Merde Gifts

PART FOUR-MY USELESS FEMALE PARTS START TO HURT

So, the recital unfolded in front of our awe-stricken eyes. Every person in the auditorium gasped with admiration and excitement when their Little Precious took the stage.

But I slowly became aware that an intruder was here to..in the words of a famous China parent...Steal My Joy. I started having cramps.

I made it through the recital and climbed quietly in the back seat of the van and opened my Secret Jar Of Sanity. I began eating Motrin (Prescription Strength, 800mg) like Tic-Tacs. Motrins are hard on my body, but I can't deal with the pain. I tried to keep it light, but just before we got to the cast party, Roger hit a speed bump and I screamed, clutching my ornery insides, "OH MY GOD!" The whole family turned around to look at me, aghast.

The tension of the recital and the pain burst a dam. I started to sob. "I'm in pain," I sobbed. "Terrible, terrible, pain."

Two little girls looked at me in horror. I try not to cry around them. I'm not trying to be the Little Spartan, but I think that parents ought to save crying for truly sad events. It shakes up a kid's world. Kids need to be able to look to their parents for stability. I sobbed briefly for a few seconds, then got up and brushed it off. On with the party!

Fortunately the kids were distracted with Merde Gifts. Merde means "shit" in French. You've heard of "Break A Leg", right? Ok, well, the custom in the theatah world is to give little "Break A Leg" or "Merde" gifts. Each ballerina gives them to the other kids in their group. Bring it! The happiness at receiving a bag filled with toys drove any thoughts of their sobbing, irrational mom out of their head.

Oh kids, remember this one day when we have the Serious Talk About Womanhood.

I won't tell you about the Joy Of Being A Girl.

Because there isn't any.

IT SUCKS.

Oh, and guys? I've HEARD the story before about how awful it is to be a male and how you became excited during 7th grade World History while fantasizing about Ms. Hotteacher and how that is just so awful and how'd you like to walk around with a body part that tends to have a mind of its own and blah blah blah and I'll see that untimely event and raise you a body part that CAUSES A LIFETIME OF PURE HELL. 

Thank you and have a nice day.

eta:   Later I was diagnosed with Stage 3 endometriosis and all my internal organs were removed, causing this disabling fibromyalgia.   So the joy never ends.

Sign My Scrapbook!

Back to the Never Ending Story of the Ballet Recital, which you're probably sick of and looking for the X box right now. But bear with me for just a little while longer.


Yeah, they helped. I rapidly morphed--honestly, they should make a TRANSFORMER DOLL starring me--from Mature, Mellow, Pain-Stricken But Basically Stop-And-Smell-The-Roses Lorrie to Young Lorrie. Young Lorrie? Bore a striking and terrifying resemblance to Young Frankenstein.


In my younger days, I was insanely competitive. I can't even begin to tell you how insanely driven and competitive I was. Let me see:


1. High school-skipped 1 year, graduated 11th in class of 450.
2. College-skipped 1 year, graduated 11th in class of 4,500. Graduated Magna Cum Laude.
3. Law school-skipped one semester, discovered something even more interesting than books--men--yeah YOU--and graduated Thank You Lawdy (And thank you old boyfriend for helping me with the Uniform Commercial Code).


I was 23 when I was sworn into the bar. I was single minded to the point of, seriously, madness. That was a long, long time ago.


I am now happily self-benched and on the Mommy Track to Oblivion And Poverty.


But Young Lorrie comes bursting out at inopportune times, like at a ballet cast party hopped up on painkillers.


Happily Stoned Young Lorrie wrote a check for $60.00 for 2 DVDs of the performance and 2 scrapbooks. The kids were supposed to get their friends to sign the scrapbooks. I placed the scrapbooks into their little hands and instructed them that they were supposed to get their friends to sign them.


Young Lorrie would have grabbed the scrapbooks and began soliciting signatures immediately (It was my goal to have more signatures in my yearbook than anybody else, a goal that makes sense only to a teenager, I guess).


The kids just stood there.


"Look! There's Lindsay! There's Evelyn! There's Darienne! KIDS ARE ALREADY LEAVING THE PARTY FOR GOD'S SAKE I DIDN'T JUST PAY THIRTY DOLLARS FOR SOME PIECES OF PAPER BETWEEN SCROUNGY CARDBOARD FOR NOTHING! GET OVER THERE AND GET THE KIDS TO SIGN THE SCRAPBOOK NOW!"


Lord, my kids are going to write the sequel to Mommie Dearest.


Seriously, I have GOT to stand down. I had parents who didn't fight my battles because they were gentle, kindly, and courteous souls, so my sister and I became ball busting beyotches. I have to strike a happy medium here. Be ready to go into battle for a true problem, but otherwise back off and let them handle life on their own.


I know this.


It's just that Young Lorrie doesn't.


I'm going to have to get in touch with my inner child and feed her some Xanax.