A Subtle Hint: I Want a #@!*% Teacup Pup
I want a dog. I love big, sweet dogs that you can bear hug, but Tom says we don’t have room. So, I’m kind of hinting around for one of those tiny little teacup pups. The kind that break ribs when they sneeze. They take up no more room than a bar of soap. I’m not a very subtle hinter though, so the outlook on this one is grim. Here’s how it usually goes:
“Y’know Tom, I think when we get this little teacup puppy, I’d like to name him Archie.” (result: silence)
“Awwww, wouldn’t little Leonard, our teacup doggie, love this park?” (result: glaring)
“Did you know that some teacup puppies can be litterbox trained? We could teach little Roscoe to do that.” (result: eye-rolling)
“Chihuahua’s are pretty ugly, in a cute way, don’t you think? If that’s the kind of tiny dog we end up with, we should name him Tuco, after Eli Wallach’s character in The Good, The Bad and the Ugly.” (result: loooong sigh)
I’m going to have to improve my technique. This stuff always worked when my kids did it, but I guess the effect becomes a little sad and desperate when you’re over forty. Maybe a tiny little Maltese could just “show up” on our doorstep one day. One look at those big wet eyes, and Tom would melt like an ice cream cone. Kids and puppies almost always get what they want.
I Love You, Miss Reed
I was just digging through some boxes of old papers, and came across this small, yellowed card. In perfectly penned letters, it said:
Dear “Moonbeam,”
Thank you for the stationary. I love it because it’s so pretty, but most of all I love it because it came from my very special friend. I love you, Moonbeam.– Betty Reed
I got all sad and sappy and teary as my mind rewound back to first grade. Miss Reed was my teacher, and I adored her. I attended an upscale private school (on scholarship), and I was a weed among roses. Most of my classmates were very wealthy and immaculately dressed, and while many of them were driven to school in Cadillacs and Lincolns, I was hauled there from the shabby side of town on a little school bus (my younger brother once beat the hell out of a kid for ordering me to the back of the bus so that he could sit down. The kid felt justified, since his father had bought the bus).
Anyway, I’m not whining, I’m just remembering. My parents fought constantly, so I slept little at night. My dad was always trying to beat my mom to a pulp, and my mom was kind of busy trying to stay alive, so we kids were a bit neglected. We were afraid much of the time. I also didn’t eat a lot.
So there I was, this unkempt, exhausted, hungry little mess. Home was hell, and so was school. My classmates weren’t real nice much of the time, and neither were the teachers. There was no real retreat. But then, there was Miss Reed.
She was so kind to me. I remember her as being young-ish and pretty, with a warm voice and a gentle smile. She had frosted hair and frosted lipstick. She loved me despite my wrinkled clothes, my tendency to create an alternate reality for myself (also known as lying), and my inability to concentrate in class. She was thrilled by my reading skills (in first grade, I read at an eighth grade level), and fostered in me a lifelong love of the English language. Forty years later, I remember every hug and kind word she bestowed on me.
I have this fantasy that when we die, we’re shown a film of our lives, and all the people we impacted in a positive way. I think most of us would be surprised at the beauty of it all, and at the numbers of those whose lives we affected. I believe that my first grade teacher understood my world, and for a few hours a day, she decided to love me. It changed my life for the better. I’ll be in your film, Miss Reed. I’ll always love you.
Which Part of “Quit Sticking Pointy Things into Your Face” Do You Not Understand?
So, my beautiful, kooky daughter called me the other night, and the conversation eventually turned to her favorite subject– self-mutilation. Well, not exactly self-mutilation, but more along the lines of which part of her body she now wants to tattoo, pierce, coif, remodel, etc. She’s off the mother-daughter tattoo thing for now, and thankfully, she replaced the pointy black studs in her nostrils with some tiny, demure ones. But soon, her voice took on the whiny, tiny, “you know I’m irresistible and I want something” tone.
“Moooooooommy?” Uh oh. “What are you getting me for my birthday?” It’s coming up in nine days, and she’ll be seventeen. I asked her what she wanted, and she said that she really didn’t need any more “stuff.” This translates into “I want money.” As it turns out, she wants money to purchase a monroe.
“Oh, Mommy, they’re so pretty, and I just want a little, tiny opal– nothing harsh or drastic, just a small one.” Oh… one of those “classy” face studs.
A monroe, for all of you parents who have normal, unpierced children, is a face piercing that is supposed to respresent the glamorous beauty mark that Marilyn Monroe had. I’m
of two minds when my kid tells me stuff like this. The first is something along the lines of, “Oh my God, your beautiful face, why do you want to detract from it, you’re so lovely and your skin is so great, and you’re extremely tiny and it makes you look very odd and everyone stares and then you get haughty and say, ‘what were they looking at?’, and you know in ten years you’re going to have a face full of scars, and don’t you think you may have too much free time on your hands, and, and, and…” The other part of me says, “Well, at least it’s not a tattoo. Piercings can be taken out.” Okay, reading back, I realize that I’m not of two minds about it, I’m of about twenty.
Last night, Tom and I saw this beautiful young girl who had a monroe. I pointed out to him that that’s what my daughter wants. I asked the girl about hers and she scowled. “I hate it. It hurt SOOO much and I almost fainted. It bled and swelled for days.” She said it still swells from time to time, and it still hurts. Had she had it to do over, she said, “No way.”
Thomas Mann said, “Beauty can pierce one like a pain.” In this case, the girl we spoke to was expressing something more like “Piercing for beauty is like, a pain.”
I can’t wait to relay this information to my daughter. In the meantime, after carefully considering her birthday request, the most intelligent and thoughtful answer I could come up with was: “Go ask your dad.”
