Julia Roberts Summer

The other day a stranger said to me, "You have the most serious expression on your face of anyone I have ever seen in this entire town." He was seated on the bench outside the coffee shop and I blinked several times in response, gave him a pained smile stretched very, very thin and turned deliberately to the right, fast. A friend waved at me from across the street and part of the interaction's intensity was deflected.

Summer is this. It is humidity and sultriness. Movie trailers about adultery. Peaches, sloppy eager local peaches. Seven peaches on a tray frozen whole in the freezer. Two ears of corn. Basil packed into plastic bags and weird interactions with men affected by the heat.

Outside another cafe the following week-a man, blonde hair, strange hat, crazy eyes, maybe even plaid pants toddled over to me with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth mumbling, "Does this even make sense? Does it?" I nod, blink in response and return to the cafe waiting until he disappears to walk home. Is it the heat that agitates men, that fries and oils their brains, burns up the senses? Is there more mania in the summer? More psychotic breaks, passionate outbursts, hissing water in August? More pink nipples and cussing? I do think that the heat does something and that something is tripled when there is a full orange moon with gray clouds slipping across over and over obscuring and then revealing it. Everything is more alive, insects literally buzz with life.

It's best to spend hours on blow up floats on a lake foot to foot with someone you trust reclined watching clouds until nightfall when the lighthouse turns on its light. The water is green-clear and a large fish can cause a usually appropriate woman to scream shrilly and run out of the water holding onto the straps of her bikini top. The water coming out of the tap flows cloudy into jelly jars.


I watch Pretty Woman for the 100th time and am finally infuriated. I've always wondered when this would happen. I remember my grandmother being livid when as a teen I told her I loved that movie and ate up every moment between Richard Gere and Julia Roberts. I thought my grandmother was being prim. She's just uptight. She thinks it's rape when there's a vigorous sex scene between two consenting adults. This time I feel myself contract every time Richard Gere tells her to "Stop fidgeting." Why is he teaching her to be a lady?

During the movie my friend recites facts about it. She loves it. Julia Roberts had her feet tickled by the director to make her laugh authentic. Richard Gere was told that only one character moves in this move and it's not you.  My friend says she used to lie down in the snow and kick her legs up in the air yelling "$3000" (the amount of money Vivian/Julia Roberts paid for a week with Edward) until her mom told her to stop. She was raised Pentecostal.

The heat is unbearable during the movie. Julia Roberts hung out with prostitutes and that's how she knew they don't kiss on the mouth. She was supposed to be caught with drugs in the original script but they made it dental floss.  They must have changed that quickly when they saw her huge, gleaming white teeth. Does every white woman have a relationship with Julia Roberts? At age 13, I was so excited when a drunk man told me I looked like her at the bus stop. I find that I am admonishing her in my mind during the movie. I hope you're not proud of this movie, including the cheap faux feminist ending where you tell him you'll save him back after he saved you. Your hair does look good though. And I think I read that you're a Scorpio.

It was 1991 when Pretty Woman came out and  the story of sexy Richard Gere saves quirky hot hooker who relaxes his type A ways was grafted onto my skin like puberty stretch-marks. My mind was so malleable back then and any media with sex absorbed quickly. This is what summer does, makes me remember other summers and how I learned woman and man and crazy. Thank goodness for feminism which saved all the women Julia Roberts taught how to walk and laugh.

I find myself returning to that stranger sitting on the bench judging my neutral face on a humid summer's day. I'm thinking of tomatoes  and ground cherries, unaware of being watched at first. Would Richard Gere have gently tugged a man's arm if he had a sour expression? Would he have told him to stay still? Would that weird stranger have told a six foot tall wide shouldered man that he looked serious? No.

Julia, you fought off that Seinfeld actor when he tried to assault you but instead of a moment which highlighted that he's an asshole, we're supposed to think, Isn't it awesome she still has her self-worth  even though she's a prostitute? Remember though, you don't have that much clout or self worth. The writers made sure to have Edward to escort you back to the snotty clothing store for your corrective class experience. Couldn't you have done that by yourself or with an awesome lady-friend?  Even during that scene where you're being fawned over by those shitty women, it is because he said so and he has the money. But the scene is supposed to read: redemption and fuck you and apologize (because I have a man who is powerful). And it did just that, with simplicity and satisfaction when I was nine years old watching something forbidden. And even now,  I'm not immune to a young Richard Gere or a young Julia Roberts for that matter. I have been conditioned to inhale romantic myth so fast it digests like those straws full of colored sugar.  As a teen, I probably loved that Edward played the piano. I probably loved the way he took her face in her hands. But now when he takes off his shoes in Manhattan in the summer I think, just another weird guy losing his shit in August.


 

Vanessa Brackett
August 2012
Vanessa blogs at increase the levels of radiance

I Was Here (Beth DeSombre)

He gets off work at midnight, takes the F train back uptown
He shakes off all the daily slights and times he’s been put down
He rides for hours back and forth, carves lines with an old pen
And when he’s done the windows of that train will say again
   
    I was here; I mattered
    What I’ve done has left a mark
    When I’m gone, they’ll notice
    A beacon in the dark
    Although I walk in shadows now I will not disappear
    I was here, I was here

She spends the evening serving coffee; every night’s the same
The customers leave tips in pennies; no one knows her name
She thinks up rhymes throughout her shift and writes them down at home
She greets the morning on the corner, handing out her poems

    I was here; I mattered
    What I’ve done has left a mark
    When I’m gone, they’ll notice
    A beacon in the dark
    Although I walk in shadows now I will not disappear
    I was here, I was here

A subway sign with every other letter scribbled out
Late night rhythmic lyrics punctuated with a shout
Impossibly high billboards that bear ten spray-painted names
A handprint placed in fresh cement; all serve to make one claim

    I was here; I mattered
    What I’ve done has left a mark
    When I’m gone, they’ll notice
    A beacon in the dark
    Although I walk in shadows now I will not disappear
    I was here, I was here
    I was here, I was here






© Beth DeSombre 2012

Mothering as Middle School

Becoming a mother is a lot like entering middle school.  Everyone desperately wants to be unique--in as normal and acceptable a way as possible.  Most people you know who are eager to give you mothering advice seem either unbearably old or just barely surviving whatever developmental hell their own children are experiencing.  If you are lucky, you will encounter a big sister or two who will not sugarcoat the experience, but will show true joy in the presence of her children. 

Mostly, though, you, like your teenage self, will feel like nobody understands you.  Even, and perhaps especially, when surrounded by the mothers of other babies, you will look around and think that all of these women have it so much more together than you. They pack organic snack food in reusable containers, and tote special zippered bags for their dirty diapers.  They pack these diapers in elegant handbags designed for weekend jaunts to the Hamptons.  They are the cool girls. You will feel slightly superior to the mom who always shows up late, with spit-up stains on her clothes, carrying extra diapers in a grocery bag. 

You will wonder, every hour of the first 365 days of your child’s life, whether what you are doing is normal. Someone will have written a book, or six, about every decision you question.  The books will not agree.  You will read them all, and still question all your decisions.  Your pediatrician will become the designated arbiter of normalcy when it comes to your choices as a parent, followed closely by your mother.  After the first 365 days, your question will shift.  You will find yourself wondering more and more whether your child--your precious, perfect child--is normal.

You will read dozens of books about child development, temperament, discipline, and a slate of child-rearing practices designed to turn out the child of your dreams.  Your child will not read any of these books.  He does not know that a choice between two options you have deemed acceptable will make him feel empowered.  He will make a third choice.  When he disapproves of his options, he will inform you loudly, “That is not a choice!” 

 In return, you will say things you have not said since seventh grade, like, “Fine. Be that way.”
You are a middle-school girl being taunted by a tiny, strong-willed narcissist.  You will wonder how he got so stubborn.  Sometimes, knowing he got it from you will make you laugh.  A lot. Sometimes you will cry. A lot. You will learn that even the cool girls, with their fancy handbags and designer sunglasses, cry, too.  And that sometimes the mom covered in spit-up stains seems to be having more fun than is reasonable.  You will try to learn how she does it.  You will start to notice that sometimes you laugh out loud at your beloved child when he is being especially unreasonable.  You will be relieved to know he has a sense of humor when he laughs with you. 

Some time after you have read all the books and think you have dodged all the nosy questions about how, when, where, and for how long your kid sleeps, nurses, eats, plays independently, and uses the toilet, you will realize you don’t care what they think, these arbiters of proper parenting--the authors, the pediatricians, the preschool teachers, the cool moms, your mother.  You don’t care about being normal anymore.  Though you still dream about a good night’s sleep the way you used to dream about a good-night kiss.

Congratulations!  You’ve graduated from middle school.



Shakira
July 2012