A Walk in the Snark

by Rachel Thompson

  I think back to those innocent (I said, go with it) early days when we would watch Friends as a nation. We could hardly wait for 8:00 p.m. on Thursday nights to roll around for the start of “Must See TV”—remember that? Where there was no DVR to pause your show for a pee break—you had to wait for a commercial. No iTunes, no Hulu. We were ripe for a show that followed our indulgent twentysomethings around, who lived exciting lives that many of us could only dream of, and we embraced it wholeheartedly.

  I didn’t want to miss a second of seeing what cute clothes Rachel and Monica were wearing that week; or what Rachel’s perfect hair looked like; or what weird, crazy junk they were putting in poor Phoebe’s hair; or how much grease they used in the guys’ hair (definitely a hair theme here…huh); or what joke they would give Chandler (could he BE any funnier?); and whether Ross would get married again (and again, and again); and then there was our Joey.

  I, for one, did not want to miss a second of his trademark line, “How you doin’?” delivered not so much as a question but more as a “Babe, you look hot tonight and when are we gonna do it?” sort of thing. Goes totally against all of my feminist leanings and principles, and yet still had me laughing like a schoolgirl. The fact that he was dumb as a stump helped. And that he was cute. And could snap open a bra with one hand (“It’s not my first time.”) Classic.

  Phoebe asked Joey once what he thought of her when they first met. He said “Excellent butt, great rack.” Her response? “Really? That’s so sweet. I mean, officially I’m offended—but sweet,” as she puts her hand up to her mouth and giggles in a girlish manner. I love this line because it so captures the essence of what men are all about at their core.

  No matter how we women trot out our brains, our humor, our amazing talents, men are simply programmed to laser in on our racks when they meet us. It just is what it is.

  Therefore, I have learned to accept that and even embrace it. Many women have not, and are uncomfortable and even offended by that; many of you may disagree with me. Hogwash. I say hey, listen girls, you have breasts (I’ll let you in on a little secret: they know). Men will look. Let ’em look. I think, and I’m sure I’m not alone in this, that having breasts gives us power over men. A certain allure, if you will, that can have them eating out of our hands. I even know some men that will agree with that statement. I am not saying flaunt them—though certainly feel free if that is your thing—all I’m saying is that men will look, so use that in your favor, not against it.

  So, what do Friends and boobs have to do with my coffeemaker, Joey?

  Well, I probably did not realize the importance of having my sweet, sweet Joey at the ready every morning (heads out of the gutter, people. We are talking about my coffeemaker here, jeez) until I had two children. It was then that I knew I had outgrown my dearest Friends. No longer did I have the time, or the energy, to run to the coffeehouse for a cup and some social time, as they did in their show. No longer did I find their problems very believable or relatable (not that I really did in the first place—I mean, did you see the size of Monica’s apartment? I lived in NYC. I know.) So I invested in a top-of-the-line coffeemaker that makes me a fresh cup whenever I want one. Lovely.

  As for my breasts, well, I could go all Seinfeld on you (think about it…) but for now let’s just say that although I live in the OC, the OC does not live in me.

  And we will leave it at that.

  ***

  TREASURES

  While we may differ radically in our cooking styles (he cooks, I don’t), and our need for caffeine (I freak if I run out of coffee, whereas he just looks at me like I’m crazy), my husband and I both agreed early on that we wanted children. And we definitely wanted a girl.

  We waited seven years to have our first child, Anya. She’s named after JP’s beloved Greek mom, Anastascea, who sadly, passed away before he and I ever even met.

  We needed a nickname, so while on bed rest I saw the animated movie Anastasia, where the Russian grandmother called her granddaughter Anya.

  Soon after, I yelled loudly for JP; he thought I was in labor. Nope. Just finally figured out what to call our girl.

  Jeez, calm down, dude.

  (Anya, dressed for Halloween, 2010)

  Eleven years ago, in July of 1999, I entered the hospital.

  I was miserable.

  I was pregnant.

  A smartass male nurse, the type with the witty repartee you see on TV but so rarely encounter in real life, particularly when in labor and your sense of humor is half-mast at best, sauntered in around midnight, began my evil Pitocin drip and handed me a very pretty little Haldol capsule.

  Jose said, “Enjoy, chica. This will be the last night of full sleep you will have for eighteen years.”

  Brother was so totally not kidding.

  And yet…

  It sounds cliché to say that I wouldn’t trade a second of time with my daughter, Anya, but it’s true. Well, maybe those two broken arms. Those weren’t much fun, to be honest.

  And I can do without the drama queen meltdowns she seems to be quite fond of these days. And all the “in a minutes,” that seldom come to fruition when I “remind” her to do her chores.

  But I digress.

  Actually, the above isn’t entirely true. Because what comes on the opposite side of the broken arms and the meltdowns are the hugs, kisses, snuggles, and talks. The bonding and the closeness, the tears and conversations about the unfairness of the world, the beauty of the stars, and caressing the sweet softness of her little brother as he sleeps.

  Precious treasures that I keep folded closely, inside my heart.

  Her gift to me.

  Happy birthday, baby.

  ***

  CONTACT

  Parenthood is everything you think it will be and so much more (plus Mama Drama if you have a girl.) But there is no escaping this situation if you’re a parent. You think you’re immune. But you’re not. There’s no place I’d rather have been than alone on a train platform, on my way to anywhere but here when they told me my kid had lice.

  But you can’t. You must buck up. And yet…

  Men and women handle icky kid situations differently: Women drink vodka as they handle their inner freak-outs. (Then later they go shopping.) Or ya know, write about it.

  Men hand over their credit card; then leave.

  In other words: marriage, baby.

  I guarantee you will start scratching your head as soon you read this word: lice.

  I know I did the second I got The Call from Nurse Ratched at my daughter's school on Friday when she told us to come pick up our 11-year-old contagion immediately because her head had been infested with microscopic critters and she must be removed from the premises before she infected the entire school and they all died a hideous death within seconds.

  A slight exaggeration.

  On our way out the door, as fate would have it, our exterminator arrived. He offered to tent and fumigate our daughter and could have a crew out by day’s end.

  We said we’d wait and see.

  No sooner had I arrived full of questions than Nursey quickly bum-rushed me right back out with my toxic-waste dump of a child. As she padlocked her door, Ratched was very clear about one thing as she donned her gas mask—only use RID®, the chemical pesticide that is considered most effective but can potentially burn your kid's scalp and cause blindness. Your child may have no hair left and be blind, but by golly, she will be lice free.

  Now, get the hell out.

  I went straight to CVS and bought one of every lice-removal product they had. Okay, two. But which would work without turning my kid into Sir Patrick Stewart? ("Make it so, Mommy.")

  One of my most germophobic (though quite lovely) friends fortunately knew of some highly effective natural rosemary oil-based products called Fairy Tales—I promptly bought the whole line. Her kids are always bug free—works for me.

  Too late for me (why wasn't I more germophobic, damn it!) but at least I could use the product l
ine now and reap the, er, benefits.

  Talk about a Brave New World.

  After I came home and slammed a few vodkas, I began treating my girl’s head. The instructions also say the adults should check each other.

  Now there’s some sexy fun for a Friday evening.

  I checked my husband, who has short, gray hair. Easy. Nothing. My head, one big itch since I heard the word lice (I can see you scratching), is sitting politely atop my neck in anticipation, waiting for that awful confirmation, as husband looks at my scalp with a magnifying glass.

  “What am I looking for?” he asks with an impatient sigh. I’ve already shown him the lovely pics from the Internet. “Well, I can’t tell,” he gives up in frustration.

  And then he leaves. Because that’s what men do when faced with a crisis of the yucky kid variety (see also, “Men are from Seinfeld, Women are from Friends.”)

  I drink more vodka.

  At this point my same lovely germophobe friend texted me that she had called in The Hair Whisperers. They are apparently like the Cesar Millan of lice—except the bugs don’t just obey, they ya know, die.

  I should expect my personal whisperer in the next 3-4 hours.

  Time passed slowly, as my daughter, clad in underwear and shower cap (blackmail pictures did cross my mind) sat watching The Real Housewives of Embarrassing and Shameful Behavior.

  I didn’t care. I was drunk and scratching every inch of my body as I laundered our linens and vacuumed my floors, walls, ceilings, and son.

  Finally, Marleigh, Our Savior Goddess from The Hair Whisperers, came to our rescue. She entered with a smile and a glow—our Holy Angel of Bug Removal had arrived.

  Marleigh waved her magic wand (heat, actually) to check my family for bugs.

  Isn’t that just special?

  As I waited anxiously, flashes of how Nurse Ratched had unceremoniously kicked my 11-year-old radioactive daughter out of school for wanton and rampant lice infestation, something she felt was on a par with a nuclear holocaust, ran through my head.

  We could not remove our daughter quickly enough for her liking, which she made clear by padlocking her door and donning her gas mask as we left with our Level 4 contagion.

  Yet, I agreed with her there in wanting those uninvited visitors off of my kid’s head.

  Could Lady Gaga make shaving one’s head cool like, yesterday? ‘Cause that would make my life so much easier.

  Unfortunately, all I could envision was Dr. Evil. (Or this guy.) Not the best look for an 11-year-old girl.

  Er, no.

  Marleigh, The Angel of Bug Removal, spoke a few words in an ancient tongue (told me she used some mystery oil that the little suckers absolutely hate), and after doing a mysterious dance (er, combing out her hair) cleared my daughter for takeoff (school on Monday).

  But what about the rest of the family? What about the buzz-cut twins—my five-year-old son and husband? Were they okay?

  Actually, they were fine. Neither had enough hair for the disgusting louse (louse and lousy must have something in common—see? Just one more reason to hate that word) to hang on to.

  I must take some credit for keeping the little guy’s hair buzz-cut short—mostly I just think it looks cute—yet it will now be this way for the rest of his school life. End. Of. Discussion.

  Okay, good. They were peachy fine and dandy. But what about me?

  With my long, flowing (okay, it’s a shag but just go with it) red locks?

  DEAR GOD, WHAT ABOUT ME?

  Angel Marleigh checked me (husbands are useless in this particular situation. They half-heartedly try, groan, and then leave) and... (vodka shot)...

  I was blessedly, thankfully, lice free.

  I celebrated with more vodka.

  One day later, and my girl was truly, amazingly bug free.

  I was hungover as hell.

  Still, I was in full-on freak-out mode. I repeatedly shampooed and conditioned us all with the Fairy Tales products, repeatedly sprayed my house with their Repel the Little Blood Suckers Spray, and laundered every linen, bookbinding, pillow, and silk flower.

  I also vacuumed every inch of my house, roof, neighbor’s carport, and my son (again). Repeatedly.

  I plan to continue doing this for the rest of our lives, until we die. Perhaps even after. Repeatedly.

  My friend (who told me about The Hair Whisperers) will be happy that I've come over to the paranoid, germophobic side.

  My daughter will be lucky if she has a friend sleep over again. Ever.

  As for my husband...after my initial disappointment in his lack of usefulness in handling this particularly perilous situation, I realized that when it comes to men and hair, he exhibited typical male ignoramus behavior and really can’t be blamed for acting in accordance with his species (see The Mancode).

  In other words, I forgave him. After I made him fold a few (and by a few I mean lots and lots) loads of laundry, make dinner, and bring me pretty flowers.

  So, life in the RachelintheOC house is back to normal. And by normal I mean the five-year-old is having his regular temper tantrums ’cause he can’t find that one microscopic red bead, my tween girl cries that her dad erased her extra special iCarly episode, and I’m sure there’s one more thing...

  Oh, yes. Did I mention...the dog has fleas?

  ***

  SECTION 4

  MEN VS. WOMEN: THE WORKPLACE

  INTRODUCTION

  My kids are way luckier than we were growing up. We were on a much stricter budget, TV kinda sucked, and clothing options were somewhat questionable (let’s not discuss flare-leg pants and Wallabees, okay?)

  So it seemed only natural that, given the fact that we were a one-income family, there were three of us girls, and my cheerleading uniforms were expensive, I needed to get a job when I was sixteen.

  My dad worked for Longs as a store manager, so he sent me to chat with another manger at a store close to our home. I came home with a horrifically green smock and a job as a cashier. My older sister Caren already worked for them and didn’t seem to hate it (she even had a new boyfriend out of the deal), so why not?

  Famous last words.

  I learned many things, as most people do from their first jobs:

  When people go shopping at drugstores, they’re usually sick…and therefore grumpy (especially in the pharmacy).

  I quickly figured out that men and women are very different, especially behind the closed doors of a work environment when they think no one is watching. In retail, someone is always watching.

  Men can be quite crude in large groups. Even around teenaged girls. Who are manager’s daughters. Oh, and stinky.

  Worms grow in chocolate. Chips grow stale. And no one ever checks. (Buy your food at the grocery store, people.)

  And yes, I ended up with a boyfriend out of the deal.

  When I graduated from college, Longs asked me to go through their management training program.

  I ran, quickly. Far, far away.

  Into selling condoms, actually…but that’s a whole other story…

  ***

  WE ARE NOT THEM

  They say some women marry their fathers. Well, JP definitely did not work at a drugstore. He worked with dirt and bugs. Honestly, it’s shocking sometimes that we’re even together.

  Dad was a Longs Drugstore manager for twenty-five years. He supported his wife and three girls on that salary. When it came time for all three of his girls to get jobs, where do you think we went to work (different stores, of course)?

  Let’s just say I learned a lot about people from my retail days (and some of it ain’t pretty).

  Dad’s best advice? “Kill ’em with kindness.” Both the easiest and hardest thing to do when people are yelling at you about the sale price of a can of freakin’ cat food.

  One thing you learn working at the same drugstore for more than a few years (thus becoming, whether you want to or not, part of the long-term “tribe” of that particular store) is which new-hires are goi
ng to make it and which will be gone inside of a week.

  Or in this case, a month.

  For example, Ilene. She was a sweet, pretty (of course, given my manager’s penchant for hiring PYTs) young girl, if not the sharpest knife in the drawer. There were two incidences that occurred within her first month on the job that made me realize she wasn’t long for our store.