A Stranger in My Own Land

Pants and I made a concerted effort to raise our son, Yack to be bilingual. When he was a mere fito. By the way, to my monolingual readers, fito means embroyo – a word I learned yesterday at the El Festival del Dia De Las Madres, but more on this later.

Pants wasn’t 100 percent sure on my whole bilingual idea but since he was hell bent on raising our child Catholic, he went along with it. Note: I didn't have any objection either, but I am the lazy version of Catholic – Episcopalean – did I spell that right? And after reading the cliff notes on Catholicism, I figure it was good to teach your kid to be kind to others, pray to God who is going to watch over you, and don’t judge. I wasn’t sure I had the requisite mom tools to do that all myself. I welcomed the church’s assistance.

Pants went along with my line in the sand because I was so accommodating to his. When mi fito was about eight months gestation, we began looking for a nanny who spoke Spanish. Our search didn’t take long because once we found Nena, the jig was up. We fell in love with her and her entire family. In fact, Nena is Yack’s God Mother. Papa Nena is Yack’s God Father. We are one big happy extended family.

Nena comforts me by speaking English because it’s glaringly obvious that her English is way better than my four years of high school Spanish. And so,through this little exchange, Yack seems to have mastered both languages, and Nena seems to be improving in English. I too just keep getting better at English. Hmph.

Part of the deal (in my own head) was that Nena would be mean and make me speak Spanish. We even tried this a couple of times. She would just start rapid firing her native tongue at me, but stopped after awhile when I just nodded and smiled. My head hurt, but she sounded so nice.

But as time progressed and our families became closer, there was many an opportunity for me to be hoisted into a whirlwind vernacular of unknown sounds and accents.

First, Tita and Tito. Nena’s parents. They do not speak English and when they visit from Mexico, it’s sink or swim time for me, which usually means I am two inches under water breathing through a straw. (Nena does very little translating unless I ask, and I don't ask.)

Do I feel self conscious, anxious, and well, dumb? That would be a yes. I can’t express how many times I have started a conversation with, “como se dice” – how do you say…

But it’s not just the language barrier that makes me feel that way. It’s also the culture. Sure, I feel very privileged to be a part of it. And I haven’t an ounce of regret for having our son grow up as a member of the Mexican community, but it sure can be intimidating. For instance, raise your hand if you are not Mexican and you know what a posada is..

Didn’t think so. This is a tradition that occurs during Christmas time. It’s a ritual reenactment of Mary and Joseph’s search for lodging in Bethlehem. She is pregnant. They keep getting turned down. For twelve evenings, prior to Christmas, there are parties at a different house. This includes knocking on a lot of doors, singing Spanish songs, drinking hot chocolate and banging the crap out of piñatas. And I offered to host one of the nights. How difficult could it be? I don’t know, how difficult is it to have twenty people in your house who don’t speak your language and are asking you where the bathroom is?

Cut through the anxiety, and there was me loving it, and sad that we didn’t do something like this around our neighborhood. I don’t even know the name of the guy on the corner. He has a nice dog, though.

Or, how about just yesterday’s Festival Del Dia De Las Madres? I went with Yack, Nena, Papa Nena, their boys and Tita and Tito. It was at their church which is also where Yack and Nena’s hijo go to school. Yack is the only non-Mexican kid (by skin color alone), and it doesn’t phase him at all. I am jealous of this.

The first half of Yack's class is in English and the second half is in Spanish. He exudes confidence during both times. In fact, one day I was helping in class during Diversity Week. La maestra was teaching the children about being different but celebrating and respecting those differences. “Class, who among you looks different?” Many brown arms darted towards the sky. And in unison without being called upon, they all said, "Yack!". When I looked at my son, he was beaming with pride. He scanned the room, relishing in all eyes on him and pointed to himself, “Me!” He smiled. He liked being different.

As we were standing in line to get into the gymnasium for the Festival Del Dia De Las Madres, I said to Tita which probably sounded like a preschooler in Mexico, that Yack is going to miss her when they leave and I asked her when her flight leaves. “Dos y media en la manana.” I got that no problem, but then she began to talk to me about the airplane, and I think sleeping was mentioned. And something about airplanes again.

We strolled into the Festival where I was pinned with a ribbon to indicate I was a madre. Yack was behind me but bolted when he saw his Mexican classmates from preschool. “Mira, Mami, es Diego..”

“Adios Yack..”

As I looked around the room, I noticed that I was Yack in the preschool classroom that day. I was the only white person there, and clearly the only one who didn’t speak Spanish. I was the different one.

Why was it that my son could handle diversity with ease and even thrive on it, but I was feeling that I didn’t belong there, that I was somehow intruding in on a piece of culture that wasn’t my own? Funny, everyone there was overwhelmingly kind and made me feel welcome with hand gestures and smiles. But the way I was feeling is probably how Nena feels when she is shopping, eating at restaurants, pumping gas, going to museums, parks, the ice cream store, getting clothes for the kids, going to the DMV.

Nena is an angel. She translated for me and handled the seating arrangement. She spoke in quick expressive tones to the hostess and introduced me to the Father. I decided that being there was good for me, and began to soak in the culture – the smell of beans, rice and corn tortillas wafting in the back, the mariachi music echoing on the gymnasium’s ceiling. The video of the fitos...

I sat in between Tita and Tito and began watching the video. It appeared to be a video of a fertilized egg, and then the fetus and then the embryo. I didn't contemplate the political undertones, merely took in the beauty of a little frog turning into a baby, then suddenly Tito hit me on the shoulder, pointed and said, Fito.

Tita laughed and nudged me with her elbow. I wanted to tell them both that I love them, that I think of them as family, that Yack says a prayer for them every night. I wanted to tell them that I think they are the warmest people I have ever met, and that their hearts are as big as two redwood trees, and that their culture makes me envious. I wanted to tell them that they are considered grandparents not only to Yack, but to us as well, because everyone loves grandparents. Not everyone loves parents. And I wanted to tell them that I will put them in my pocket and take them with me wherever I go, and that I feel safe with them. Saying all of this would have required a LOT of "como se dices?"

Instead, I just put my hand on Tita’s back and gave her a little rub. She kissed me on the cheek.

Maybe she knew what I was thinking. Maybe they both did.

Goal Accomplished. Grace Failed.

Yeah, it’s been awhile. Don’t bust my chops. I have been rehearsing for my theatrical debut. (More on this later.) For now, I thought it appropriate to comment on my March 31st goal of accomplishing ten pull ups. If it is dire for you to know why I decided on ten specifically, I will have you know that the actual amount didn’t come from me, but that sadistic she devil herself, Shira and that wretched gym she owns, Hell Incarnate. Originally, I set out to do four pull ups by the end of 2010 and after several torture sessions that included medicine ball hurdles, bear crawls (don’t ask), and umpteen burpees –(Lucifer’s way of inflicting pain on the innocent) I barely managed to hump my chin up to the bar four times. But that didn't seem good enough for Shira. She wanted 10 out of me.. by March.

So, March came and went and don’t think I took this little “bring-her-back-so-she’ll-continue-to-pay-her-member-dues” gym challenge. I managed to max out on eight pull ups by my allotted due date. Oh well, game over. Thanks for playing.

Then April 6th rolled around and Shira asked if I had accomplished my goal. (She was out gallivanting at power lifting “conferences” in places like Ohio and Utah for the better part of March and wasn't around to keep an eye on my progress.) I whispered that I accomplished my ten and let’s leave it at that.

She knew I was lying.

I am not very good at lying. My eyebrows elevate, clown like and I have a stupid drunk look on my face.

I swear, Shira. I did ten. Let’s move on.

Well then, Brown, let’s see them because I don’t believe you.

With head bowed, facing my ultimate failure in front of one of few women I do not want to disappoint, I headed for the pull up bar. Might as well get this crap over with so the requisite ridicule can ensue.

I got to eight, then nine – it should be noted that by this time, I resembled a maimed squirrel who has been hit by a car. Tail thrashing about, my little frail arms close to snapping, head bobbing on top of an almost non functional neck. By number nine, I had stirred up quite an audience in the gym, thanks to Shira. The cheers, “Go Brownie. Don’t Give Up. Pump Those Bi’s” (Insert obligatory sexual orientation joke here).

I won’t lie. Those words of encouragement from other victims of gym hell sure pushed me into thinking that I could lug one more pull up out of my being. And even though I felt like a beached goldfish, I yanked my way to victory. I dropped in exhaustion as Shira uneventfully proclaimed, “Hmph, I guess I will give that to you.” Apparently, you have to keep a modicum of immobility when you are being judged on proper pull up etiquette.

Whatever, Shira. I’m done. See you next week.

Shira wasn’t done. She loaded up a barbell with what looked to be an excruciating amount of weight and told me to dead lift. “Not only are we going to max out on your pull ups, we are going to max out on your dead lift too.”

To hell we are. Oh wait, where was I?

With Shira’s coaxing, and my peeing in my pants a little, I managed to max out on dead lifts that day too. I did a sumo style dead lift – legs spread, toes pointing east and west, hips forward. This was more appropriate than the regular toes forward, feet shoulder length apart due to my physical limitations (the club foot doesn’t allow me to have my right heal firmly planted on the ground). Sumo might be easier, but Shira didn’t let on that it was. She just said that after 200 lbs it was my max, but we shall return to this spot for more weight when I recover.

Um, no thank you. I don't plan to recover from THAT.

Perhaps I will avoid her for awhile. Perhaps I will go to the gym – because I have a Midtown S&C addiction, and just not make eye contact with her.

That might be hard since I have a private lesson with that She Devil on Friday.

The Ego is Bigger Than the Stomach

Failure typically isn’t in my vocabulary. Even when I "fail" by definition, I explain it away by external factors. I have a heightened (read: bloated) sense of self which leads to a not-so-very healthy cognitive awareness that there is nothing I can’t do if I set my mind to it. Dare me to do something, the likelihood of me doing it is pretty high. The more dangerous and stupid, the better. You don’t have to give me much in return, just a commitment that you will call me Daredevil for a week in public settings, preferably with a lot of people around. Want to challenge me to a game? Name it, anything. Chances are I probably think I will beat you.

Call it competitive edge mixed with an inflated ego. Call it psychopathic. Call it a big mouth. Truth of the matter is, the only A game I bring is this gaping hole found below my nose.

In fact, that’s how someone described me recently when I challenged the wrong man to a ping pong match. That’s right, call this one poking the uncaged bear in the eye. But I happened to talk a truck load of heaping crap to someone who happened to be on some dirtbag collegiate ping pong team (yes, they do exist.) to a duel of sorts. He did some digging on my "game" before we played and someone who I had played (and perhaps schooled, although I don't quite remember) had said just that, "the only game Brown has is her mouth."

I won’t bore you with the details other than to iterate that considering my stellar ping pong abilities, I had talked myself into believing that I was able to squash this four eyed pip squeak in what appeared to be an open and shut game of best” two out of three” table tennis. Oh, how wrong I was as the end result of said combat had me crawling to a corner licking my wounds, feeling the sting of my loss. One could argue that I put up a good fight. The young college graduate didn’t beat me by a lot. In fact, I think I made him sweat. But what’s fair is fair and I lost, and that turd won. And here’s the most narcissistic part – I am already practicing so I can challenge him to a rematch. Because deep down, I truly think that I could beat him.

Where does this mindset come from?

The other night, Pants and I were at the Kings game (boo Kings for thinking of leaving us and joining that pathetic concrete jungle known as Anaheim.. No offense, of course). We happened to be watching the players warm up and Pants had mentioned how cut one of the Kings teammates arms were. This player was at the free throw line, bouncing the ball methodically, feet shuffling, getting ready to shoot. Don’t ask me who it was for I cannot name one Kings player without the help of Google. And if that doesn’t make me a fan, so be it. Move to Anaheim if you must because I could give a crap.

Anyway, I happened to mention to Pants during this guy’s warm up that if I took off my shirt at that moment (yes, right in the middle of section 107 on the lower deck), that my arms would look like his.

“Check it, brah.”

I flex my pulsating biceps.

Pants ignores me.

Not just 15 minutes later, it’s half time and the Kings dancers take over the court to perform a catchy little number by Lady Gaga in Vegas style shimmery little mini dresses. They are fist pumping, gyrating, knocking knees and doing some serious modern mix-spinning on the dance floor.

I turn to Pants and say, “I could probably knock that dance out right here.”

This time he doesn’t ignore me. He says the following, “really, Brown, you think you can do that dance?”

I nod and then add that I could probably work the outfit too, without incident.

He is visibly disgusted by me.

Whatever, dude, it’s true.

Later that evening, Pants was telling a friend of ours that he thinks my workouts are making me more bravado, more of an egomaniac. Then the following debate ensues as I stay silent and listen as the hypothoses of my behavior unfolds:

“Perhaps she’s producing more testosterone through her crazy workouts at that goofy muscle gym.”

“I have definitely seen a heightened sense of self. I can’t give her a hug without feeling her flex.”

“It’s like she thinks she can walk on water after she gets back from the gym. She’s never wrong and thinks she’s good at everything.”

The conclusion was this: that I needed to quit the gym immediately and begin to do more “female” activities like sewing, saying please and thank you, and volunteering at soup kitchens.

And then it donned on all of us. This didn’t start with my joining the gym. This was imbedded into my preadolescent being. Pants recalled the workbook I filled out as a 7 year old where my overinflated self was actually documented. (See photo of actual referenced book above).

A calm washed over me having remembered that book. It’s in my bones. I was born with it. I couldn’t help myself. It's all my parents fault, and not mine...

Thank God I don’t have to quit the gym.

Now who’s up for a butt whoopin’ in arm wrestling?

Update on the Freak of Nature

After I had posted my last rant on the crazed loon that is my mother, I received the following emails. I am not exaggerating. These are simple cut and paste emails in response to my closing comment on the unrest in Mexico:

Dated Wednesday 2/2 7:37 p.m.:
Dear Ungrateful Daughter:
Here is a report from the US State Deparment regarding Mexico. Violence is typically along the US-Mexican border. At this time, I think it's safe to travel to Puerto Vallarta. I will stay on top of it. I know if there are State Department warnings, we can get our money back.

We need to be watchful and careful while we're there. But, if we do it right, we'll be ok. I wouldn't walk around at night or take public transit. At least, that's what I'm hearing. http://www.travel.state.gov/travel/cis_pa_tw/tw/tw_4755.html

Dated Wedensday 2/2 7:41 p.m.
Dear Ungrateful Daughter Follow up:
Here are the unrest places in Mexico: http://mexico.usembassy.gov/eng/eacs_MexicoSecurityUpdate.html

Dated Wednesday 2/2 8;04 p.m.
US Consulate
I will enroll us in the US Embassy consullate office in Puerta Vallarta. Oh yeah, I am on it!

Dated Wednesday 2/2 8:37 p.m.
I have signed up with the State Department for any travel warnings. I will monitor our trip throughout the summer. Be quiet, Amy.

Dear Freaky Mother,
Did you hear about the megavolcano that will likely hit in or around Yellowstone within the next couple of years, that will make the sky dark with smoke for over two years? We will likely have to move to South America somewhere. So, your Spanish class will serve us well.

The Freak Comes Out at Night (and morning and midday, and sometimes on weekends)

My dear sweet mother is a bit of a high energy, high maintenance freak. Oh, I know what you’re thinking – it’s not nice to call your own mother a freak. Well, she is and she is well aware of her freakish nature. There are several examples that prove her freakiness, I will simply offer up one now. And I put serious money on the fact that after reading this simple snapshot in time, you too will be whispering at your computer screen, “Oh my, total freak.”

Pants and I have planned a trip to Mexico. I won’t give exact dates here just in case one of you blog followers plan to use it against us and burglarize our house. It really doesn’t matter anyhow. You can take that fussy TV in the living room, and I don’t care too much for my pearl set, even though it was a gift from Pants. No harm no foul. We have insurance and I need the cash.

September. That's all you need to know. That's when we are going and that’s 10 months away. We have already reserved the house. The rest of the arrangements we must make can wait. Right? Pants, Yack and I already have passports from previous travel. How much prep time do we have with finding good airline tickets and transportation to and from the house? An infinite amount of time, in my mind.

That's not how my mother sees it. We're behind the curve ball, by her estimation.

I don’t rightly know how to narrate what has transpired over the last week, I guess the best way is to just copy and paste the email exchanges below, and do my best to paraphrase our conversations on the phone.

January 18h, 7:45 a.m. my phone rings. It's my mother.

Mom: "Hi Honey, I figure you’re driving to work. Do you have a minute?"

Me: "Yes, unless this has to do with our trip to Mexico... in September."

Mom: "Don’t be an idiot. Of course it is. Now, I have talked to your brother and he hasn’t decided to fly with us. Have you decided to fly with us out of Oakland? Because if so, we can help with Yack on the plane. I know he will get antsy and having his grandparents there could be helpful. I am only offering. No obligation. But I have a great travel agent who is looking up tickets for us now. Would you like her to look up tickets for you too? So, we can all fly out together?"

Me: "Sure. Bye."

Mom: "Okay, I am on it and I will let you know if I hear from your brother."

We hang up.

I get to work at 8:20. The following email is already in my inbox:

From: Mom
To: BrownNose
Sent: Tuesday, January 18th

Get your passports in order. I'm on a roll.
I'll keep you posted. You can decide if the airfares I get are ones you approve. Or, you can decide to reserve your own. I'll keep forwarding info to you. See emails below...
Love you,
Mom

----- Forwarded Message -----
From: travel agent
To: Mom
Sent: Tuesday, January 18th
Subject: Re: air travel

HI Cathie... This sounds fun. I will check prices and get back to you by Thursday at the latest.
Thanks for letting me help with this.


From: Mom
To: Travel agent
Sent Tuesday January 18th

Travel Agent,
I don't know if it makes any difference, but Tom and I are seniors.

----- Forwarded Message -----
From: Mom
To: Travel agent
Sent: Tuesday, January 18th Subject: air travel
Hi Travel Agent,
For Christmas, our daughter, Amy, and her husband reserved a house in Mexico for a family get-away.
I'm excited about it. I told Amy that I'd look into airfare for the family. We would all be leaving from Oakland or SF, whichever works out and arriving in Mexico.
Airfare would be for Amy's family (2 adults and a 3 year old), Jim's family (2 adults and 2 toddlers over 2 years old) and Tom and me. That's airline reservations for 9. I'm hoping to find a decent fare if I start looking now. What do you think? I'm happy to come in and chat with you. I assume, since there are little kids flying, we would want insurance.

Thanks. I look forward to working with you on this.
Mom

So, perhaps my mother is a little overzealous when it comes to making plans. I get it. She’s excited. Whatever, let’s move on.

Phone rings on January 19th
Mom: "Hi Honey, did you get my email about the travel to Mexico?"

Me: "Yes I did. Sounds great if we all fly out together. I am super busy at work. Let me talk to Pants and get back to you."

Mom: "Okay, but for the record, I am not a freak for working on this so soon. I know what you’re thinking."

This email came in a few days later that was sent to the entire family:

Mom: "Below is the email from my travel agent. She wants to book them now (see below), but she needs the following in on each person. She believes this is the cheapest we can get. I know that if we buy insurance, which I strongly recommend, one child of each family might be able to fly free. She's checking into that.

What's cool is that the flight is non-stop, which is great for the kids.
Let me know if you want me to move ahead. Also, make sure I have the date of birth and names as they are on the passports for each person.
Thanks,
Mom"

Same afternoon phone call:

Mom: "Hi Honey, did you get my email?"

Me: "Which one? The one about our Mexico trip 10 months from now?"

Mom: "Cut it out. I am just trying to be helpful."

Me: "Yes, go ahead and set up our flights. I will email you our information. Does it have to be done like, soon?"

Mom: "Of course, we are getting the best possible rates."

The next day I receive the following email from my mother:

“By the way, you are welcome to work directly with the travel agent. Her information is below. Or, you can use your own travel agent. It's no problem.”

I read too much into this email and interpreted it as a passive aggressive approach to my not being immediately pouncing on this once in a lifetime air travel opportunity.

I call her:

Me: "Hello there, Mother. We will work through you to work with the Travel Agent. Sounds great. I will email you all of our passport information."

Mom: "Well, I just didn’t want to put any pressure on you. I just want to get the best possible rates for all of us."

Me: "Okay, see you next weekend. (for a family visit)

Then I received this email the following day:

“OK, then please supply me with the information that the travel agent needs and I quote, " I also will need everyone's first, middle and last name as is on the passport, and their birthdates to make a reservation"

A reply-all from my brother:

“I haven't even thought about this. This sounds awesome, but let me digest it a bit. I know now is the time to jump on it, I just haven't had a spare moment to really process this.”

Why not, Jim? Why haven’t you thought about it? Time is a ticking. We only have 10 MONTHS TO DECIDE. You are so lagging on your duties as a participant on this trip!

Instant reply all response from my mother:

“I'm glad you called tonight so that I can explain the "quickness" of this reservation. Of course, for us old folks, it's about price and nonstop status. Tom and I have made reservations already. We even have our seat assignments. So, that's how compulsive I am. I know how busy you are, so whatever you decide, I understand. I love all of you.”
Mom

The next day, we all received this email from my mother:

"Pants,
Please confirm the spelling of your name, and I'll send this to Debby in the morning. Tom and I have already paid for and received our tickets! I will ask Debbie for insurance also, so that you can get your tickets refunded if there is a medical emergency. We paid $68 on two tickets, so yours should be a little more than that.”

I then received the following phone call:

Mom: "So when you come down this weekend, bring a check and your passports. Our travel agent will need copies of them. You can either mail it in or we can drop it by on Saturday. Or if you want to leave it with me, I can take it as well."

Me: "Alright, mom, just email me what you want me to do. Are we really talking about our trip in September? Reminder, it’s 10 FRIGGING MONTHS AWAY."

Mom: "Don’t be an idiot. You’ll thank me for this someday."

Me: "Yeah, 10 months from now, but don’t expect a thank you until then. I am already tired of planning for this trip."

Mom: "Well that’s funny, because I seem to be doing all of the work here."

The next day, I received the following email from my mother:

“If you want to can send your check in the amount of $____ (made out to travel agent). She is issuing tickets today.”

Followed by this email:

“I will print this for you.” (Attached was our travel insurance information)

Do I have to remind my readers that this trip is 10 months away? Okay, just so we are clear.

I then received this email the next day:

“Thanks” (this was a forwarded email by her travel agent to her indicating that she received my passport information).

This past weekend, I brought the passports so my mother could scan them and give copies to the travel agent. I also brought a check, of which she promptly made a copy and put into an already paper stuffed folder labeled, “Brown’s Mexico trip”. There she had our insurance information, medical documents, copies of our passports.

I asked if we really needed to bring the passports yet, that the travel agent probably wants to have copies of them while we are traveling, just in case.

Her response: “Well of course, but if we don’t do it now, when are we going to do it?”

She was right. I plan not to see her again until our trip (I will go insane if I do) so coordinating could prove to be difficult.

As I was leaving after a stressful weekend of planning (“I hope your brother takes advantage of these ticket prices and that I hear from him soon"), I advised my mother that she could not utter the “M” word, as in Mexico until at least April. Think she adhered to that rule?

This is the email I received when I returned home:

“I picked up your tickets. The travel agent suggested that you take Yack's birth certificate, along with passports, due to your last names being different. Your brother and sister in law are going, and I reserved seats next to all of ours. Oh Boy. This is going to be fun.”

I then received the following email 12 hours later. In the subject line, she wrote Freaky Grandma. At least she was now coming to terms with the fact that she was starting to become Looney Tunes.

“You should probably let Yack's Dr. know that he's traveling to Mexico. He will be able to prescribe vaccinations and drugs that Yack might need.
http://www.mdtravelhealth.com/destinations/mamerica_carib/mexico.php”

I replied, “Just as long as you admit you have a problem. That's the first step. Hey, I have an idea. Why don't YOU let Yack's doc know. Her name is Dr MacNeil and I have no idea what her phone # is. How about them apples?"

Her response: You are an idiot. Yack's doc won't talk to me unless you sign a consent. It's kinda like his school, releasing him to me. By the way, I want to bring Pops up to see his school. We'll do that in a month or two.
I travel with Imodium D for diarrhea. I don't know if kids can take that. I was the ONLY person on my Russia trips who didn't get sick. So, f'mudders to you.”

The next day I received the following email:

"Honey, your dad and I signed up for Spanish class. It's everyday on Thursdays. We are going to be fluent before you know it."

I wonder how she is going to take it when I tell her that we are cancelling our trip due to the unrest in Mexico. I think I will let this one go for awhile just to drive her further into the depths of looneyville. Let's see how far we can take this, shall we? Up for the ride?

Being Sick Totally Sucks

Now that Yack is school bound, I seem to be acquiring the germs of every kid bacteria that manages to stick to his clothes, shoes, hands. As often as he brings home his cute Jackson Pollack art work, I happen to come in contact with some greenish gooey substance and within hours fall ill, which either makes me miss work, miss my workouts (egads, not the workouts) or miss being ever present for my family. Boo on being sick.

Today is day number two of my exploding innards. I will refrain from detail here, although I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my five literal trips over the dog to get to the bathroom at 1 a.m., 1:25 a.m., 1:45 a.m.,. 2:30 a.m., 4 a.m. (woo hoo, an hour and a half of sleep) and 5 a.m. I looked a little like a drunk who'd been thrown out of a bar after being over served, not that I would know anything about what that actually looks like. I can only imagine.

The sad part about this little reoccurring mishap was that the dog didn’t move. I could have taken another route – I knew she was there, in that spot she always sleeps in. Must have been the flu playing tricks on my mind.

As the sun rose, I thought I would feel better. Couple the insomnia with my gurgling angry stomach, I realized in short order that I had to cancel every meeting I had that day, which was supposed to start at 6:30 on an airplane. I became Speedy Gonzales with the crackberry thumbs. “Sorry, can’t make it. Flu. Let’s reschedule. Will make it up to u.” (Like, somehow typing “u” as opposed to “you” would save me time to get rid of more of my insides. So glad I saved that .00002 second because I barely made it in between thumb pecks before I had to trip over the dog and head to the toilet.)

As I lay toe up in my bed that morning, my crackberry immediately started buzzing as the workday began. The buzzing is and was something I cannot simply ignore. Murphy’s law: every client crisis occurs when I can’t seem to put two words together to make a sentence. Thus, thumb typing whilst lying on one’s back makes for several grammatical and spelling errors. This is an actual email exchange from a client. I hope he didn’t think I had been drinking at 9 a.m.

Client: “Hi Amy, looks like our little project isn’t going in the direction that we anticipated. I recommend the following (blankety blank blank blank to protect the consultant-client privilege). Let me know what you think. Let’s talk later today as I am in meetings until 1 p.m.”

Me: “Wow, that totally sucks. Let me think about your stretigy and git back to u”.

That client never responded to my email. I became perplexed. I thought I was being so responsive. I did call in the afternoon and explain my virtual stupidity. He figured something was up. And true to form, I obsessed about his quandary in my flu haze all afternoon.

I then received the following email from one of my coworkers:

“Dear BrownNose - YOU ARE SICK! That means that your principle responsibility to your loved ones and your still healthy coworkers is to get better. It’s not calling (Assistant One) or (Assistant Two) 10 times a today with little requests that make you feel better about being sick. You want to feel better about being sick chug down some cough medicine and throw on a Will Ferrell movie (I like Old School). You have work related things that pop to mind…make a list and call in this afternoon after 2:00 pm, that way you get rest and I am assured to be out of the office and unable to enable you in your sick compulsion to work while sick in bed. I will not be an enabler.

Put the Blackberry and iPad down and do nothing… I know that this is a totally foreign concept to you but you deserve it and your physical self is crying out for you to turn off, tune out and do nothing.

Because when I get what you have I am going to sit in bed and chug down cold medicine and watch movies.”

So, after 24 hours of being flat on my back, and still trying to entertain my healthy Yack (playing fetch is a fun game that doesn’t require full consciousness and is all the same amusing to a three year old), I was ready to face the workday. Alas, Yack was not quite on the same page. He projectile yacked several times throughout the early morning, almost hitting me. Looking at his sad “I want my mommy” eyes, I knew I had to put away the suit, throw on puke resistant clothes and face a day of puzzles, juice and frequent trips to the bathroom.

There was just one thing I had to do.. I piled Yack into the car right after a bad bout of ralphing and figured that we were safe for a good thirty minutes. I raced into town to pick up a work-thingy that I just had to get done before the noon hour hit. As I pulled into my office parking lot, Yack yelled for me from the backseat. “Mommy, I went poo.”

The working mom’s guilt came down on me like a sledge hammer. I had to think fast. I took off his pants and threw them into the trash can in the parking lot (sorry, janitors) and raced home. While on the freeway, I started feeling a little queasy from the air and threw my head out the window, which felt quite refreshing in the 65 mile an hour wind.

At home, we managed to have a low key afternoon. We snuggled on the couch, played games, watched movies and read books. I have to be honest, it was one of the most pleasant days I have had. And after a while, I was looking forward to my healthy and vibrant husband Pants coming home and taking over as I was losing steam.

Pants called as I was having that particular thought, and informed me that he might have to go to the hospital, that a picture frame had fallen on his head at work and he was bleeding profusely from his scalp. He was taking an office poll on whether or not he should get staples. Staples? Really?

I was glad I didn’t throw in my vote by verbalizing my thoughts: “Ah, it can’t be that bad. What kind of frame was it? I think I have a stapler up in my end table next to my bed.”

Pants made the right choice by coming home and after a borderline dangerous amount of Ibuprophin, began the ritual of putting Yack to bed, and I got back on my crackberry and got some serious work done.

Cerebral Betrayal

935-3678. This was my grandparents' telephone number during my childhood. Both have been deceased for well over fifteen years. Don’t ask me how I still remember this number. It’s not that I called them often when they were alive. (Regret).

That was their daughter’s job - to call them. My mother would call her mother at least once a day when I was a kid, and I remember this because I would spy on her in the hallway, peering at the curly cord of the phone that traveled under her bedroom door. Those two mean girls would talk about my preteen years as if my life were plastered on the cover of US Weekly. According to their secret conversations, I was not respectful, way too narcissistic (had to look that one up as an eleven year old), and just down right rude. The point is not to cast aspersions on Mom and “Dama”, although I would love to here, but to highlight the fact that I still remember that damn phone number. Still. To this day. Almost 30 years later.

Why, when I can’t remember that Tuesday is trash day, that my husband AND my mother’s birthdays are on March 23rd. which I have incidentally missed at least once. And most recently disturbing – I cannot remember who is older, my friend of more than ten years, or her sister. Typically, this wouldn’t be such a big deal other than the fact that I have asked her this question at least four times a year since we became friends. And every time she answers me, this is my response, “Ohhhh yeaaahhhh you (or she) are (or is) older. It totally makes sense. Sorry for asking again."

Retaining this information is important to me – being an older sibling myself, I find it necessary to understand the psychological effects of my friends in the pecking order of sibling hierarchy and to relate to who they are as people. Alas, I have no clue with my sweet friend.

If I had to take a test to determine whether or not I could function as an adult (thank God such a test does not exist), and the question of whether or not my friend was older or younger than her sister was on the test, I would have a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right. And here’s the most absurd detail, I asked her to answer this question for me not more than three weeks ago. That’s right, no recollection. Now, I do remember in detail asking her, but may likely have had a clinical blackout when she responded.

Permanent Fact: As of this moment, I have no idea whether my friend is an older sister or a younger sister. And I never will. Ever. Perhaps a tattoo on my forearm would help. But I wouldn’t trust it. I would question whether or not the tattoo artist took my word for it or asked my friend to verify the information herself.

So, why can I never remember this important fact, but I can’t seem to forget a phone number that I called maybe a handful of times; a phone number that belonged to two grandparents whose love of which I was not worthy? Someone, please. Help me regain my sanity. But wait, soak in this little anecdote before administering aid:

I don’t know how to spell my husband, Pants’ middle name. That’s not to say that I have seen it in print over fifty times – we have been married for five years, together for eight, and I have personally had to sign a lot of house loan docs, coupled with the three life insurance policies I have out on him (hence the benefits of marrying an older man). I have had to sign each doc, each page, under penalty of perjury (or whatever a notary spewed at me at the time). These types of official documents are required to be accurate.

“Ms. Brown, did we spell yours and your husband’s name right on these documents? Please check before you sign.”

Looks good to me.. Allen or Allan, who cares? They get the point. Why the hell should I be required to keep track of how to spell Alle(a)n? I have more important facts to retain (like that damn phone number). Unless it means that I couldn't cash in on some sweet moola if Pants were to happen to pass on accidentally. God forbid, of course.

Pants has corrected me several times when I have had to fill out IRS papers, refinance docs for the umpteenth time (blasted real estate market) and health care insurance applications, but without him flying copilot, I am all but lost.

What the hell is wrong with me? I need answers. It’s getting worse. I know my eighth grade band teacher's name (Berney), but can't remember who parted the Red Sea in Egypt. (It was Moses because Pants just told me as I posed this question out loud).

Let's face it - I know few things. Except for that damn phone number and a couple of other fartless facts like the champion quotes from the Bill Murray movie, What About Bob? “I need, I need, Gimmie Gimmie”. I also know that Oprah wheeled in 60 plus pounds of fat onto her stage in a Radio Flyer Wagon during an episode in 1988. I was sixteen at the time. Let that soak in.

Per my chosen career path, you would think that I would take these little idiosyncrasies and use them to my advantage by choosing a career in say, entertainment news. You would be wrong. Instead, I chose a profession that requires me to retain heavy amounts of detailed information on how water law works in California, what a discounted rate of return is when addressing public pension funds and what it takes to consolidate local fire services.

Oh, how I find myself in trouble, daily.

Right before I have to retain a crap load of information for my work, I find it soothing to breathe deeply and peruse Craig's list. It clears my mind and gives me some needed junk food for the brain - what are people calling out for in my own community? I don’t spend a lot of time memorizing the ads, ideally. (Although user #193348 is selling a "gently" used sectional sofa for $175), I just glance. Take a gander. Then it’s back to water flow standards, defined benefits and other brain teasers like unilateral implementation. Don’t ask me how I make the transition because I don’t rightly know.

My grandfather, who I affectionately referred to as Papa, died of Alzheimers at the young age of 74. He was an engineer-scientist-brainiac type who worked for PG&E for the better part of his adult life. This man could construct transister radios out of parts found in the trash bins behind his church alley. I was never one to take an interest when he got all weird and technical when describing his work, but I was incredibly impressed from afar.

I often wonder why his brain betrayed him in his elder state. I figure it had something to do with genetics, which means I am screwed, but perhaps it had a little to do with his insatiable need for more scientific information. Perhaps his brain couldn’t take it any longer, that it just pooped out. Perhaps that’s what mine is doing at the age of 38.

People’s faces never escaped my Papa, nor do they escape me. But names, forget it. I would wait impatiently for Papa to introduce me to a neighbor or friend or, God forbid, his boss. Never happened.

“When I don’t introduce you, it means I forgot the a-hole’s name, so do your Papa a favor and introduce yourself. That way, I will know it for next time.” Papa would ramble on about the fact that the brain could only hold so much information and that he didn’t have time for such trivial facts. But really, let's be honest. Say I did introduce myself. What were the odds that he would recognize and retain the information for the long haul?

Look, Papa. I get it. But don’t think that I or anybody else were ever planning to bail you out. The minute the "no name" introduced himself and said his name out loud and shook your hand, you forgot him except for twitch in his eye and his downturn lip curl. Period. That’s how it works in our world. I know this because I have seen you call the same people "buddy" or "kiddo" when you greeted them everyday as you took out the trash. I find myself doing the same thing.

I play Sudoku and do jigsaw puzzles in the hopes that it will reverse whatever Papa handed down to me. I read somewhere that mental exercises like this help with the process, and I hope to beat the genetic cards that I have been dealt, but that’s simply bullshit. I am not at a higher intellectual level due to these little time passers, nor do I feel I am cheating my genetic code. Simply put, I have a piece of the frontal (or rear) lobe that refuses to retain information the way most people do. And it’s something I have to live with, unless someone out there tells me what I have to do to change this little computer clitch, this mental hiccup. And if anyone has the magic solution to beat the odds, I am all ears.

I am all ears.

It’s Wednesday, right? December?

Let me end with this: in the context of work, I have one particular business partner who shows me up on the detailed-fartless-fact front on a daily basis. Not that I am bitter or anything, I find it a nice little bonus to our overall portfolio that we offer clients – a savant, if you will, of useless information that will inevitably get us through the proverbial door of success. Look, I know my limitations. I know that I have to read something at least four times – along with yellow (not green or pink) highlighter notes, coupled with a lot of “what’s your interpretation of this information?” questions in order for it to sink in. I get it. But it slightly irks me when my business partner can read this info on his handheld while walking into a meeting and sound like a patriot hero in front of the client when I have to spend the better part of a Saturday studying up.

How is any of this fair?

If the part of my brain that remembers my dead grandparents’ phone number were to throw me a bone and offer up some free space of memory for things that actually mattered like how to construct the perfect solution to a statewide budget deficit, or (alternatively) obtain an abundance of personal wealth, or for Pete’s sake, simply allow me to remember the date of my husband and mothers’ birthday, I would be eternally grateful and perhaps give back to the cosmos for my cerebral gifts.

Until then, I am bitter, thus selfish and envious of those who have what I do not.

A bonefide memory.