Objects of desire

Usually I am the antithesis of a car lover. First time I attended the North American Auto Show I was utterly shocked that they only had cars. No rides, no cotton candy, no farm animals, no carnival games, not even a place to sit down. So I squeezed into a hatchback with some reading material for the rest of the afternoon. People would open and shut the back of the car amazed how I fit inside there assuming I was a prop of the auto company.

Yet, I have always loved the Mercedes and Saabs made in the 1970’s. Still enough gleam of chrome to sparkle, but somewhat understated as if to say “yes, I have a full bank account, but I don’t have to yell about it.” The interior is smooth leather making it simple and elegant. The car doesn’t look angry like it is out to destroy any traffic, pedestrians, or yellow lights that get in its way.

I am just imagining that if I owned this car and the comfortable bank account to go with it perhaps I could have the inner confidence to forgo the McMansion and enormous SUV’s.

The wealthy could print out little cards with their bank balance on it and hand it out door to door. This would be both more efficient and less polluting. They could read it to themselves over and over again like a mantra or shallow meditation until their fears subside.

Wardrobe Division

A designer posed a question about color asking “why designers stick to wearing black and designing in color?” The answer on wearing black came quickly to me.

I didn’t feel I was given a choice to wear color. In my mother’s mind color (especially on the bottom) was reserved for the very smallest of frames. The same thinking went for print (especially on the bottom).

Bright color and look-at-me-prints were for the starving-blond-elite who have lived in old homes for as long as their families have been in this country (which is a long time), who have hair that won’t curl no matter how stormy the day, whose bottom won’t stand out in the brightest Lily Pulitzer fuchsia and green-frog-printed-capri-pant right after a Memorial Day picnic at their cottage up north or in the Hampton’s or the shore or wherever the thin and hairless go for the summer.

Wherever on the map, these clothes I was told plainly were not for me, not for us. And I have abided with a closet full of black pants, black capris, black yoga pants, dark denim jeans, one daring pair of guilt-ridden navy.

I went with a friend to a local Jewish temple picnic when I was looking for a place to join shortly after we moved here. She told me they were very open to couples of mixed religions. I guess I hadn’t prepared my self for what this could mean visually. I walk in to find a perfect-looking blond mother in her electric-Lily Pulitzer-shift dress with her two matching daughters at her side. “I have to leave” I told my friend. “This is clearly no place for me.” I walked away in my matching black top, capris, and black sandals catching no attention. Able to slip in and out like a burglar in the night.

Rolling Along, Training-Wheel Style

I am noticing that the first year of life is all about firsts. Our son crawled for the first time the other day. Coincidentally, it was the same day I had a first of my own. I rode my bike to work.

My husband and I expressed some concern that he was not crawling yet. The pediatrician checked out his tiny arms and legs. His head and back and declared physically he was ready, but he needed the courage to do it.

So the day I found my extra courage to do something I knew physically I was capable of, but scared to do, he did the same.

Sure, this could be a fluke. Or maybe a reminder that he isn’t the only one in our family having some firsts and growth spurts. It sure it a whole lot easier to try something hard when someone else is stretching themselves right their along with you.

Sweet Idea

If I owned my own restaurant I would give people self-esteem cookies at the end of the meal. Wouldn't that be better than fortune cookies? The fortune is never really a fortune. The cookie sucks. So your end of meal experience ends up being a disappointment. Who doesn’t need a boost of self-esteem wrapped in sugar? No one really wants to know what tomorrow will bring. They do want to know that they are better than they are. We all want to hear more compliments.

One street person downtown Detroit has the best pitch. She starts off with a compliment. She doesn’t tell you her story which is probably a downer; she tells me how fabulous I look. She asks me if I have tried a new mascara because my lashes are ready to knock her over. She notices my jewelry. And it all works. Before I know it I am smiling ear to ear feeling great about myself and handing over wads of cash. I know I will see her soon selling the next Sham wow or easy pay religion on late night infomercials because she is that good and I love her for it.

Just imagine opening a delicious treat and seeing "you are hot...you smell great...you bake great muffins....you're so organized...your subtraction is very accurate...you have great looking gums...well-groomed eyebrows....great posture...good work on the flossing...love your meatloaf...those abs are TIGHT...those look very real…great grammar...your are always so prompt."

The wheels of misplaced anger

I always thought riding a bike to downtown Detroit for work would be dangerous because you ride through mostly shabby (not shabby chic) neighborhoods. So I meet a guy who does it and it ends up the danger is from the drivers. They yell at him. They throw things at him. They swerve towards him. They are angry about him riding his bike. He said Detroit isn’t as angry as other counties nearby.

It reminds me of the strangely aggressive and angry reaction I’ve noticed on several things. Like saying you are a vegetarian. “Do you want animals to overpopulate and starve to death? You want to make hunting illegal? Can I eat this cheeseburger in front of you? Are you a communist? So you never eat protein? Do you eat bugs?”

Or if you don’t order a drink when everyone else does, “What did you kill someone drinking and driving? You got liver cancer? Are you in some crazy church? Why don’t you just leave?”

Or when they find out you’re a Jew, “No Christmas…no tree…a Santa? What about bacon? You don’t believe in JESUS? Will they let you into heaven? No ham? No Easter bunny? Are you sure you didn’t kill Jesus? Do you have your own churches?

Nosey

I worked an entire summer at a Jewish newspaper with the obituary writer who had a nasal deformity. He had this slender white growth coming out of his left nostril. It was repulsively distracting, yet incredibly curious to me. Not only didn’t he explain the gnarly growth, he never acknowledged it as if he didn’t know it was there.

I waited all summer and got nothing close to an explanation. I might have quit that job, but hung on figuring he would break in that steamy un-air-conditioned-musty-corner left to write obituaries on typewriters that were missing keys.

He was always a little uneasy about his position at the paper since his wife was Catholic. I used to see him nervously sneaking the Catholic Chronicle into his tattered back pack each week. Now I know I should have used that Catholic Chronicle as bait to blackmail him for the story on his nose. I guess I wasn’t cut out for investigative journalism.

A Pretend Life

Like most kids I was big into the world of pretend and make believe. I had imaginary friends called Imogene, Penelope, and Wilt. Also, there was a man living in a high rise apartment building underneath my tongue.

But sometimes as an adult I find myself still playing pretend. That the dust I find on the floor is sand and we are sunning ourselves at the beach. For a while I pretended our dust bunnies were alive and I couldn’t kill them with a mop because it was obviously cruel.

Other days I ignore the cell phone and computer because I am having a pretend 1950’s day. It helps to have a lot of vintage clothes, jewelry, handbags and, magazines.

Make believe isn’t any easier now than it was as a kid. People give me a hard time and try to reason about the difference between dust and sand. People show me calendars, wave ringing phones in my face.

They used to try to sit on poor Imogene and suffocate Wilt to prove some unknown point. And all the architects in the world couldn’t convince me that you can’t build a beautiful high rise under a child’s tongue.