I was surprised, flattered and very nervous when Sus asked me to do this post. Amazingly, the ONLY limits she gave were regarding length (several times, in fact). This is too big a responsibility for me. I am truly in awe of Susannah and all you bloggers. I marvel at your dedication, bravery, wit, intellect and TALENT. I am a lot of things but, as I have commented before, I am not a writer. I am a talker, for sure. I can talk anytime to anybody about anything--there are some who would say too much and too long. But sit me down to write and I become self-conscious, dumb--though still not brief. Never brief (that's my motto). One of the things I so admire and respect from talented writers like Susannah, Andy and her Dad (HEJ) is the way they not only come up with fresh ideas but that they can write in many directions seemingly unrelated, and then, miraculously, pull it all together in a flawless ending. Be warned: this won’t happen today. If anything you’ll probably get to the end and say, “What the Hell?” And, if one can write about anything, then how to decide? Anyone who knows me at all knows that I am genetically challenged when it comes to brevity. Because my father? Oh, how he did talk. I could tell you a story but... There’s so much to say, to talk about, so many words, ideas. Good writers say so much in so few, carefully chosen words and, as I warned, I am not a good writer. It took me all those words just to say that.
Here I am. Susannah's mom, now referred to as “Grandma Glitter.” (I must say I read my “intro” describing me as Charo… really! Maybe just a tiny bit with regard to accessorizing but I don’t like her--except for her energy which I covet.) I’ve thought about what I, at my age, with my experience and, dare I say, some degree of wisdom, could presume to say to you. The sad thing is that no one ever gets wisdom handed to them-we must earn our own. But if I could tell you the things that after many years and many life experiences I think are most important, it would be these:
First off: Family and most specifically, children, are the most important thing, period. I spent the early part of my life with the sure knowledge that I would be “special”… somehow “famous” (does everyone do that?). I didn’t know what I would do to get my name in lights or print, but I knew I would. Then in my early 30’s (yeah, it took me awhile to lose the illusion), I realized I would NOT ever be famous… and it was okay. Now, I look at my life and say that while I am very good at what I do (Director of a Homecare Agency) and love it, the FINEST and BEST thing I have ever done in my life is raise my children: Andy and Susannah. I should be famous just for that. I love my family more than I have words to express and they give me so much. Your family is everything in whatever form it takes: by birth or by choice through making a family made up of friends.
Numero 2: Live in the Present. It’s all any of us can do anyway. Live out loud. The most miraculous thing I’ve discovered is that none of us have any clue what’s going to happen. Ever. “What’s the best way to make God laugh? Have a plan.” If anyone had told me 8 years ago that I would be working for my competitor, living alone in a studio apartment on the edge of San Francisco's Tenderloin District and that I would absolutely love it, I’d have given them a big Elaine two-handed chest shove and said, “Get OUT of here!” Life just happens and you have no choice but to be amazed.
3. Love yourself. Look in the mirror to find your best friend. When I was younger I didn't know this, never even suspected it. But now? Now I cherish my own company. Now I realize how much I need my space and alone time. My bed is my safe place and I make it as scrumptious as possible, quilts and sleek sheets, soft fuzzy things and scented candles. Give yourself what you need.
Quatro: Laugh… if I couldn’t laugh at myself, my life, my tabloid magazines, my parrots, the fire station blaring across the street, I’d go mad. I often look at myself as if I were in my own sitcom. For instance, I live a block away from the city's own Grand Central Tranny, a hot bed of prostitution. Not only do I often get great compliments on my way to work (they LOVE my huge metallic gold, crystal and metal studded purse! Susannah hates it) but just the other day I was solicited! I’m 63 years old for chrissake. I was dressed for work and trying to hail a cab. While I am less conservative in style than my daughter, I don't think I go around looking like Mimi from The Drew Cary Show either. A 30-some odd guy pulled up in a muscle car, rolled down the passenger window and gestured for me to come get in the car. I thanked him and declined. He persisted. At first I thought he was just trying to give me a ride and wondered if he thought I was stupid enough to get in the car with a stranger. Didn't he realize he'd have to offer me candy first? Then it dawned on me… he thinks I’m a transsexual hooker! Hm. Compliment? For me, probably. Yes, I decided yes. What I’d say about that (other than ridiculous) is embrace the contradiction!
Well, I’ve gone on too long. I haven’t even explained how and why I came to be called “Grandma Glitter.” But given my daughter’s intro for me and some of the above it’s probably evident. I wear a lot of jewelry. I have never been of the belief that you twirl around in the mirror and take off the first thing that catches your eye. Instead, I twirl around and pile on more sparkle! I am the Original Fancy Nancy, Eloise before she ever stayed at The Plaza. And Zoey has always loved my bangles. Whenever we meet, the game of transferring the bracelets one by one from me to Zoey begins. She especially loves and remembers my “Zoey Heart Bangle.” Now the parting drill is that she puts a kiss on the heart for me to keep as she hands over the bangles one by one. If I have to pick a regret (and I try to live without regrets--what’s the friggin' point? No do-overs allowed!) it’s that I am not the grandmother I had. For one I don’t have that Grandmother house, all gingerbread and cocoa. I work. My very best and most nurturing, life-saving memories from childhood revolve around my grandparents in North Carolina. To this day the smell of BenGay, Mentholatum and the ticking of a Big Ben clock make me feel all warm and fuzzy. I would just sit there for hours cupping the loose skin underneath my grandmother's arm, cup cup cup, so soft and cool to the touch. Of course Zoey will have her own unique memories of her Grandma Glitter when she’s my age. Perhaps the glint of a QVC moissanite ring will warm her heart, I don't know. I can only hope that whatever they are, they will mean as much to her as mine do to me.
That’s it, folks. Nothing neatly tied up--just sort of stream of consciousness. Just sort of me. And this is where I twirl and add some more! Grandma Glitter is over and out, just a trail of sparkle where once I stood.
When Zoey was just a few months old there was an earthquake. It wasn’t that big, maybe a 4.5. This was at our old house in the city. Zoey was asleep on our bed and Bryan and I were in the kitchen. I have lived in California all my life. I have felt tiny tremors that I blamed on passing trucks. I have tingled with the endorphins of larger quakes when the floor swayed like a hammock beneath my feet. Earthquakes shock me with the thrill of someone who has never truly been touched by natural disaster. They are stories to be shared with the cashier at the supermarket, light and fun, a watercooler of where were you when? So I was surprised when that smallish 4.5 quake shook me with a magnitude I had never before felt. The kitchen tiles retro pink and burgundy, a jarring tilt-a-world, vertigo, a split moment when Bryan and I look at each other and my mouth fills with the sharp metallic tang of fear. The earth moves but it is no longer just me that it is moving. I picture Zoey on my bed, the plate glass window above her head cracking and falling, raining sheets of sharp. I picture the worst. Bryan is away for a few days, sailing down the coast of California with my dad. A subject worthy of its own post, worlds colliding, but what’s important here is that Zoey and I are alone. Last night Nacho slept with me, curled into the indentation of Bryan’s body in the fluffy feather-top mattress. At 2am I felt him jolt awake, then a deep guttural growl the likes of which I have never heard from a cat this side of the Serengeti. Then the crunch of something stepping on crinkly tissue paper. A crash. I turned on the light and bolted out of bed, naked. Nacho wouldn’t even get off the bed and there I was with bare feet and bare body gripping a 5” mag-flashlight as if it were a glock and I was sheathed in a bullet-proof body stocking. Was it a rat? A mouse? Another snake? A possum? Did a raccoon crawl through the open window? A midget? I never did find anything, and I never went back to sleep, either. After searching the entire house I lay back in bed with the cold metal flashlight resting lightly on my sternum. Ready. For sunrise. So many things go bump in the night when you are floating precariously on a sheet, a plate, bone porcelain thin, when you are on this earth with a crust so flaky. So many things rupture the sense of solidity. Motherhood has skinned me alive, left me ripe wide open, hollow and fragile. But at the same time it has filled me up, liquid steel poured molten hot into holes I never even knew were there. I am hollow, I am whole, both larger and smaller. I am afraid and brave all at the same time, the sudden release of the energy that is Zoey having ruptured something in me irreversibly. I am made stronger by quaking.
That's me, there in the back with the glasses.
In case any of you were wondering if I am your mama, the answer is no. And if you should argue with that statement my daughter will kick your ass. While laughing. And doing a jig. At two years old she has become a bit of a sociopath when it comes to what is hers and apparently, along with a new tiara, one Bonne Belle Lip Smacker, a scarf and a magic wand that lights up, I am hers. MAMA! She screams when I drop her off at daycare, one small hand smacking my ass as she says it. MY MAMA! Like a 30” pimp establishing ownership over one of his girls. And it kind of makes sense in that scenario, what with all the sticky hands and smiling eyes hovering around like a band of very short gypsies. But it does not really make sense when we are at home and Nacho has the nerve to curl around my ankles mewing for food. NO NACHO, THAS MY MAMA! Zoey has taken to pushing Nacho away from me, tiny toddler fingers perilously close to his backside kitten camera shutter. Push. MINE! And Bryan. Poor Bryan. It’s hard enough having a toddler and maintaining intimacy with your spouse, but when said toddler gets in your spouse’s face and fairly growls at him THAS MY MAMA! NO! it is all that much more difficult. Needless to say, Zoey is in jeopardy of ever having a sibling. Which right about now seems to be her agenda. And Bryan’s. On this they are in agreement. Saturday saw me as Zoey’s bitch from the minute she woke up at 5:30am. MAMA? MAMA! she called from her crib. MAMA! I HAVE A BOOGER NOSE! So I got up to wipe it, to change her diaper, to watch Dora’s Super Silly Fiesta, to make oatmeal and cuddle on the couch. Mama, you mine? Zoey asked all soft and sweet, the sunrise a sliver of warm pink outside her window. And in that moment I was.
Zoey has gotten to the age of pretend. I listen to her play by herself, feeding her teddy bear cups of tea and talking to the bird wall decals above her bed at night. You want some? She says, and then inexplicably, it’s very dangerous! Be careful! Keep trying! I have no idea what’s going on inside her head, if she's a bird or a lady dripping with diamonds, feathered mules on her feet. But she knows who she is, regardless of name, no matter the shoes. She is who she is and she doesn’t know anything else. I distinctly remember when I first learned I had a last name. My brother and I were sitting in the little red Datsun outside of our house on Scenic and my mom was in the driver’s seat, quizzing us on our phone number. 4534277453427745342774534277, she made us repeat it over and over and then she told us our last name. Remember it, she said, that is who you are. And it suddenly occurred to me that I had an identity. I was Susannah Jenkins, 4534277. Should I ever get lost that’s what I was supposed to say. But in realizing that others saw me as something, a name, a phone number, a house, hair, part of a family, a smile, shoes, as the daughter of someone who drove a little red Datsun—I suddenly already felt lost. I was no longer just the me that existed in the space of my own breath. My brother is no longer Andy. He goes by his full given name, which is Andrews, one man in plural, a family name passed down from generation to generation. So I could have remained Amanda after all, my eyes soft and large like a velvet painting. Andrews and Amanda, no rhyme there. I could have worn blue, although Amanda certainly does not speak with a Brooklyn accent. Amanda doesn't blog about baginas. But I couldn’t have kept that veil of me. The lack of knowledge that others see me as a girl, as silly, as a nuisance, as beautiful and ugly, as awkward, as a phone number and a name, a place, as someone who stands with her toes turned inward. Because there comes a point in growing up when we gain the knowledge of our place in the world and lose the single solid sense of who we are without the noise of opinion. I watch Zoey as she studies an earring I have dropped on the bathroom floor, the way her chubby little fingers turn it this way and that, the way she softly pushes it deep inside her ear canal until I scream at her to stop. It’s dangerous! I say. Be careful! And she turns to me and smiles, the serenity of someone who knows who she is no matter what anyone thinks. And because I am her mother, Susannah, a girl who looks good in purple, a woman who has a husband that calls her an 'an emotional fish,' I look at my daughter's smile, at the gold glittering in ear wax, and I mourn the loss of her sense of herself. I mourn her knowing her name.
