How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane (27 page)

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Which, just to reiterate, it doesn't.

seventeen

WAYS IN WHICH MY PRESCHOOLER HAS INSULTED ME

MOMMY, WHEN YOU MOVE YOUR ARMS REALLY FAST, SOMETIMES IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU'RE CLAPPING
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CAMPBELL'S MOM IS SO MUCH PRETTIER THAN YOU. AND FUN-NER. AND NICER. BUT YOU'RE BETTER AT FOLDING THINGS
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MOMMY, YOUR TUMMY LOOKS LIKE A BAGEL
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DON'T SING ANYMORE, MOMMY. IT MAKES MY EARS SAD
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WHEN WE GET HOME I'LL TELL YOU ALL THE THINGS YOU DID WRONG TODAY, MOMMY
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WHAT ELSE DON'T YOU KNOW?
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OW, MOMMY, YOUR FEET ARE TOO SCRATCHY!
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MOMMY, ARE YOU GOING TO MAKE YOURSELF PRETTY TODAY, OR
ARE YOU GOING TO LOOK LIKE YOU ALWAYS DO?
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WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE A DINOSAUR WHEN YOU DANCE?
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SOMETIMES YOUR MAD FACE MAKES ME LAUGH
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IS DADDY COMING HOME SOON? YOU'RE BORING
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MOMMY, DID YOU TAKE A SHOWER TODAY? BECAUSE I DON'T THINK IT WORKED
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MOMMY, CAN I HAVE YOUR IPAD WHEN YOU DIE?
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SOMETIMES WHEN YOU KISS ME YOUR TEETH SMELL LIKE SOCKS
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MOMMY, YOUR BUTT IS JIGGLY LIKE JELLY. AND ALSO LIKE JELLO
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YOU HAVE A LOT OF HAIRS ON YOUR FACE. IS THAT A MUSTACHE OR A BEARD?
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I WANT DADDY TO READ MY BEDTIME STORY. HE READS IT BETTER AND HE DOESN'T TALK SO LOUD
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CLARA AND I WERE PLAYING IN YOUR UNDERPANTS. THEY FIT BOTH OF US AT THE SAME TIME, HA HA!
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THE HAIR ON YOUR LEGS REMINDS ME OF A DANDELION. THE FURRY KIND YOU BLOW ON
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WHY DO YOU HAVE ALL THOSE MEAN LINES ON YOUR FACE?
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WHICH ONE IS THE OLDEST: GRANDMA, GRANDPA, OR YOU?
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AUGH!! YOU SCARED ME. YOUR FACE LOOKED LIKE AN ALIEN
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IT'S SO FUNNY HOW THE HAIR ON YOUR KIKI LOOKS LIKE A SQUIRREL'S TAIL
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WHEN YOU DIE CAN I ALSO HAVE YOUR WEDDING RING?
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YOUR BREATH SMELLS LIKE A FART.

eighteen

MY VERY AMERICAN GIRL

“M
OMMY, YOU'RE GOING TOO FAST.”

It's eight o'clock on a Saturday morning. We are speed-walking to a yard sale that I've been planning to hit since last night when I'd pulled the flier off a telephone pole and committed the address to memory before using it to pick up a piece of my dog's Tootsie Roll–size poo.

Honoring my daughter's request, I slow my pace, though this is difficult for me—like holding back a jaguar about to pounce upon an injured fawn. The quest for bargains falls somewhere between sport and religion for me. I take after my mom in this regard—and I say this with deep respect for the woman who has given me food
poisoning more than once because of her insistence on keeping food long past the “fresh by” date.

The fact is, I love my shopping like I like my men: cheap, easy, and accessible by car. . . . But mostly just cheap. I once bought sixteen boxes of tampons at the corner store because they were discounted by 75 percent. Why they were so heavily marked down, I have no idea, but if you'd told me it was because they were “pre-owned,” it wouldn't have made a difference to me: I am all about the bargain, and the bragging rights that follow.

Yard sales occupy a special place in my heart—not only are they like snowflakes in their uniqueness, they offer the added thrill of the chase. It's elemental; man versus man, Haggler versus Hag. The argument could even be made that I am borderline ruthless in my pursuit of the perfect deal; I once came very close to wounding a woman over a yard-sale fondue pot. I had just picked it up to inspect it when she yelled to the owner, “HOW MUCH YOU WANT FOR THAT?” as though the volume of her desperate request trumped my “possession is nine-tenths of the law” status. I was so enraged I nearly stabbed her with one of the still faintly cheesy-smelling skewers; instead, I regained my composure, hissed a “thanks” at her for brokering my deal, and then sauntered away, one Three-Dollar Fondue Pot richer.

I am the Queen of the Crap That You No Longer Want or Need. And on this Saturday morning I am salivating at the thought of sharing—and eventually handing off—the glorious crown to my four-year-old daughter.

As we walk up the cracked driveway, a sea of treasures spreads out before us, and my heartbeat quickens with the potential of what we might find.

I am making a quick and thorough visual scan of the goods (men's clothes, garden tools, a poorly collaged mirror, stained luggage) when I see the seller: a sixtyish woman poured into a yellow “Juicy” tracksuit, a hot-pink fanny pack bisecting her middle, and on her head a nest of orange curly hair just barely contained by a “Las Vegas Is for Lovers” visor. The sight of this woman at so early an hour makes my corneas ache.

She is in midhaggle with a young couple over a dingy, busted-up wicker armchair. “Can I give you twenty dollars?” the man asks.

“I paid over a thousand dollars for that new in 1983,” she drawls. “All it needs is to be recaned, reglued, restuffed, and upholstered. And you want me to give it away for twenty dollars? No, sir! One fifty's the lowest I can go.”

This isn't haggling; this is delusional price-setting, a cardinal sin among yard salers. Clearly, her overenthusiastic use of chemical hair dye has obliterated her common sense. We will not score here—it is time to cut bait.

I grab my daughter's hand. “Doesn't look like they have anything we need. Let's go home for waffles!”

The Vegas-loving eyesore steps in front of my daughter: “What a sweet pea! I bet I've got something you'd like!” And before I can process what is about to happen, she flexes her sausage-cased arms and opens a suitcase to reveal a disheveled doll who smiles blankly, oblivious to the shit storm that she is about to unleash.

A sweat mustache begins to form on my lip. I try to steer my child away, but I can see by her wide-eyed expression that I am too late.