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Mother's Day, now with more shitting and guilt
May 14th, 2008 | 9:31 pm
It's Mother's Day eve and the sunset is cruelly spectacular. We're in Venice walking down the "boardwalk"
even though it's just a wide sidewalk and there are no actual boards except too many grown-ass men on
skate-boards. This is when I decide that I might not want to be a mother.
My friend and I planned a nice stroll with our dogs followed by a tasty, civilized dinner at the beach. And here
we are, in the middle of May, being batted around the Venice fringe-fest with a cold salty wind of incense and
weed.
The freak-show is loud. Everywhere are Haris and hairies and dreadlocks and glass bongs and dirty babies
and barefoot kids and a man on stilts dressed like a tree and dancing to techno. He is called Tree Man.
I watch Tree Man do his signature bouncing-crouch move while my friend is over in the strip of grass
between the concrete walk and the sand coaxing Maya, her Weimaraner, to please take a shit. I have no such
problems with Little Dog, who pleasantly has diarrhea every four feet.
We know that Maya's business is imminent because she is walking weirdly and her butt is slightly open and
here she is with stage fright. My friend and I once, months ago, talked about philosophy and religion and
baseball and the meaning of life and yes, sometimes even men. Now here we are, in public, reduced to
discussing the dilation of a dog's asshole. Little Dog, older and wiser seems to be trying to demonstrate to
the naive young pup Maya how to do it. See, he says, you just stop and shit your brains out whenever and
wherever you want. Who cares if your owner has to use receipts from her purse to attempt to mop up the
sidewalk?
When our dogs aren't have toileting issues, they aren't getting along with each other. Maya bucks and spins
and jumps, trying to bite off Little Dog's head. When they finally straighten out and just walk straight and nice
after we swear to God twelve times, everything else around us is wrong. A man who just finished his workout
at Muscle Beach walks by in his leather panties. There's a gratuitous drum circle and an OD in an
ambulance. A group of teenaged boys throw bread, well a hot dog bun, at me because I stared at them. An
asshole hobo pushes his poodle at us on a skateboard with a jar of money and asks Little Dog for ID. Twice.
It was all too much freak and too much dog and too much savagery. I suggested that we just buy a bottle of
wine, go back to her apartment and order something. In the back of my mind as we walked to the wine shop,
I kept asking myself, "What if these weren't dogs? What if they were children? How could we ever handle
children? How could we bring children here? Will someone think about THE CHILDREN?"
People tell me frequently that I'll be a great mother. I will? But what if I just want to have a drink and talk about
politics and sex? What if I just want some silence? What if I want to just get in my car and go and not worry
about "Do I have products with me that could clean up poop?" What if I just never want to see or touch or
know about anyone else's poop? Or urine. Or vomit. Or blood. I don't have a weak stomach. I just don't care.
The longer I'm by myself, the more selfish I become. Motherhood isn't glamorous or civilized. You can't ever
do anything the way you planned to do it. What if those were our children and they were behaving that way,
with the barking and attacking each other and crapping everywhere? I would have sold mine to Tree Man or
the lady in the fur coat on the 3-wheeled bike.
When we passed the Zoltar machine, I almost put in a quarter for my fortune. Will I ever be a mother, I wanted
to ask? And if I will, am I going to be any good at it? Or will I resent the child for taking away everything about
my independence? Everything that makes me glamorous and civilized.
I saved my quarter. I'll just wait and see.
Comments
May 14th, 2008 | 9:31 pm
It's Mother's Day eve and the sunset is cruelly spectacular. We're in Venice walking down the "boardwalk"
even though it's just a wide sidewalk and there are no actual boards except too many grown-ass men on
skate-boards. This is when I decide that I might not want to be a mother.
My friend and I planned a nice stroll with our dogs followed by a tasty, civilized dinner at the beach. And here
we are, in the middle of May, being batted around the Venice fringe-fest with a cold salty wind of incense and
weed.
The freak-show is loud. Everywhere are Haris and hairies and dreadlocks and glass bongs and dirty babies
and barefoot kids and a man on stilts dressed like a tree and dancing to techno. He is called Tree Man.
I watch Tree Man do his signature bouncing-crouch move while my friend is over in the strip of grass
between the concrete walk and the sand coaxing Maya, her Weimaraner, to please take a shit. I have no such
problems with Little Dog, who pleasantly has diarrhea every four feet.
We know that Maya's business is imminent because she is walking weirdly and her butt is slightly open and
here she is with stage fright. My friend and I once, months ago, talked about philosophy and religion and
baseball and the meaning of life and yes, sometimes even men. Now here we are, in public, reduced to
discussing the dilation of a dog's asshole. Little Dog, older and wiser seems to be trying to demonstrate to
the naive young pup Maya how to do it. See, he says, you just stop and shit your brains out whenever and
wherever you want. Who cares if your owner has to use receipts from her purse to attempt to mop up the
sidewalk?
When our dogs aren't have toileting issues, they aren't getting along with each other. Maya bucks and spins
and jumps, trying to bite off Little Dog's head. When they finally straighten out and just walk straight and nice
after we swear to God twelve times, everything else around us is wrong. A man who just finished his workout
at Muscle Beach walks by in his leather panties. There's a gratuitous drum circle and an OD in an
ambulance. A group of teenaged boys throw bread, well a hot dog bun, at me because I stared at them. An
asshole hobo pushes his poodle at us on a skateboard with a jar of money and asks Little Dog for ID. Twice.
It was all too much freak and too much dog and too much savagery. I suggested that we just buy a bottle of
wine, go back to her apartment and order something. In the back of my mind as we walked to the wine shop,
I kept asking myself, "What if these weren't dogs? What if they were children? How could we ever handle
children? How could we bring children here? Will someone think about THE CHILDREN?"
People tell me frequently that I'll be a great mother. I will? But what if I just want to have a drink and talk about
politics and sex? What if I just want some silence? What if I want to just get in my car and go and not worry
about "Do I have products with me that could clean up poop?" What if I just never want to see or touch or
know about anyone else's poop? Or urine. Or vomit. Or blood. I don't have a weak stomach. I just don't care.
The longer I'm by myself, the more selfish I become. Motherhood isn't glamorous or civilized. You can't ever
do anything the way you planned to do it. What if those were our children and they were behaving that way,
with the barking and attacking each other and crapping everywhere? I would have sold mine to Tree Man or
the lady in the fur coat on the 3-wheeled bike.
When we passed the Zoltar machine, I almost put in a quarter for my fortune. Will I ever be a mother, I wanted
to ask? And if I will, am I going to be any good at it? Or will I resent the child for taking away everything about
my independence? Everything that makes me glamorous and civilized.
I saved my quarter. I'll just wait and see.
Comments
