Tattletale installment two

Mere hours before our friends descended upon the town for what would be the greatest week of our lives, Ben and I had a nice brunch with his dad and stepmom, then toured the grounds of the SHERATON KEAUHOU RESORT AND SPA.* As we passed the Keiki Club, or whatever the place is called where parents dump their kids so they can go on swingers’ booze cruises and make crooked real estate deals, I espied through the plate-glass window this charming tableau:

Ten or so children under the age of seven sit on kiddie-couches and beanbags, vacant eyes fixed on a (state of the art flat-screen I’m sure) TV. The only adult in sight: a large woman splayed across several geometrically-printed mini-sofas, mouth agog with the sweet relief that only an illicit on-the-clock nap can bring. I couldn’t hear through the glass but I’m sure she was sawing some major logs. We walked back the same way about twenty minutes later, after taking some silly pictures and plotting how Ben might sneak fifteen grown men in to use the water slide later in the week, and the scene was exactly the same. I was a little disappointed, thinking the kids would have at least had the chutzpah to draw on their governess’s face with a Sharpie.

The hotel could not have asked for a better advertisement. After all, anyone who would leave their child with an unknown babysitter on vacation deserves what they get, and in this case, they got textbook neglect by a hungover (or narcoleptic) employee who could clearly care less about how she came across to her resort employer and its hegemonic control over her native island. At least that’s how I like to look at it.

So much for a non-judgmental Tattletale column. Maybe next time.

* I took extra care to be detailed in my naming of names, in case prospective guests or repentant parents are googling this place, wondering if they a) should choose it for their family vacation or b) got their money’s worth. Well you did, neglecting parents! You get exactly what you deserved!

a tattling will i go!

I’ve decided it is my civic duty to start a regular feature called Tattletale which documents the peccadilloes and greater sins of the public. I shall try to offer them without judgment or judgmental commentary. May the deeds stand on their own merits (or utter depravity).

Today’s theme will be parenting.

1. A lady pushes her wailing kid around the grocery store (in a cart, not bodily). Every time the child emits a particularly loud shriek, she shoves a marshmallow into its mouth from an opened, but clearly not-yet-paid-for, bag.
2. As I drive by a neighborhood ballfield, two women are standing there talking over strollers. Beside them, their toddler-sized children climb the chain-link backstop. The mothers glance up periodically, apparently unconcerned that their three-year-olds are passing the 15-foot mark. Maybe they figure they've each got a backup kid.
   
3. In Macy's today, a dad pushes around one of the mall-provided cart-strolly-things. In the part where a child is meant to go sits a boy of about five. In the mesh bag where your shopping bags are supposed to go is a baby of about eight months, swinging to and fro as the dad zooms the cart around the wineglass displays.
   
4. This one’s cute. A gaggle of girls walks by (also in Macy's; my pool of anecdotes is limited, I’m on an island), nervously chattering, heads together. From the group arises the squeal, “Ohmygod, did I say ‘Hi!’ or ‘Hey!’?!” [God, that punctuation slowed down my typing.] One says, “You totally said, ‘Hey Cody, how’s it going’” to which the others reply with relieved, approving giggles.

not so cute in a thirty-year-old

My nephew, Theo, adorably thinks every colorful, wrapped package he sees is a gift for him. Equally cute is how, if you present him with a "present" that isn't wrapped, he accepts it, then asks, "Where's the present?"

Mr. Muss and I are at a similar toddler-like stage in our new membership in the married-or-getting-married club. In this stage, we blindly assume that whenever a wedding is being discussed, we will be invited. Our first brush, sort of, with this previously unimagined realm of social anxiety occurred before our wedding. When my dear friend since high school got engaged, I assumed we were going to be invited, because it was all we ever talked about: the dress, the photographer selection, the invitation font. When, about two months before the wedding date, Ben pointed out that we hadn't received an invitation, then dropped the subtlety completely and danced around the house singing, "You didn't get in-VI-ted! You didn't get in-VI-ted!", my heart sank...then fluttered madly with panic, as I remembered all the times I so blatantly let my friend know I expected an invitation. Like, the times I talked about shopping for a new dress for her wedding, or the times I said things like, "I can't wait for your wedding!"

Turns out, of course, we were invited to that one. My friend, with-it as she is, was sticking the the proper tradition of sending invitation six weeks in advance. Kind of the equivalent of not arriving at a party too early. I think I told her eventually how Ben had horrified and taunted me, and we had a good laugh.

Well, it's happened again, only this time I'm pretty sure it's for real. And this time, thanks to my big mouth, we'll probably end up getting a mercy invitation, which we'll have to figure out how to politely decline so we don't become the a-holes of the wedding.

Hmm, this sounds oddly like the times in junior high when I would think girls were inviting me to the movies or a slumber party, and it would turn out that they were just talking about their plans in my presence, loudly, only to create an opportunity to snub me and laugh hysterically as I wondered if my breath smelled like Funyuns or if I'd gotten something on my white Bongo miniskirt.

But that's a conversation for my therapist, or my locked diary. The lesson I've learned recently is that run-of-the-mill parties (which are inevitably potlucks here) and nights out to the bar are one thing; it's embarrassing, but not mortifying, to find that you've invited yourself to them. But when it comes to weddings, you must take every measure possible to prevent that from happening. My advice: keep your trap shut when the W word comes up. Nod, yes; smile, maybe; but do not say anything that could remotely be construed as implying or assuming that you are even on the radar for an invitation. Your self-respect is not worth the risk!

But it would still be cute as all get-out if Theo did it.

life is good

I should be ashamed of myself for thinking this, but I have had an awesome two days thanks to a near-natural disaster and how the false alarm raised around it stole two days of education from already vulnerable young minds. Lives could have been changed! Artistic impulses and literary passions ignited!

Our neighborhood was bone-dry and utterly still until this afternoon—hours after the alleged hurricane had passed—when it rained maybe half an inch. My fantasy came true! Two days off of work, without having to cower under a mattress or eat cold Spaghetti-Os! Now I get to savor delectably piping-hot Spaghetti-Os, with a nice Montepulciano.

Some women need cabanas at the Four Seasons, full-body skin peels at the spa, 15-dollar poolside drinks made out of cucumbers, and shopping sprees to feel they’ve gone on a real vacation, but not me. Over the past two days, I have read the last few chapters of Harry that I’d been saving for the past week; learned that we have the Travel Channel (Missymussy + Tony Bourdain = Luv); organized the linen closet; and subsisted almost entirely on canned vegetarian chili and Country Time lemonade. I haven’t been this happy since “Breakfast for Dinner” night at Colorado College. (Go CC.)

And now my 4-day weekend begins! Today a sub is seeing what it’s like to be ME as I get my teeth drilled, then spend the whole day blissfully reading stacks of literature textbooks as I try to get the whole semester planned in advance. Then, Friday is Admissions Day (one of Hawaii’s many extra state holidays, this one to celebrate the day we became a state and won the right to have frivolous holidays), and that still leaves two whole normal weekend days.

I'm starting to think that the perfect profession for me is as a teacher who doesn't have to teach. I believe they are called "curriculum developers," and I believe they make about three times as much as teachers. However, I also have a tendency to think of them as Satan's spawn.

we feel fine

Ben keeps saying it's the end of the world, God hates us, and the like. We are awaiting the arrival of Hurricane Flossie, which will either a) vindicate my anxiety by ripping the roof off our house and/or flooding away all of our beloved crap or b) make me admit I'm a bozo as I sheepishly survey the frivolous canned goods I bought and hope Ben forgets that I wanted to seal our wedding photos in Ziploc bags.

About an hour ago, there was a 5.3 earthquake that sent me scurrying out of the house in my humiliating at-home clothes (stretched out, thin Old Navy camisole with super-short, yet baggy, shorts that expose the waistband of my granny panties).

I guess no matter what happens, even if it's just a strong breeze, I will always end up looking a fool.

At least I get to spend all day tomorrow finishing Harry Potter and eating Spaghetti-Os (with franks!), Cocoa Krispies, cinnamon graham crackers, and all the other junk foods I decided were absolute necessities for the impending disaster. You can't tell me the Katrina victims who stocked up on Kashi bars and dried fruit didn't regret it.

i'm a polyester princess

Do you think it counts if you use fashion tips from "What Not to Wear" in selecting clothes that have several characteristics of the very items they tell you not to wear?

I just bought five knit dresses to wear to school, which are totally cute and figure-flattering according to Stacey and Clinton's standards. Unless, of course, you consider the fact that they're made of 95% polyester, with the other 5% being either nylon, lycra, or the sinews of Malaysian children woven into a cheaper version of nylon or lycra.

But to my eye, they look no different from the $180 knit dresses being sold at boutiques around the country. So if these fall apart after one wearing, I will only be out $12 per wear. That's like buying the good kind and wearing it 12 times.

I decided I needed new clothes when I tried on a denim miniskirt with zippers that I bought a few years ago, and when asked whether he thought I could still get away with wearing it, Ben replied, "Maybe if you're dressing up as one of the Bratz?"

the Yokels go out to dinner

To celebrate our upcoming one-monthiversary, we went out to dinner last night at Kenichi. Granted, the place was the catalyst for my pre-wedding breakdown when my attempted bachelorette party there was a bust, but I'm trying to give them the benefit of the doubt. Luckily, the a-hole bartender wasn't working, and in his place was a guy who in elementary school we used to call Hanabata (Japanese-pidgin for snot) and is super-nice. We ran in to fellow marrieds Rene and Mark and had a nice reliving of certain wedding moments that I only noticed in the pictures, like how as I walked down the aisle, half the people were holding keg cups.

ANYwho, it was lovely, and the extremely slow service (we're talking 45 minutes for a RAW salad and sushi roll) forced us to look deep into each other's eyes and talk, really talk.

Ha ha, only kidding. I read the menu at least ten times. It really gave me a chance to memorize the menu, and to decide if I wanted the ono tataki, a seared piece of ono served over sweet potato puree with a hoisin beurre blanc, steamed green beans and sauteed shiitake mushrooms; or the broiled black cod in Kenichi's own homemade miso paste. I chose the latter.

Ben's conversational gem of the night was telling me that he used to think the refrain in "Who's That Girl" went, Send your meatballs....to I-TALL-y......Who's that girl?" This, and "Cream of Plenty.....Alleluia" is truly why I married him.

Apologies to Stephanie (and Matt) for calling them at 2 am (their time) to ask how to order coffee with Frangelico. Turns out you just ask for it IN the coffee.

the ugly truth

We got our wedding photos back from the photographer (the one we paid, as opposed to the ones we guilted into taking hundreds of photos and then posting immediately online, before they even had a chance to unpack), and while I mostly like the way I look and all the memories they evoke, I am pretty sure the guy Photoshopped the hell out of my arms and hands in the close-ups. There's not a hair in sight. Which makes me start to think, how werewolf-like do I look in real life? And what other mythical beasts do I resemble without a makeup artist's magic?