As I explained to Marco this morning, this one is to make me pee, and this one is to make me happy. Then it dawned on me: I would be much happier if I didn’t have to pee all morning so I wouldn’t need the happy one if I didn’t take the peeing one. Voila. Save money and body energy-chemistry and screw the drug companies which I would love to do.
Marco was learning the words “fan” and “lean in,” since he discovered if he walked past the tall blowing thing his ears would fly back and it would feel good. I like him to know what he’s doing, thus the vocabulary lesson.
I would like to lean in right about now. Into somebody’s face. In order not to do that I downloaded six different versions of “Corcovado” which I have on endless repeat. The first one is Andrea Bocelli and Nelly Furtado and although I’m supposed to turn up my nose at this version, which is not executed by real Brazilians, I love it. There are two Stan Getz/Joao Gilberto versions, two Elis and Tom versions and one by somebody I never heard of. What would it be like to make music like that? To hear yourself making gorgeous sounds? I find the Portuguese, with its funny nasals and shhhh’s, mesmerizing. The frequent descending notes make it all so sad and romantic. And those saxophones…..
Uh oh. That made me start thinking about my parents, who would probably not have approved. Although they weren’t exactly prudes, they did lecture me about “primitive sexual rhythms” in the gateway-drug music I listened to as a teenager. Elvis was bad enough but saxophones, descending melodies, Corcovado? Makes me scared just to think of what they’d think.
Which of course is why I got pregnant at 16. I skipped right over the music and went directly to the primitive part. And funny, my mother had nothing whatever to say about that and my father not much. My mother stayed crying in the basement and my father put on his suit and tie and his Kiwanis pin and took me to the family doctor who was the only one who asked me anything at all. Not that I expected sympathy.
I’ve started thinking about Facebook as a bad mother. People wearing masks and pretending to be powerful…..”I took the test and I’m extraordinarily caring! And that’s really me!” “I am admin and I can bring the ax down so fast on your pitiful little intrusion into our club. You’re not grown up!” “Look at the 81,000 pictures I took of my dog (my trip to England, the hat I knit, my dog in a costume, the yarn I hand-dyed…..” “If you love your son click here.” “If you miss your mama click here.” “Here’s daddy in his uniform.”
Mother Facebook has the power. Personally, I’m not going to get over that carrot top taking the time to comb his 500-person (over 500!) bailywick for unsavories like moi. I don’t know if they have ticks in Marin but if they do, it’s like going through a shiba coat looking for the little buggers. Which would make me the little bugger. Making comments. I would like to make more comments. I want to make comments galore! In Portuguese, or music, or primitive sexual rhythms, or barking, or being loud and so so unruly in plain old American English.
Look at the cute puppy! Everybody! Look at the cute puppy! Look at the cute puppy!
Okay I won’t comment on your cute puppy. But I bet he can’t say “fan.”