world. I've got to find important, facinating things to chat about. I need to take off the blinders and open up my peripheral vision.

Do you think I could set up some mirrors to get a decent view of my ear canal?