tricia booker's Open Salon Blog

How the Birther movement really began

Wed, 30 May 2012 14:05:04 -0400

My great Aunt Sophie tormented me endlessly about where I was born. She also called me fatty, but that’s another story.

Aunt Sophie questioned my Southern heritage, and whether I was loyal to my New Orleans roots. She called me a……a Yankee.

It mortified me. Even more frustrating was the fact that she based her accusations on a grain of truth.

My father was in the Navy when I was born, stationed in Norfolk, Virginia. So that’s where I was born. Still the South, right? I KNOW, I KNOW! Hell, it was a capitol of the Confederacy! Virginians even drink iced tea, and their voices twang!

But Aunt Sophie didn’t think it was the real South. Hence I became the family Yankee, even though we moved to New Orleans when I was a year old and I ate grits almost every day.

As I grew up, it messed with my confidence. I couldn’t rightfully use the phrase “born and raised in New Orleans” because, duh, I was born in Norfolk. But if I just said “raised in New Orleans,” it made me sound sort of transient. All three of my sisters were born in the city. It seemed so unfair.

Now I understand that Aunt Sophie was an unintentional founder of the Birther movement. She was! Pay homage, Donald Trump. You are not the first person to question a person’s patriotism based on where that person (allegendly) emerged from the womb.

It’s not an entirely accurate comparison, since Barack Obama was indeed born in the U.S. and I was absolutely not born in the South. But this questioning of a person’s loyalty? I can totally relate…although I’m (mostly) over it now. People still accuse me of not being from New Orleans because I don’t have a particularly strong accent, but I just say, That’s Nice! which is Southern for Fuck Off.

My kids are a different story. I wish I had a single square inch of Caribbean property for every time someone has asked me, “Where are they from?” I would own Jamaica by now. The more ignorant question, though, is “What’s their nationality?” Okay, first of all, in this particular phrase, their is plural and nationality is singular, which makes this a grammatically incorrect sentence unless the speaker assumes all three children are from the same place because they all have brown skin. Which, now, that I think about it, is probably the case.

Secondly, PLEASE LOOK UP THE DEFINITION OF NATIONALITY, PEOPLE. A person’s nationality relates to a person’s citizenship, or place of residence. The Diva is not Vietnamese because she was born in Vietnam. She is American. Her ethnicity is Vietnamese, although I don’t know why that’s anyone’s business but hers.

Don’t think it matters? Hmm. Lately the Diva has been obsessing about the Vietnam War. She’s confused. “If I was alive then, I just don’t know who I should cheer for, Mom,” she says. Because she doesn’t want to root against her birth mother, yet she doesn’t want people to think she’s ANTI-AMERICAN, which is suspected of anyone not enamored of Bud Light, Monster Truck Rallies and Newt “Kick me! I’m an asshole!” Gingrich.

She doesn’t have to cheer for the U.S. She doesn’t have to have been born in the U.S. Certainly, she doesn’t have to eat grits. But she’s an American.

And Southern! Sometimes, she says, That’s Nice!

You know what she really means. She’s a mama’s girl, after all.

Tropical Storm Beryl’s catastrophic damage

Tue, 29 May 2012 19:05:04 -0400

Oh, poor underdeveloped, overrated Tropical Storm Beryl. Worry not, for judging by the amount of damage inflicted in my home, you had the strength of a hurricane.

Furniture upended, strips of paper strewn about, Sharpie streaks on the counter, every clean sheet unfolded, Dorito chips in the bathroom. Who eats Doritos in the bathroom? My kids, that’s who. My kids, who Beryl forced inside for two whole days. Hence the damage. BWAH!

Other casualties of the storm:

- Two rats. I implored Hot Firefighter Husband to clean out the garage because I had spotted something small and furry (a kitten? a squirrel? a baby platypus?) scurrying about one day. We disposed of so much stuff there’s a trailer-trash pile of garbage on our street. Finally, all that remained was….rat shit. Turd upon turd of rat shit. So Husband scrubbed the floor and strategically placed two traps baited with peanut butter near one of the two holes the rats had chewed in our wall. EW! I KNOW! The whole deal totally skeeves me out, and I know that skeeves isn’t a word, but, you know, it is what it is. Within five minutes, one rat’s neck was broken. Within an hour, another rat was flapping fruitlessly trying to escape, so Husband beat it to death with a bat thoughtfully euthanized it. Now he’s strutting around like a Masai warrior who has slayed 14 lions. You go, man.

- My good black boots. When my son isn’t trying his best to rip the beating heart from my chest, he’s thinking of ways to improve the artistry visible in the world. Hence, he borrowed part of his sister’s Duct Tape collection to create spurs on my boots, then he stomped around the house looking for a horse to mount. No luck with that last part.

- The Diva’s Duct Tape collection. See above.

- Overall sense of innocence. An internet porn incident occurred. No further information will be revealed.

So thanks, Beryl, for swinging by. Next time, though, just take the rats. BWAH!

Oh, Sweet Pink Balls! You’re gross, even sprinkled with coconut.

Thu, 24 May 2012 12:05:26 -0400

My children love to go to the gas station, and it’s my parental ace-in-the-hole.

“Guys, if you let Mom take a nap, I’ll take you to the gas station.”

“YEAH!! OF COURSE, MOM, WE’LL BE SO, SO QUIET.”

“Okay, we need to run some errands – I’ll take you to the gas station first.”

“WHERE ARE THE KEYS? I’LL START THE CAR!”

They love the gas station because I buy them all sorts of crap. Because it’s cheap. And nothing says I love you, darling like cheap, edible crap. Usually they each pick out two items, plus a drink. The Tyrant likes Cheetos, Gatorade and gum. The Pterodactyl chooses bubble gum, a ring pop, two donuts, a bag of peppermints, Swedish fish and an Icee. To him, that’s two. And the Diva, after surveying every aisle in the store twice, complaining that there’s nothing she wants, and asking to be taken to Smoothie King instead, will pick out pretzel M&Ms and fruit punch.

So last night we promised the kids a trip to the gas station if they would go to the gym with us, and they happily complied. I stayed in the car while Hot Firefighter Husband went inside to oversee the carnage.

It was a normal expedition – except that the boy came back with Hostess Snowballs, those pink shredded coconut ball things with chocolate cake and white cream on the inside. And I am pretty sure I had a tiny little aneurysm right there in the front seat.

Me: Oh my God. That’s what Daddy let you pick out? Honey, those are gross. You shouldn’t eat that. I don’t think you’ll like them.

Hot Firefighter Husband: (LOUD THROAT-CLEARING) BUT HE MIGHT, RIGHT DARLING? ISN’T IT GOOD FOR HIM TO TRY NEW THINGS?

Me: SERIOUSLY? Oh, you’re serious…..okay, fine. Honey, you might really like them! Taste them! They’re coconut! It’s delicious!

HFF: (Talking to Siri, his iPhone girlfriend) SEND. A. TEXT.

Boy: Mom, can you peel off all the pink stuff? I think I’ll like the middle.

HFF: (to Siri) WELL. IS. THAT. GOING. TO. WORK. QUESTION. MARK.

Me: No, I can’t really do that. Just take a bite.

Boy: No, I don’t like —I SPILLED MY PUNCH! I SPILLED IT! IT’S SPILLING!

Me: PULL OVER! PULL OVER!

HFF: (to Siri) CANCEL. OKAY. I. AM. I mean, okay, I’m pulling over.

We used an entire roll of paper towels to clean up the leaking cup of fruit punch, by which time the Pterodactyl had lost all motivation for eating sweet pink balls. Hee hee hee!

But I hadn’t! Because even though, in theory, I’d rather eat moth wings that nibble on a Hostess Snowball, watching it languish on the kitchen counter made me hallucinate and think it was whispering, EAT ME! EAT ME! It was the culinary equivalent of a train wreck, and I simply had to take a bite after my frozen vegetable dinner. And, people, Hostess puts CRACK COCAINE in that stuff, so I took a second bite.

GROSS! GROSS, GROSS, GROSS! MADE MY STOMACH HURT! Then I had a beer, and felt much better.

Dear Savvy Sister: About this pint-sized bully….

Tue, 22 May 2012 13:05:03 -0400

Reminder: The questions posed in this occasional column are written by actual people.

Dear Savvy Sister,

My 4 1/2-year-old son used to be the most well-liked kid in preschool. A little over a year ago, a boy began calling him names and being very aggressive. I addressed the issues with the parents – who were divorcing at the time. They used to be good friends of ours. Now the mother no longer speaks to me becasue I spoke about the issue to her ex.

Fast forward a year later and now the little boy had followers doing the same sort of stuff to my son. He actually adores my son – they used to be besties. He has other behavior problems as well. The child was given time outs and was even sent home once, but the behavior continued, resulting in my son not wanting to go to school. Again, the mother was approached by the preschool teacher. Good news: behaviors are gone. Bad news: no more playdates because the mother doesn’t speak to me. What is a parent to do in this case? The first time my son asked about a playdate, I broke the news to him. The second time, I made the teacher do it. What is the correct way of handling this?

Sincerely,

Animal Crackers

Dear Crackers,

The good news is that summer starts, like, tomorrow, and you can bid a not-so-fond sayonara to the lame-ass preschool teacher who let this whole entanglement get way out of hand. Children should not be allowed to call other children names at this age – at any age, really, of course, but when they’re four? Come on. Aggressive behavior? You’ve got to be kidding me. For future reference, I would have been in that teacher’s face day after day after day until the situation was rectified. Even the idea that your son was “the most well-liked kid in school” is wildly inappropriate. At that age, each child should feel like a rock star, and that’s part of the teacher’s responsibility.

Your child losing his bestie is another issue, but it’s not nearly as big as you’re making it out to be. If you treat it more casually, more que sera, sera-ish, he will, too. And he sees the other boy at school every day; that’s plenty enough time to keep the connection. Frankly, I’m not in favor of allowing him to go to the other child’s house; the boy can’t be trusted to treat your son appropriately, and the mother sounds unpredictable. What you need to do is this: start arranging playdates with other children, and keep your son busy enough that he doesn’t feel the void. When he asks specifically about his former bestie, keep it short. Say something like this: Honey, I know you like Max, and I like him, too, but you see him at school, and that’s enough for now, okay? Anyway, tomorrow we’re meeting your friend Filbert at the playground! But right this second, Mommy feels like baking cookies, just you and me. How about it?

If you really, really, really want to pursue a relationship with this problem child and his embittered mother, send her the following message: Listen, Darla, I’m so sorry we had this disagreement, and I know that this has been a tough year for you. I just want you to know that I’m thinking of you, and that we would love to have Max over for a playdate anytime. Maybe we can just meet in the park one day.

Please, for everyone’s sake, swallow your urge to obsess over this. If the kids are meant to be friends, they’ll see each other in elementary school. If they’re going to different elementary schools, the friendship would have faded pretty quickly anyway.

Peace out, peeps.

Sincerely,

the Savvy Sister

Have a problem that needs solving? I’m the (wo)man for the job! Email me at tricia@mylefthook.com and I’ll make everything okay.

Happy Anniversary, Honey! Love, your crazy bitch.

Mon, 21 May 2012 14:05:29 -0400

Dear Hot Firefighter Husband,

Eighteen years ago, we exchanged vows under the gazebo on the tennis courts of my parents’ country home. Dad had installed a ceiling fan because, in his words, “there’s nothing more unattractive than a sweating bride.”

You fretted about how your hair looked; I was afraid I looked fat.

We drank a lot of champagne that night, and danced as the sun set over the pine groves. It was a fairytale wedding.

You had asked me to marry you nearly two years earlier; when I called to tell my parents, Dad said, “Well, the only thing to do is for you to come down here so we can talk about this.”

So we flew to New Orleans, where Dad promptly talked me out of marrying you. We were living together at the time, and he asked me a simple question: Why do you want to get married? And, forgive me, honey, but I couldn’t answer the question. FAIL! I didn’t desert you, though. In general I have a terrible memory, but I remember exactly what I said to him that day: Dad, I’ll put off getting married. But we’re still together. We’re not breaking up. And I’m going to marry him one day. So you need to start being nice to him. Right. Now.

A few months later, we went back to New Orleans for the holidays, and on Christmas Eve we sat around a huge bonfire singing songs. You volunteered to be a human sacrifice and throw yourself into the flames, and Dad was so touched he nearly let you do it. He has adored you ever since.

Me, too.

Soon, the wedding just sort of materialized. My mother did everything, which is why it was so perfect. All I did was fit into the dress.

Why did I want to get married? Honestly, it just seemed like the thing to do. We’d been living together for four years. What else was there to do? Break up? I didn’t want that. The bigger question, I guess, is this: Why you?

That’s simultaneously easy and impossible to answer.

Years earlier, just a few months after that fateful, drunken night at Hathaway’s Pond – WHOOPS! – I drove home from covering a late-night meeting. As I stomped up the stairs to my garage apartment, the most wonderful smell infused me with a calm and contentment I had not known for a long time. I opened my front door, and there you stood with a dish towel in your hand and a smile. You had just taken a homemade apple pie out of my oven. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for me. We ate pie for dinner that night, and afterwards sat watching my tiny television. You sat on the sofa, and I sat on the floor in front of you; you played with my hair. Do you remember? I was so anxious for that moment to last forever that I felt nearly paralyzed.

I loved you then, and I loved you on the day we married, but not nearly as much as I love you now. I know there are lots of reasons why marriages last long, but in my mind, the secret to our success is you.

I married you because weddings are fun, and I really wanted a diamond ring. But I’m with you still because when I’m cranky, you send me off to take a nap. You offer me the best bites out of the ice cream carton. You don’t snore, and you don’t mind if I read with the light on in the middle of the night. You love my body no matter how much I weigh. You clean the kitchen better than any man I know. You think I’m funny. You dance to Rock Lobster just to make the kids laugh. When I’m convinced I’ve failed at everything, you pull me out of the abyss, and when I have appointed myself queen of the world, you point out that my crown is missing some jewels.

One day a long time ago, as I was complaining (again) about whether I was successful enough in my various ventures, you said something I’ve never forgotten: I think the most extraordinary people in the world lead really ordinary lives.

It’s true. Some of them, in fact, make a really mean apple pie.

Love you always, always, forever.