|
| Orders from the MothershipI’m visiting my parents for the long weekend, and the inevitable happens in the first few hours. There is of course the initial small talk (“How was your flight? Did you get to nap? I hope you didn’t sit next to a fatty”), but then there is the Spanish Inquisition. It starts off easy with questions that I can answer. How is work going? (fine) How is your health (implying, I hope you don't intake more calories from alcohol than vegetables?) Do you sleep well? (Yes, but I still talk in my sleep) Have you been studying for your GMATs? (no), Finally, when the easy ones have run out, it becomes When are you going to buy your own house (read: next door to us?) and When am I going to see my first grandchild? These last two questions always floor me, because I think she expects them to be executed simultenously. I mean, I’ve always been great at multitasking, but even this I don’t think I can pull off. For the house, I would need seed money. Lots of it. And for the child, well, I would just need seeds.
But I can be aggressively ambitious if she wanted me to be. I can give it my best effort to get it all done at the same time. I picture myself, at 24 years old, in a gray office as a day-trader. I am bent over my desk placing a limit order and doing the nasty at the same time. (Or, rather, someone is doing it to me). “Yes, oh, do it, harder baby, harder” (here I type in the stock quote)… “Faster, harder, oh you know I like it like that” (hitting the “Place Order” button)… “Baby, I’m coming, oh oh oh!” (The screen flashes “Order Executed.”)
So either I will complete everything in the meager amount of time my mother has allotted, or someday I will have to tell my poor kid, oh yes, your father and I were very romantic with each other. In fact, you were conceived in front of a Bloomberg terminal during a market rally. I made $80 grand in about 40 minutes – about the time it took Daddy to finish putting you inside me. | | |
| Being Mrs. Bradley...The first time I saw Roman Holiday as a little girl, my goal was to marry Gregory Peck. I was determined to be the next Mrs. Joe Bradley. He is the true definition of tall, (sort-of) dark, and (very, very) handsome!! The movie is about a rebellious princess who, during a tour in Rome, runs away and falls asleep on a public bench. Joe Bradly, a news reporter, takes pity on her and finally allows her to sleep in his apartment, relegating her to his couch. When he finally recognizes who she is, he is determined to cash in, and even ropes in his photographer friend to document their time together. The two end up spending an entire 24 hours together on a rendezvous throughout Rome - sightseeing, dancing. Even though initially it was all based on a lie - Ann was a princess in hiding, while Joe hid his status as a news reporter aiming to get a hefty sum for a "personal" interview -- the two end up falling in love. The point is, you can find love in the most unexpected places. You just have to have an open mind - and heart. (Finding Lust is another story - for that I recommend hitting the bars where they make strong drinks.) Sadly, Ann finally realizes that she cannot be with a newspaper reporter, and thus returns back to the embassy. The movie ends with a press conference with the princess that Joe attends, during which he makes it clear that he will not sell the story. The final scene shows him all alone after Ann has left, lingering in the large hall, as if waiting for her return. Hopeful. Even today when I watch the movie, my heart still hopes that at any moment, Princess Ann will come racing out. She'll jump into his arms and he'll whisk her away (on his hot Italian vespa, no less) Oh, I don't care if you force me to sleep on your couch instead of your (twin-size) bed. Even if I were a princess, I would still marry you, Joe!!* *When, as a seven-year-old, was finally told that Gregory Peck was older than my own grandfather, it was the biggest heartbreak of my little heart.
| | |
| Remnants of SF...8 pm on Sunday night, and my parents and I are sitting in my dad's Saturn SUV (he only buys American now). He is doing 85 on highway 101, tyring to make it home in time for the Cleveland / Orlando game. Meanwhile I am sitting in the backseat like a fat kid who overate his share of birthday cake, dozing off to Barbara Streisand on KOIT ("Light Rock, Less Talk"). My jeans are spotted with droplets of chocolate from the peanut butter and hot fudge sundae we devoured at Ghiradelli Square that morning. My shirt smells like fish and chips from lunch at Pier 39. There's a grease stain on the collar. Next to me is bag of taffy, mixed truffles and (half eatten) almond bark from the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory . I think there is still caramel stuck to my hair from my afternoon caramel apple. And I haven't even finished my In 'N Out Shake yet.... It was a good day. | | |
| Knock Out It’s Thursday, amateur boxing night. The scene – BB Kings. The opponents - the NYC firefighters and the Dublin Firefights. There’s a dozen beers on tap, any kind of mixed drink you’d like, and the night is young. The first fight was a rather painful one. One guy was a lanky albino-looking guy who looked like he hadn’t reached puberty, and yet was already thinning on top. He went by “Flash” and while there was no doubt the guy was quick, his aim wasn’t exactly accurate. The other fighter, “Brick” actually looked like a brick. He was a whole head shorter than “Flash” and what was his head was more of a red rectangular mass with pig eyes and a red nose poking out. With every hit, his arm flab would jiggle, flailing out as if having their own little brawl. It reminded me of that commercial for Jenny Craig when the woman goes from 250 to 150 pounds and jumps for happiness to prove her newly acquired agility -- only to have her arm flab bouncing up right with her and finally settling with a rubbery jiggle around her sides. The fight ended unceremoniously with Flash socking Brick squarely in his face – giving him a bloody nose. The second fight had less bloodshed. Both guys looked about equal in size – “Buffalo Bill” was a freckle-faced red head, a jolly looking fellow with visible rolls around his middle. His opponent, “T-Bone” looked like he might have been a physics professor in another life. He had a dark brooding figure and a particularly prominent double (triple?) chin. Their fight started off rather friendly – too friendly, in fact, because neither guy had managed to get in a good hit by the middle of round two. By round three, the guys behind me were finishing their third round of beers and getting antsy. One guy yells out, “C mon! Knock out that fat ass!!” and my friend retorts with, “Which one?!” Out of the 11 matches, the best one was fight number 9, the only one that was between two girls. One of them, “Pixie” was actually a Golden Glove boxer - really cut, in great shape. She had quick, accurate hits, knew how to defend herself. She easily won all three rounds. When she took off her mouthpiece and headgear, revealing waist length blonde hair and a dazzling white smile, some guy in the audience whistled. “She’s hot too!” My friend pokes me. “Yea,” he says under his breath. “I’ll let her knock me out anytime.” Then he turns to me with a wide grin on his face, “What do you think? Can you take her down in a fight? She’s about your size.” “Ummm.. I guess so.” The idea of putting on one of those helmets and slugging it out in a ring, surrounded by a bunch of heckling drunks sounded as appealing at a broken pelvis. “Yea, well, worse case, she’ll just pin you down and you two can have a couple rounds on the floor. What do you think of that?” “Well, what you think of wresting Brick?” His smile turned sour. “I think I’d rather wax my balls.” | | |
| How Babies Are MadeIn reality, my first job was quite a learning experience as well. The summer I was 14, I was babysitting twice a week for the Johnsons, the wealthiest family in my neighborhood. They had a 4-year old, blond-haired angel – Jenny May, whom I read and played Bingo with.
My second day on the job, I am in the middle of baking cookies when the front door slams open. Mr. Johnson’s 6 foot, 6 inch frame fills the door frame; clutching onto his arm is a petite red-head, stumbling in her stilettos. It certainly wasn’t his wife – this woman was a third her size. She is panting, sweat staining her silk shirt. She looked like she happened to suffer a seizure while walking by the Johnson’s house. I reach for the phone to dial 9-1-1, but Mr. Johnson beats me to it. “I’m just going to take care of her upstairs. She’s needs something to drink, that’s all,” he assures me. He bends down to scoop up his companion and airlifts her upstairs to his room.
Little Jenny walks in from the TV room, “Is someone home?” I tell her no, that was just the Cookie Fairy – he came to add more chocolate chips to your cookies! She beams and runs back to watch her program.
I slowly make my way upstairs with a tray of water and ice cubes to check on Mr. Johnson. The door to the Johnson’ master bedroom is wide open, and I see two stark-naked figures tangled in bed. The tiny red-head is moaning like a savage, drowning under Mr. Johnson’s line-backer frame. Bedsheets and clothes are strewn everywhere. I take a deep breath and spin around, promptly landing on my rear – ice cubes, water, and cups flying everywhere.
Little Jenny did get extra chocolate chips in her cookies that night. Her father, after sending his mistress off, did devour half of them, but I couldn’t care less. No words were exchanged when Mr. Johnson drove me home that night. But when he stuffed two hundred dollar bills in my hand, he gave me a look as if to say, “We have an understanding don’t we?”
So I, every Thursday and Friday after Chinese class, for an entire summer, would rush to the Johnson’s palace, sing and dance and bake cookies for Jenny while Mr. Johnson and his mistress drank, moaned, and thumped loudly upstairs for several hours.
My parents were stunned at how much cash I’d accumulated at the end of the summer. Mr. J sometimes paid me with rolls of $100 bills. That summer, I learned how to bake 14 different kinds of chocolate chip cookies. And that was also summer that I – a late bloomer – really learned how babies were made. 14 different ways. | | |
|
