Mother's Day- A Day Late and Many Dollars Short

(One of my mother's favorite songs, decided whilst sitting at the kitchen table and listening to the entire Great Rock and Roll Swindle album with my best friend and I in 6th grade.)

You always hear stories about women freaking out over "becoming their mothers"- or at least, this is an old schtick in the same vein as women eating pints of Ben and Jerry's while crying, buying lots of shoes, and freaking out over never getting married. So, being that I'm not Cathy and this particular schema doesn't apply to me, you shouldn't be too surprised to hear that, hell, if I were to turn into my mother, that would be freaking awesome. My mom is pretty bad ass.

Here's a story: Back in elementary school, they had these "Santa's Workshops" during Christmas time and kids were taken down there one group at a time to go buy some crappy sweatshop made gifts for their parents and siblings. Whatever. Anyway, one year my mother got roped into volunteering. It was not long before I had all these kids coming up to me saying "Your mom is so awesome! She taught me how to shoplift!"

Now, let me explain. See, I went to a *really* classy school. Except not. See, at Santa's Sweatshop, the kids who didn't have any money with which to purchase tacky paperweights and compasses had to stand up against the wall while the other kids shopped. Nice, huh? Because that's not anything that could embarass the crap out of a 10 year old or anything. Anyway, my mother, horrified by the situation, goes up to the kids up against the wall and tells them that they're going to be in her group. She then takes them on a tour of Santa's Sweatshop, flamboyantly showing them how to shove the various knicknacks up their sleeves. After that, even the kids that had money pretended they didn't so they could be in her group and learn how to shoplift.

This has always been one of my favorite examples, among many, of "how my mother is." Because it's not just that she's funny and silly and a bit rebellious- it's that she has this innate sense of justice and a talent for making people feel special.

My friends were always way excited to see my mother when they came over to visit, which is something I was always so proud of. She wasn't the cookie baking mom, and she wasn't the "Cool Mom" who wanted to smoke pot with teenagers or anything (thank god). We all just sat at the kitchen table and talked about school, and friends, and boys and politics and other things with her. And she was hilarious, and she made people feel important, and worthwhile, and smart, and funny. Even now, when people are going through a rough patch, I always wish they could talk to her.

Another thing people are supposed to say a lot is that their parents don't understand them. I think I'm pretty easy to understand in general, but if there is one person that always "gets it," it's my mother.

One of her sayings, of which she has many, is that people love you for the way you make them feel about themselves- and she's living proof of that. In my life I've never known anyone else that people loved as exuberantly and automatically as they love her. People just want to be around her- my friends, people on planes, people at CVS, Mormon missionaries... It's an amazing quality, and one that I've always, admittedly, been a bit jealous of.

So, you know, even if it means developing a habit of walking around TJ Maxx for two hours, filling up a shopping carriage and then not buying anything, I couldn't ask for anything more awesome than to turn into my mother someday.

A girl you can take home to meet your mother...

(Not a picture of Robyn. At all. For any reason.)

So, the other day, I watched the premiere of VH1's Tough Love (What can I say? I'm a masochist.)- and by the way, can I just tell you that the host dude sounds exactly like Scott Baio? Anyway, the "sad and pathetic" women did some challenge where they got makeovers and then went to some fake party to socialize with fake dudes. Then, after the challenge, the fake dudes critiqued them and talked about what they did right and what they did wrong. I'm not even kidding.

So, anyway, the girl that won the challenge won because some dude said "She's the kind of girl I could take home to meet my mother!" Which the host informed us all, was the single greatest compliment a man could give you.

Oh puke. Coco Chanel was a girl you couldn't introduce to your mother, and I would way rather be Coco Chanel than the lady on that show. Fact is, the type of girl described by men who say that sort of thing isn't the type of girl I'd ever want to be- and those are the kind of men I'd never hang around with anyway. They're always total sickos- trust me. Someone in that equation is an asshat, and it's not the girl you can't take home. But I digress.

After I thought about it for a while, I called my mom to thank her. Because that thought has just never occurred to me. My mother always says "In some families, people keep the crazy relatives in the attic. In our family we sit them right down at the dinner table and have a lovely chat." I am not accustomed to being ashamed of people.

She, of course, says "Oh, you think that's because I like everyone. Not true. I hate everyone. But I hate them equally." This is just her way. But the fact is, I'd never feel uncomfortable introducing anyone to her, because she really is awesomely accepting. It's not even a second thought with her, it's not like she's all "Hello! Look at what a tolerant person I am!" or anything- she just has this innate ability to find everyone interesting, and to bring out the best in people and make them feel important. She firmly believes that everyone has something to offer. She can sit and talk for hours with a good ol' boy from the South (mind you, she's an East Coast feminist and radical liberal), or with a heroin addict, or anyone else for that matter.

My friends have always LOVED my mother. Ever since I was a kid. I remember this one time, she volunteered to work at our school's Santa's Workshop- you know, where you go and get cheesy weird presents for your parents and siblings during school? Well, all these kids came up to me saying "Your mom is so cool! She taught me how to shoplift!"

I asked her about it when I came home, and she told me that the teacher had made the kids who didn't have money with them sit up against the wall, and they weren't allowed to walk around with the other kids who did have money. So, my mom walked up to the kids and announced that they were going to be in her group, and then walked them around and jokingly taught them how to shove things up their sleeves. They didn't ask her to volunteer again, but she wasn't too broken up about it.

I ALWAYS want people to meet my mother. Although, I'd have to say that the people generally thought of as the type others would introduce to their mother would be further down on her list of people she'd want to hang out with.

Oh they so ripped off my mom for this

Back when I lived in Massachusetts, my favorite part of going up to Boston on weekends was the time I'd spend with my mother, sitting at the Ben and Jerry's on Newbury Street, drinking iced coffee, chainsmoking, and cleverly mocking passerby under our breath.

Hey, you know, some people have Monopoly or like, scrapbooking or whatever, this was our idea of family bonding.

Her favorite targets were always couples. Everytime, without fail, that my mother sees an overly PDA-ish couple she will remark "Oh for godsakes. You know they go home and have nothing to say to eachother!" or "You know... they're just doing this because they're so hideously unattractive that they need to telegraph to the world that someone finds them non-repulsive enough to be seen with their toungue in their ear!" or something to that effect.

But her favorites, her absolute favorites, were always couples in matching outfits. Always. I have never seen my mother more delighted than the one time she saw a middle aged couple in matching beanie-copter hats!

I should post some of our vacation pictures sometime- we take pictures of two things: couples in matching outfits and my dad accidentally falling asleep in unusual public places. He's not a narcoleptic or anything, he's an Italian man. This is not a popularly known stereotype- in fact I doubt anyone outside of an Italian family knows about this phenomenon- but it's totally true. They can fall asleep anywhere, usually with their mouths wide open. The pictures of my dad sleeping on every park bench from San Francisco to London prove it. We have a gallery in my house back home should you doubt me. And if you think that's bad, you should see my other relatives. It's just bizarre.

I digress. So, anyway, after years and years of my mother taking pictures of couples in matching outfits, I stumble upon this!

Look-alike Couples- via Lemondrop

Apparently, my mother is not alone in her pursuit of this particular phenomenon. Amazing!

How did I miss this?

Oh my god- Odetta died on December 2nd. I didn't know. I didn't hear a thing about it... It wasn't on the news or anything. I wouldn't have even found out if I hadn't been looking for videos of her on youtube... I can't believe I didn't know- I can't believe my mother didn't know.

Odetta was one of my mother's all time favorites since she was a kid. I promised her for years that I'd take her to see her live, but it just never happened. Even when I tried to see her here in Chicago the show ended up getting cancelled. We used to listen to her in the car when I was a kid, and my mom would always say that she was one of the few women she could sing along with (we have rather deep voices in our family.). I feel really bad that I never got to take my mom to see her. I remember I was like, so excited one year to give my mom a copy of an album of Bessie Smith covers she did that I found.

So, well, I'm kinda sad to have found that out.

Psst.

Allen is totally awesome and bought me box wine and the chocolate chewy cookies from Dominick's that I love so dearly. Yay!

I should go downstairs and get my laundry so's I can pack for tomorrow... but I've had too much wine and the stairs might be a bad idea. Do you know how much I hate planes? I'm not looking forward to it. I am, however, looking forward to seeing the fam, especially my mom, who is pretty much the greatest ever.

I should go to bed, but instead I will tell you some stories.

Story #1- When I was in 5th grade I went to Hawaii with my family, and everywhere you went there were signs such as this:

Please Do Not Litter-- Mahalo

or

Please Do Not Lean on Railing-- Mahalo

And for the first few days I thought that Mahalo was the name of an especially involved, or rather vain, Mayor or Governor. I would feel lamer about this if my mother did not think the exact same thing (and she wasn't 10 at the time)

Story # 2- This one time when I was back home visiting, I introduced myself to this one guy only to have him inform me that we had dated for a month. I still feel horribly embarrassed when I think about it, and yet I still do not remember him. I am haunted by this as I usually have a fantastic memory.

Story #3- I go through a tin of hot chocolate a week, and am suspecting that this cannot possibly be healthy.

Story #4- I accidentally took Sudafed PM today and tried to correct it by drinking a lot of coffee. The Sudafed has worn off (I think!) but now it's 3am and I can't sleep. This has happened before. In high school, my mom accidentally gave me NyQuil or something instead of DayQuil, and I got a little kooky or something in bio, and was sent to the nurse's office. They called my mother and told her I was probably on drugs. She told them about the NyQuil and they thought she was in denial.

Story #5 (A Secret!)- I can be bribed with egg cream sodas. Seriously, if you were like, "Hey Robyn, haul like, 15 tons of bricks across the street and I will take you out for egg cream sodas!" I would be sold on that arrangement, as it will always sound like the best time that can possibly be had. In this regard, I am five.

I heart Jonathan Kozol...

Forgot to mention this, but the other day I had the chance to hear Jonathan Kozol speak- which was, duh, positively amazing and I almost cried. It was a really big thing for me because Kozol's work has been such a huge, huge influence on my life.

See, when I was a kid, my mom had a very cool way of dealing with my being a brat. I didn't really get punished, I got "perspective." If I made a big deal about cleaning my room, she'd put pictures on my wall of the bombings in Kosovo or someplace else, or of parapalegics, or an article about a homeless family- people who would like to have a room to clean, or like to be able to clean a room (so maybe I should just shut the hell up). When I didn't want to do homework, or was otherwise acting bratty, out came the Jonathan Kozol books. Amazing Grace, Savage Inequalities, Death at a Young Age, etc. etc. We'd sit at the kitchen table, and she'd read aloud to me about kids my own age who had to do their school work in between taking care of a parent with AIDS. Who didn't have nice school books, and nice quiet, encouraging places to come home to. Who couldn't play in the local parks because they were filled with junkies and littered with needles. And they were so, so fucking sad that, well, sometimes, at that age, I admit it was torture to listen to them.

But I'm glad I did. I am ultimately more grateful for that than any of the things my parents were able to give me. More than any Christmas presents, I remember the fact that my parents spent half the Christmas money on us, and gave the other half to children in need. More than I loved the beautiful house on the lake in Plymouth that I grew up on until I was five and that my parents designed themselves, I love the fact that my parents let struggling families live there for practically nothing so their children could go to a good school in the area, and have a nice place to come home to. In short, my parents are amazingly cool people who practice what they preach.

I grew up being aware of my own privilege, of every privilege I had that other children did not, and understanding that it was wrong and must change. And that has made every difference in my life.

I got to talk to Mr. Kozol after his speech, and I told him about my mother who idolizes him and how she read his books to me when I was young so I'd understand, and I told him about Rochester and the ridiculous inequalities there concerning the suburban public schools vs. the city schools (which, at one point, either did or were going to have to go down to four days a week- this was around the time I was moving so I don't recall), how we campaigned for the county to become one school district to even things out, and blabbered on about other things that I don't even remember because I was so nervous.

But can I just say- I have never, ever, in my life met any sort of well known person who was that genuinely nice? I mean, he took down my phone number, and gave me his, and said that when I'm done with Columbia I should think about going to Cambridge and working for this organization he's getting started there. Which I just may do. I think I need to get back to that. I think retail is eating my soul.

I love Randy Newman... I don't care what you say.

Most of the time, when I unashamedly tell people that I love love love Mr. Randy Newman (and am totally *in* love with him. Because I'm totally hot for genius), they look at me like I just told them I was way into Michael Bolton, or Kenny G or something. I think those people are retarded. I mean, yeah, he does soundtracks. To Pixar movies. It's true. But um, dude also wrote "You Can Leave Your Hat On." And like 85,000 other songs.

This is actually my favorite song ever. Not just by him, by anyone. It's proof that I have tear ducts, because I totally sob everytime I hear it:




When I was like, 2 or 3 years old- before my sister was born and we had to keep up with her nap schedule- my mom and I would drive all around Plymouth in her silver Chevy Citation with the navy blue pleather seats that stuck to your ass in the summer. We'd get breakfast at "The Mug and Muffin," and afterwards I sometimes got to get a rootbeer flavored hard candy stick (which was a huge deal because I wasn't allowed to have sugar). We'd go to all the little shops, and the old mill that they turned into a sorta-mall, and to the playground, and to the shore where they kept that big ol' rock, which I promise you isn't that interesting to look at. I'd practice counting to one hundred and speaking in a cockney accent. And my mom always, always played music in the car- lots of Lou Reed, Tom Waits, Aretha Franklin, Cat Stevens and Randy Newman. The Randy Newman is what sticks out the most for me, maybe because before I knew that "Sail Away" was about slave traders, it sounded like a lullabye- especially to a girl who was partial to sleeping on sailboats. My mom didn't know any, really- she sang Motown songs to get me to sleep. And this:






Which I think is partially responsible for my world view. It's strange, there's something about listening to the music you listened to as a kid that reminds you who you are. It keeps me from being hardened and cold all the way through, which is something I sometimes am afraid will happen, and something I occasionally wish for. It's difficult when you equate being hurt with not having been smart enough- especially when the thing you're most afraid of is finding out that you're not as clever as you think you are, because being clever is the only thing you were ever good at, besides singing, but you don't do that so often anymore unless you're drunk or alone because it makes you feel like a circus freak...

Gah. Oh, and this is my other favorite song by Mr. Newman. I couldn't find his version of it on the YouTube, so I'll post Bonnie Raitt's...

Happy Thoughts?

I think terrible things all day long. I really do. Like this morning, I saw this woman wearing a t-shirt that said "I'M THE HOT FRIEND!" on it. I have seen her before, wearing a shirt which said "I'M BRINGING SEXY BACK!"

Neither of these things could have possibly been true. I promise. Unless like, her friends exclusively hang out with the John Merrick Look-Alike Chapter of Chicago. Or like, there is a new strain of sexy going around that is not at all like any sexy we have known before. And I wish I maybe thought something like, cheery and supportive, like "Good for her! I bet to someone, she totally is hot and sexy!" But like, even if the chick wearing the shirt was really hot, I would find the shirts unforgivable, and wrong in every way a shirt can manage to be. But like, when there is just such irony! How can you not notice? I can't handle braggy shirts. I'm generally unfond of clothing with anything on it to begin with, but when you start using your shirt as a forum to declare your hotness to the world (instead of like, wearing a cute shirt), you set yourself up for judgement.

That being said, I would totally like this lady's mirror. Five of them in fact. I'd like someone to follow me around with that mirror all day long.

One time I saw a woman wearing a shirt that said "Your boyfriend bought this shirt for me!" Which also, um, had to be a lie- for 99.9999999999999999999% of the population, at least. I bet it was awkward to buy that shirt- you know, if you were in fact buying it yourself. I mean, even if someone else's boyfriend was buying it for you, I bet you'd get some weird looks at the cash register. Awkward all around.

But yeah- see, I'm totally not a good person. Maybe that's why I have the worst time ever accepting compliments- or really, knowing what to say other than "thanks!" I'm really anti-flattery- I so much prefer constructive criticism. I know how to work with that, and maybe I feel like it's more honest. I'm really wary of people blowing smoke up my ass. It's even worse to be flattered when you have nothing to say back- like, you know, like if a really boring guy tell you you're interesting. I avoid that anyway, because I don't want to be anyone's foray into whimsicality as I so often have been (what was that movie with that guy from Scrubs? Yeah, I totally don't want that.). Seriously- the totally reg dudes dig me and tend to find me "fascinating." Which is awkward and makes me feel more like a sideshow exhibit than a person. Anyway... what do you say to that? "Gee, you're interesting too!" Even though it's a lie? My mom believes that everyone is interesting- and she has this amazing talent for drawing that out of people. I don't. I totally think most people are painfully boring.

I want to be like, one of those people that sees the good in everything, and doesn't judge others... but then I think I'd bore myself and what would be the good of that? Sigh. Well, if you don't have anything nice to say, my dears.... come sit by me.

A few figs from thistles...

First Fig
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light.

Second Fig
Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

EVM
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So I'm having a lovely and non-sensical chat with my mother about my hypothetical tattoo dilemma. I do not have any, and will probably not ever have any, because I'm freaking petrifed of needles and need to be distracted at the doctors office by puppets and promised ice cream in order for them to take my blood. Also, if I did in fact have a tattoo, I would drive myself insane trying to coordinate my outfits around it. Because I'm like that. However, I still like to postulate about what sort of tattoo I would get were I to get one which I won't. My mother sometimes worries that I am serious, and reminds me of my 8th grade plan to get a butterfly tattooed on my ankle (I know.) and also how cool I thought my naval ring was at age 15- and she tells me that it's just a bad idea anyway, because they always end up looking dirty somehow. I will add here, that when I was 17, she said I could get a tattoo, but only if it was a giant battleship across my chest.

My current idea is that I would get a tattoo of two figs- which, I explained to her, would be problematic because they'd probably look like balls... and that would take a bit of explaining, I would imagine. Oh, and possibly somehow the poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay would be woven in- but even though it's quite short, it would still be a lot of words. This was my problem with trying to figure out a Dorothy Parker related tattoo. And who feels like explaining who Edna St. Vincent Millay is every day of one's life? I imagine it would be exhausting, and difficult to do without sounding pretentious. Where would I even put these figs? Why am I pondering this?

So, anyway- I tell her I came up for the idea when I decided recently that were I ever to have a daughter, which I won't because I'm too selfish and squeamish about biological things- I would name her Vincent- which would be neat, because a) That's what EVM called herself, b) it's the last name of my dad's best friend, who I'm probably closer with than most of my relatives, c) I would be keeping a long standing family tradition alive of people being named Vinny, and d) I like boys names for girls. Oh, and her middle name would be Ray or Rae- after my grandfather and my favorite uncle (and my mum, I guess, since that's her middle name as well).

My mother agrees. "That's why I named you Robyn. I also like the name James for a girl."

"Ooh- that's a good one." I said, "Except it would remind me of the Elvis impersonator's son* and also of that one guy I dated who got all "Why aren't you being funny?? Waaah!" After I lost my keys and fell in a puddle."

"Maybe you should join a convent?"

"I know, right? Oh, I also like whatever Bette Davis and Olivia de Havilland's names were in that one movie they were in that wasn't 'Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte'"

"Oh, yeah, that movie! What are you even talking about, are you on drugs? You sound like you're on drugs" (Spoken by a woman who gives directions based on where things used to be. I digress.)

"No- give me a second. Um... you know, they're sisters and they both have men's names, and Bette Davis steals Olivia de Havilland's fiance and ruins everyone's lives? And Hattie McDaniel and Butterfly McQueen are in it too?"

"Oh... I think I know that one. I can't remember what it's called. Is it the one where she says "What a dump?"

"No, no- that was another one- the one with Joseph Cotten. Give me a second- it'll come to me."

"You go do that, hun, I have to do laundry"

"Ok- I'll talk to you soon. I own it, I know it's somewhere, I'll go check."

Ten seconds later, I call her back...

"It's In This Our Life, and their names were Stanley and Roy! I like that, I think Stanley is a neat sounding name for a girl."

"Oh, that's Obama's mother's name."

"Crazy! Who knew!"

"You knew!"

"Oh, you're right, I did."

"Maybe you should go drink some coffee?"

*Back when we lived in Massachusetts, we lived next door to a creepy Elvis impersonator. True story. The whole house was like a shrine to Elvis, except this one little section that was the wife's little shrine to Dolly Parton. The whole family was frightening. Maybe I'll tell you about them some other time.

Happy Birthday Mum!

Today is my mother's birthday, as you may or may not have guessed from the title of this blog entry!

She's quite a bit more awesome than anyone, ever. It's a fact.

Let me tell you a story. In highschool, when I was having some ridiculous 16 year old freak out over something stupid, she refused to let me address her as Mom, and insisted I call her Tupac. Which is brilliant, because it's awfully hard to take yourself so seriously when referring to your 50 year old mother as Tupac.

Thank god for that, really, because, with my disposition, I very well could have been someone who takes themselves waaaay too seriously.

She used to say she'd prefer that I smoked pot rather than drink because drinking was what the "straight people" did, and it was corporate, or something. She discouraged me from harder drugs by pointing out all the people she knew who had become Jesus freaks after getting off of them ("Scratch a Jesus Freak, find a junkie!," she always says)

She didn't raise me with any fucked up notions about what it means to be a woman. Which is the single greatest thing anyone can do for their daughter. I'm damned lucky to have been raised by a feminist. Even if most of the time she's so 2nd wave about it ;). I am so fucking glad that it doesn't even occur to me to sit there and be demure and let the boys talk. Back in my organizing days, even among radicals (fuck, especially among radicals- see, because they usually consider themselves "exempt" from sexism, which makes them 80,000 times worse)- I was usually the only woman talking at meetings. And no matter how hard it was to get a word in edgewise, I did it. And it just has never occurred to me that what I have to say is any less important because I have lady parts. I have my mother to thank for that.

In my life, I have never met anyone as funny or as smart as my mother. And I'm not just saying this because I love her and she's my mom. The woman is freakin' brilliant. She can solve the Sunday crossword in pen in an episode of Law and Order, and thinks nothing of it.

Because of my mother, I don't just throw my opinions out there without being able to back them up. I learned how to know my shit.

People love my mother, because she makes them feel important and interesting. She actually finds everyone interesting- I wish I did, maybe it will come with age, I don't know. Like, this one time when she was at the Barcelona Olympics, I think, she met this Mormon kid (and, by the way, my mother is quite the athiest), who ended up writing to her the whole time while he was on his mission. I'm serious, people just absolutely love her.

I am trying so hard to not let my anger get the best of me. I am trying to not, as she says I have a tendency to do, make sweeping generalizations, and theorize everything.

The best thing about my mother is that she always makes me want to be a better person.

:)