Solitude Part II: She's The One That I Want

I’ve had Cha-cha (daughter Jane) to myself for a couple of days now, while the boys are off backpacking. One child, as opposed to the usual two, in my care is a poignant illustration of "The whole being greater than the sum of the parts." Having her alone is relaxing and exhausting.

Relaxing in that I am not constantly trailing after her, picking up, wiping up, breaking up high-pitched fisticuffs. She is relatively tidy, and strives for self-sufficiency, so I am not endlessly preparing and cleaning up after snacks, meals, special orders,

Exhausting in that she is talkative, engaging, curious, flirtatious, and adoring. Questions, what-ifs, infinite observations, running commentaries, frequent importunate requests to play “pretend” games that are all minor variations of the “One day you found an orphan girl (homeless kitty, stray hungry puppy, starving baby ratty) on your front doorstep…” theme. She never stops talking, petting my arm, cuddling up into the circle of my lap.

Cha-cha Alone has the same effect on me as a very dry martini: The straight shot of icy cold vodka undiluted by even the barest mist of vermouth. Jane Alone gets me high and renders me legless and incapable.

But I found a way to get some down time. Thank you, John Travolta. Thank you, iPod. I can slither back between the pages of a book and Cha-cha is blissfully occupied, thanks to the Grease soundtrack, downloaded the day before, and currently plugged into her head. My book and I -- alone at last.

She stands in front of the mirror in my bedroom, in a black velveteen catsuit leftover from Halloween and a pair of beat up black cowboy boots prancing through “You’re the One That I Want,” warbling at top volume with absolutely no regard to pitch or key. Pick a note, Cha-cha. After watching this movie about 6 times in one week, she decided she was Sandy – no wait, she’s Rizzo, no! She’s Kenicky! (Like her mother, she does not restrict her heroes based on gender. In her imagination she can be anyone or anything she wants to be.)

I want to read, but I am enchanted, watching her. Immersed in her tableau, she has forgotten I am even there. My vain little daughter, slithering and prancing in front of the mirror. She knows all the words, all the steps.

If someone asked me what the best thing we did all summer was, I’d have to answer, Family Movie Night Under The Stars. Jane had been in the middle of her Grease bender when we noticed a poster at the public library advertising Grease played on an outdoor screen at a nearby park. The event was sponsored by the parks and rec department and looked endearingly low budget and homegrown. So on the appointed night, we packed a picnic and some folding chairs and set out for the park.

Jane had done her homework. The event included a Sandy and Danny Lookalike Contest. She dragged out the catsuit and foraged for the pair of castoff boots. I curled and ratted her hair and applied lipstick sparingly. In front of the mirror, Jane regarded her reflection with satisfaction. Cocked her hip, threw her shoulders back and smiled flirtatiously, teetering to the car, trying to strut on the unfamiliar heels. Call me Sandy, Mama.

The park was decked out for the event with carnival games, crafts, a lemonade stand and a pizza stand. A DJ was setting up at one end of the park. A huge movie screen stretched the width of the park at the other end. The parking lot was crowded with vintage cars from the ‘50s. T Birds, Corvairs, Corvettes, and Chevy Bel-Airs. In the lingering light of the early-evening, families were trailing into the park, spreading blankets, setting up picnics. Zorro set up in a prime spot right in front of the movie screen and the evening unfolded.

Within 13 seconds of opening my first cold beer, the DJ fired into high volume, doing a frenzied 50s-radio shtick . He never broke character all night. Games! He announced a hula-hoop contest, narrating round after round. A hopscotch contest, which I won. Obstacle courses! Hand-jive contests! Trivia contest! Kids and their parents participated enthusiastically and – after a few hours and rounds of beer – maniacally and loudly.

Finally came the Danny and Sandy Lookalike contests. Jane had been strutting and dancing front and center of the DJ booth all evening. She was the only Sandy contestant not dressed in a poodle skirt and a sweater set. Round after round, Jane won by thunderous applause. She stood there, smiling like Sandy, hand on skinny little hip, perpetually in character. For the last round, some simpering parent hoisted her still-in-diapers daughter, dressed in a bunched up, broke-ass poodle skirt, and set her down in the lineup. Cheap shot. The baby Sandy won.

The judges gave my Cha-cha a prize anyway. Jane was totally cool with it, but I was a bitter stage mother. Jane was robbed. We’ll sure as shit be back next year. Trust.

Where was I? Yes. Alone with Jane. Watching as she warbles, off-key, to her reflection.

“Summer lovin’
Had me a blast
Summer loving
Happened so fast”

Screw my book. I may not get this kind of special performance again. I’m hopelessly devoted to Jane.

Solitude, Part I

All my life all I ever wanted was a family: husband, children, brothers and sisters all around me. I got that. I adore them. I would cease to exist if something happened to them. Dust.

However.

I adore being alone almost as much. Alone, alone alone with my thoughts, independent pursuits, my own agenda, a book. Every birthday and Mothers' Day I ask only for the luxury of the whole day to myself.

Every now and again a fluke happens in my life such as the one I am currently enjoying: My family is gone for the weekend. Zorro and T-Rex backpacking. The Cha-Cha spending some time with Scary Mary.

I poked a cold beer into each pocket of my jacket and walked to the movies and saw:

Becoming Jane

No secret that I love Austen. I know a fair amount about her, and I re-read her books in an endless loop all the year round. Snippets of chapters here and there. Sometimes I wish I could superimpose my constant rumination of her characters over my real life, making my own version of a book-club analysis of my family and friends. Drawing parallels...Scary Mary as a hybrid Lady Catherine DeBourgh and Colonel Brandon. My daughter as Marianne Dashwood. My sister as Elinor Dashwood crossed with Charlotte Collins. Myself as an unflattering but realistic mishmash of Mary Musgrove, Henry Crawford, Emma Woodhouse and Mr. Palmer.

I had no strong feeling about a fictionalized movie being made of her life. I had no expectations. No innate scorn to overcome. Honest.

I am so glad I was alone in the theater because I was gorked out and embarrassed by everything in this movie. I still am. It was Cringe-Fest '07. I think it was the ham-handed writing. The un-finesse-y way pieces of her books were wedged into the plot. The awkward overt verbal ripostes. The lovely girl who played Jane was a real beauty, and I have liked her in some other movies I have seen with my little daughter, but in this she was unsubtle, twitchy, and overdone. I am all squinched up thinking about some of the forced tete-a-tete in this movie.

The sets and costumes were beautiful and detailed. The actor who played the Tom LeFroy character was good....so much better than the Jane character. I remember him being the very best thing about The Last King of Scotland, too.

I looked at my watch a few times. Bummer.

On the upside, I spent the rest of the day cleaning the house. Can't wait for my family to get back and mess it up.

I sort of miss my bookclub sometimes. I have belonged to two. The first was a bookclub that I was invited to join by a friend. The other members all knew each other from their (Episcopal) church. Everything was cool. We read some good ones and some not-so. Kate Chopin's The Awakening failed to keep me awakened. There was one member who was bossy and dominated every discussion, convinced of her superiority because she was a lit professor at the local junior college. The night we gathered to discuss the book I chose (Animal Dreams by Barbara Kingsolver), she showed up and declared that she did not finish the book.

"I just couldn't get through it," she declared. "It was almost as bad as a Harlequin romance."

OK, well, to each her own, but I was a little wounded, especially because everyone else seemed to like it. But, OK, right? When it was her turn to recommend a book she chose The Brothers Karamazov. Please. Spare me. This thing is 1000 pages and one of the most complex books ever written (I exaggerate...you get the idea). But the nail in the coffin was when someone chose Angela's Ashes (which I could take or leave). In the discussion this same member commented about one of the many arduous challenges recounted in the Irish family's life -- "Well what do you expect? I mean these people were Catholics, and we all know that does not exactly mean they are Christian."

So yeah, I stopped coming to the book club meetings after that. Three Strike rule.