Rich Kids

I am in love with your bathroom. 

(Giggle) Yes, I know I'm weird, but I've never had a friend who had her own bathroom, and yours has two lipstick red sinks. That Crayola Crayon shower curtain is about the neatest thing I've ever seen. Makes me want to jump in and take a shower right now.  No, no...psych! Don't get your shampoo out. Psych...you know, it means like, fooling! Wait, you have Nexxus shampoo? 

Oh shit! You spilled the Covergirl! Ugh! Mop it up, quick! Wait, not with the white washcloth. You're totally going to get killed over this. Oh, the cleaning lady will get it out? Well, ok. I hadn't considered the cleaning lady. What's her name? Well, maybe you should ask her sometime. She is cleaning up your messy bathroom counter, and probably your grody toilet, too, right? I hope she has some bleach, this makeup is the long wearing kind and it's staining big time. Naw, her English doesn't have to be perfect for you to at least know her name. Well, I'd be cranky too if I had to pick up all these Izod shirts and designer jeans and fold them for you. I mean I can, like, barely walk in here. 

Wait, I don't know if we should be in your parents' room. I don't really go in my parents' room at home. Yeah, her dressing table is so pretty. Chanel No. 5? Totally. I've seen it on TV but never smelled it up close. Oh. My. Gawd. That is something I'd definitely wear to a dance or somewhere fancy...like a date with Richie Rich, ha ha!  Hey, stop spraying it on me! It doesn't go with my Asia Heat of the Moment t-shirt. Oh, you like it? Aww, thanks, I do too. You've never had a concert t-shirt of your own? Well, we can fix that. Let's go to Fashions of India at the mall on Saturday and look through the racks for a band you might like. Marillion? Umm, maybe not that one. Don't you like Duran Duran or Van Halen?

Sure, I'd love to go downstairs and have a snack and watch Valley Girl on your Videodisc player. What's a Videodisc player? 

Hi Rich Kid's Mom. Yes, you're correct. I do smell like I'm bathing in Chanel No. 5. Rich Kid said it was ok to spray it. Well, yes, I do love it. Oh, no, no, no...that's all right. I don't need to bring a bottle home with me. What do you mean you have a year's worth in the back of the linen closet? Oh, well that is super nice of Rich Kid's Dad. Yes, perfume is a thoughtful gift, perfect for every occasion.

Caviar on water crackers? You're kidding, right? Usually we eat Cheez Balls or Snack Pack vanilla pudding at my house when we want a little something. No, I can't say I've ever been to a dinner party but I would love to. I'm, like, way too sophisticated for Cheez Balls, especially since I smell so radical. No, radical is good. Absolutely, I'll try your caviar and let you know what I think. 

Valley Girl, mm hmmmmmm. There's no such thing as seeing it too many times. I shouldn't be talking with my mouth full, but this snack is like, totally bitchen. No, Rich Kid's Mom, I'm not swearing. You have to listen to the girls in this movie to get what I'm saying. 

Julie's red Vuarnet sunglasses? Yes, they are major. I'm saving up for a pair. Maybe by the end of the summer I'll have enough money from babysitting. Oh, you have a couple pairs from your trip to France last year? What colors? Mmm, black and brown are nice. And having a leather case for them is totally necessary, I agree. You already scratched the lenses of the black ones? No doy, leaving them face down on your dresser will do that. You think the cleaning lady made them worse? That's heinous. Why would she do that?

Where are you going, Rich Kid's Mom? Rossignol gets shampooed somewhere other than your bathtub? Oh I hadn't thought about his toenails scratching the glaze. Does my tub at home have glaze? I've honestly never noticed. Well, yes, a standing appointment does seem kind of cool. Sure, after I get done eating this delicious caviar cracker, I'd love to ride along so you don't have to lift him into the Mercedes by yourself. Come on, Rich Kid, pause the movie. 

Oh my God, this is a beautiful car, even if it smells like wet Golden Retriever. Are these leather seats? Yes, I love that Rich Kid's Dad bought it so you'd have something to drive Rossignol around in. Now, that is both gnarly and practical. Of course I said gnarly. Gnarly is a good thing. Rich Kid usually gets picked up out front of school in a Jaguar XJ12. I know; I know a lot about cars for a kid my age. My Dad sells them and I am kind of obsessed. An Aston Martin? Well, yes, I think they're the bomb. The bomb. Yes, that is a good thing. Where is it? Oh, I see. The Lake House sounds like a legit place for an Aston Martin. Sure, that would be fun; Saturday sounds awesome but first can we go shopping for a concert t-shirt for Rich Kid? 

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Goodbye #2

Please don't break up with me.

I won't know how to breathe, or what door to wait at to get into school, or how to walk past your locker.

Who will cover your books for you? You were never good at that brown paper bag thing. 

I have a real silver spoon out of your kitchen drawer from when you brought me a wrapped piece of your grandma's special dessert last Christmas. I also have your Walkman, your gray Nike sweatshirt, and your dyed electric blue rabbit's foot with your Stepdad's shed door key on it; and you still have my bike which, you might have forgotten, is in that shed for safekeeping. Bringing it back here will surely mean it'll be stolen in a week, just like my last two ten speeds. 

Do you really want that on your conscience?

Maybe your new girlfriend won't mind if I decide to stop by and grab my bike before school and then bring it back to the shed after school and maybe she won't even notice if I pick it up every weekend, now, too. 

You're right, I haven't ridden it all that much lately but my guts tell me that as of tomorrow, I'm going to be riding that bike 

All

The

Time. 

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Goodbye #1

Please don't go.

I promise I will stop flinching when you comb my hair. 

I will walk the dog.

I will stop snickering when you come down the stairs with those greenish clay face masks on that make your skin so smooth. 

I will put the wine bottles in the bottom of the trash.

I will offer the older pretzels to my friends instead of the unopened Oreos. 

I will finish my homework on Saturday morning instead of Sunday night. 

I will answer the phone with our family's last name and the word residence, so that we sound important. 

I will move the laundry from the washer to the dryer when you are tired. 

I will rinse my bathing suit of its chlorine and hang it in the bathroom. 

I will stop complaining when I have to dress up for Thanksgiving. 

I will stop shoving all five pieces of gum from the pack into my mouth.

When we shop for my winter coat, we'll buy the one you like on me instead of the one I like on me. 

Please don't leave. 

I promise I won't leave my sneakers for people to trip over in the middle of the living room. 

I won't bring home any grades lower than A minuses.

I won't take your perfume to school and spray all the girls after gym class. 

I won't bring home anymore goldfish in baggies from school fairs. 

I won't stay over at my friends' houses every weekend when you need help cooking dinner and vacuuming.

I won't roller skate on the lawn.

I won't crawl out my window onto the roof. 

I won't spend my birthday money on smelly stickers for my sticker book.

I won't toss all our wheat-flavored crackers out to the birds.

I won't draw mustaches and ink out the front teeth of the actresses on the covers of your magazines. 

I won't argue about bedtime on a school night. 

Your secrets are safe with me. Who would I tell? 

Promise you'll wait.

...

Goodbye. 

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A Stone's Throw

I'm not sure

I ever rightly thanked you

for the times you woke me up and made me feel like the prettiest girl in the movie

worthy of attention via streetlight 

on a weeknight.

And even though my mom said it was too late

and my dad said both my window and I were too fragile

I adored your pebble tossing shenanigans. 

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A simple kind of hair.

I love looking at old photos before, say, 1983, when hair products consisted of a few gender specific items sold at the drugstore. Everyone's hair was different; whatever each of us was lucky (or unlucky) enough to have been born with. 

Our 1970s supermarket had Suave and Head and Shoulders, sure, but there was no mousse and Dippity Do hair gel was used, at least in my age group, only by ballerinas at recital time and the local "Coquines", synchronized swim team which performed underwater dance. 

When I began reading beauty magazines like Seventeen, something new called hair mousse arrived on the scene. The very first ad I saw for mousse was by L'Oreal. Their brand-new product called "Free Style" was touted as being very 'French' and only for the most discerning of ladies.

Immediately intrigued, I thought, well, I study French in school and although I'm not what you'd call discerning, I definitely have a ton of hair, and it tends toward extreme frizz. I had been brushing it incessantly with my cream and salmon colored Denman brush which was supposed to calm it down but produced exactly the opposite effect. As soon as I could, I rushed out to CVS to purchase L'Oreal mousse with my babysitting money.

Now, I can distinctly remember it was a little over 2 dollars a can. In today's babysitting dollars I'm guessing that would be equal to 20 or 30 bucks, but even if it had cost more, I would have figured out a way to buy it. To get a backup can, I even asked for it for my birthday. It became the white whale of beauty products for a young girl like me. 

I bought one and brought it home in my white CVS paper bag along with some Clearasil and one of my favorite Paper Mate erasable pens. Giddy with anticipation, I marched straight to the bathroom, washed my hair by leaning over our claw foot tub and moussed it according to the directions while my chest recovered from being smushed upside down for 10 minutes against the cast iron. After blow drying it with our white plastic Conair dryer, it appeared nice and shiny but was still puffier than I liked, so I got the swell idea of putting my Dad's fedora hat on for about an hour after I dried it, flattening it out. Having the mousse in it smoothed the cuticle under the hat and that made me super happy. The mousse-then-hat stunt became a routine which caused my late arrival for a lot of events that year, and when Dad wanted to wear the hat, there was a tug of war as to who really needed the chapeau-come-salon secret that night.

Walking the aisle of hair products in our grocery store today can be overwhelming and there is a large section of TJ Maxx simply for hair serums and sprays which far surpass the average mousse both in claims, and in price. And actually, mousse is sort of difficult to come by nowadays. I heard the term "product graveyard" yesterday, cannily descriptive of the undersink in many people's bathrooms; full of tress tamers we've bought and never use.

Less product agrees with my hair as time goes on, something I discovered mostly because I grew tired of dithering around with it for the last 40 years and also because my hair is increasingly porous and anything I put in it either turns it to straw or juices it up into a gluey mess. And wouldn't you know, oddly, I have grown the softest baby hair again. It's gone back to the hair I had in elementary school. I pull a sweater over my head and hundreds of filaments stick to my face in staticy unison. It flies around like scattered leaves when the wind blows; most times, straight into my lip balm. It creates Naval quality sailor knots in my sleep which require some patient and tricky undoing in the morning so that I don't have to hack them out with scissors. It smells like my leave in conditioner and serum, which is, unless I'm going somewhere super humid or super fancy, are the only things I put in it.

Simplifying my hair products has brought me a sort of back to the good old days satisfaction. Using less feels right.

On deck, body products. 

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Crazy

Don't call me crazy.

I've studied crazy as it gimped through Grand Central Station wearing one broken heel and one flip flop in the dead of winter, pulling all its belongings behind it on a sheet of indeterminable color, gesturing wildly and spinning a tale only it could comprehend. 

Don't call me crazy.

I've looked crazy in the eye on a Paris subway platform as it held itself on full display, slinging masturbatory glee while screaming about what it wanted, needed, me to do to it, raining smut and spittle down on the tracks in a Romance language better served for poets and docents. 

Don't call me crazy.

I've sat with crazy on park benches, nodding at tales about how the world is ending, how Satan walks among us, how the pirate life is the noblest profession and how it was the most heralded rap superstar before Tupac and Biggie conspired to steal all its art. 

I offer up petty cash to crazy. I extend crazy some compassion. I feed crazy when it needs dinner. I sacrifice my time for crazy because crazy was a child once, too. But some days I give crazy a wide fucking berth depending on how many hairs stand up on the back of my neck when crazy runs me down, recalling my face and my typical cheerful consolation. 

I'm not naive. Crazy can be horrifying. 

I've helplessly watched crazy pummel someone's face at a level of depravity not seen up close before or since.

I've stayed laser focused on crazy as it slunk around a campus dive bar gauging the reachability of the drinks ordered by girls with the thinnest wrists and wobbliest limbs.

I've primitively danced with crazy at an outdoor festival before it changed into a hobbit, tore into my unsuspecting shoulder with its teeth, and shambled off into the crowd, shrieking with glee.

I've been in touch with and around crazy all my life. 

It is not me. 

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A Mortal Tonic

Life is a drink.

It is effervescent spring water, full of anticipated deliciousness.

The drink sits until I am ready for it. 

Raising it to my lips I see it has taken on a milky cast, the murky creep of a fog; the chalky eye of a shark. Pebbled remnants of medicine, dropped in my plain water, struggle to swirl about but are weighted in place by the sludge of too much. 

Too much remedy and not enough river. 

This curative reeks of salt and of the storage cabinet where it was kept too long, decades past expiry.

Unused and stagnant in this state, it has become deadly. 

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