Kindergarten hasn’t even begun, and I am already that mother. But, as all of those mothers do, I feel completely justified!
I couldn’t find Thor for about 20 minutes after the parent part of the school open house was finished. 10 of those minutes, I was on a tour and looking for him idly as I was led around the school. 7 of those minutes I was looking for him with a low level of alarm that he might be worried about where I was. For 3 of those minutes, I was pants-wetting horrified, and ready to call 9-1-1 from inside the school.
Today I thought about it. What if something had happened? The administration needs to know that there was confusion, so they can make it better. Right? You don’t have to agree. Just pretend. Smile and nod. I sent my first mother-of-a-public-school-child-email and he hasn’t even stepped foot inside a classroom. I hope I set a kind tone.
Dear Ms. Personincharge,
We met briefly last night at the Kindergarten Round-Up. Thank you for taking the time to say hello, and tell us about the school. B and I are looking forward to our son’s education, and this was a lot of fun for me. I was happy to get a chance to tour the campus and see where our son, Thor, will be going to school. He was excited by his visit, and is looking forward to Kindergarten.
After my tour of the school, I went to find him and had a few minutes of panic. Upon arrival, we were told that Thor was going to go visit a Kindergarten classroom, and I would pick him up when I had finished all my paperwork. When I went to the Kindergarten classrooms, there were no children there. I walked the hallways twice, running across two tours of children, not finding mine in either group, meeting a few other parents with the same problem.
After ten minutes, all I could think was, “Oh no! One of the registered sex offenders from the neighborhood knew this was the Kindergarten Round Up, and… Oh no!” I was already surprisingly overwhelmed by the idea of “losing my baby” to school, and (being the dramatic sort) the idea of actually losing him made it a little hard to think clearly.
I realized that I had handed Thor over to a student, without showing ID, or in some way tagging myself as being his parent, and sent him on his way. In all the excitement, anyone could have walked out the door with him. Or, he might have walked out the door himself, trying to find me. That was irresponsible of me, and I should have insisted on more information before letting the process take over my instincts.
I finally found the student who had taken responsibility for him, and she said I would find Thor on the playground. There he was! He was swinging away, happy as a lark. I was happy, too.
I’m sure you can see how the process seemed a tad disorganized and disconcerting, especially as someone who doesn’t know the layout of the school very well and had to really search to find her child. I love the idea that kindergarteners got fifth-grade buddies to show them around. That made Thor feel very important. But I wonder if they wouldn’t also benefit from having an adult responsible for who belongs to whom? If there is interest, I’d be happy to collect some ideas of how other schools do their orientations and present the PTA with some strategies that might help everyone get a little more out of it next year, and save another parent the bladder-wrenching worry that their child has vanished.
Again, thank you so much for your time! The 5th Grade students were delightful, and gave a great tour. I think Thor is going to be very happy at [the school], and I hope B and I can be helpful.
Isn’t it funny how differently we see ourselves, compared to how others see us? I spent years hating how fat I was–er, and I wasn’t fat. In fact, Karen once told me how I had hurt her self-image by being so obsessed with my own. Our weights weren’t much different, but because I was always so upset about mine, it made her wonder how enormous I thought she was. Never even occurred to me to think she was anything other than fit, by the way.
My self-image was largely colored by having spent some formative years in the entertainment industry, where the standard is 20lbs underweight. I was usually only 5lbs underweight, thus a moose. I was in my 20s before I started feeling okay with my body, and in my 30s and 25lbs overweight before I could enjoy it. You know what started me on the journey?
My mother and I were Christmas shopping at a very busy mall. We were in Macy’s, and it was teeming with shoppers. We got separated (when I stopped in the shoe department), and I set out to find her. As I walked, looking for Mom, I was checking out everyone. Cute haircut here, adorable skirt there, good looking guy, pretty girl. All kinds of things to see.
I noticed a really cute girl through the crowd and was craning to see her better. I couldn’t get a clear look, but her hair was freaking adorable, and I liked what I could see of her sweater. The closer I got, the cuter I thought she was, until I decided that when I passed her, I was going to say so. I like complimenting people. I know it makes my day to be complimented–might make someone elses.
I was still looking out for my mother, but keeping Cute Girl in sight. Little glimpses of her came through the bodies, and I smiled. She smiled back. So cute! Maybe I was going to make a friend? Then, I realized, through the crowd, that we were on a collision course and my attitude toward her changed. She was going to need to step out of the way. I don’t know why I got my back up over it, but I did.
Still couldn’t see her clearly because I was dodging Christmas shoppers, but I could tell we were going to collide if she didn’t step out of the–CRASH!
I didn’t know what hit me. I was stunned. I saw stars. It was like a car accident. My nose hurt so bad!
But where was Cute Girl?
It took me a couple of seconds to shake my head clear. Took me a split second longer to realize that I had walked right into a mirrored column.
Another second, I realized that the cute girl with the sweater and the adorbs hair was…me.
I looked around to see if anyone had noticed, and was happy to see that the other shoppers were engrossed in trying to snatch things out of one another’s hands, and I took off, found my mother, and explained why I suddenly had a splitting headache and couldn’t stop laughing.
See, I had no idea what I looked like. None. You’d think that a girl who spent as much time inspecting her reflection as I did would have a pretty good idea of her own image. Nope. I was clueless. I thought of myself as Little Dull Dumpy.
Presented with my image as someone outside of myself, I had thought I had a great smile, a cute figure, and wanted to meet me. And, presented with that reality came the understanding that my self-image was crap. I had some work to do. I had a lot of work to do.
A couple of years later, Renae and I were sitting in a cafe in New Orleans. I was moaning about never being able to get the exact haircut I wanted. I hated my hair and my crazy cowlicks, and was gesticulating (probably wildly) about how awful it was.
“See that?” I pointed to the back of a girl’s head in a mirror. “That is how it should look! That right there! That is the haircut I want.”
You know where this is going, don’t you?
Renae tilted her head at me, blinking. “Uh, Lane?”
Yes. It was a reflection of the back of my own head. The back of my perfectly coiffed head.
Body dysmorphia is real. I’m very fortunate to have had the embarrassing luck of seeing myself through the eyes of a stranger twice. It’s forced me to really consider how I feel about myself, and forced me to take true stock of what makes me who I am.
What makes me who I am is not what I look like, what I wear, or how awesome my hair looks. What makes me who I am is that I can recognize beauty in other people and appreciate them. What makes me who I am is that I am not jealous when I see another cute girl, but I want to tell her how pretty I think she is. What makes me who I am is that I want to be around people kinder, smarter, funnier, better looking than I. That’s worth a lot more than my hips, thighs, or crooked nostrils.
I was making some changes to the blog this morning and realized how dependent I have become on Excel. How am I supposed to alphabetize without Excel?! I am expected to move these things manually? Well, it just can’t be done right now. I will wait until I get home to my beloved spreadsheet.
Changes include: I created a WWK archive with links to all the profiles. Should be easier to navigate that way. Will be much easier once I can alphabetize the list.
I also dropped the link to the blog about Thor. He shouldn’t be that easy to find, right?
The gracious links to this blog from Julie-Anne Rhodes, Martha Brockenbrough, and Pamela Ribon have increased site traffic, and I am feeling the pressure to be entertaining. Those of you who know me best know what that means.
I’m going to have to tell the homeless man story.
No. I’m going to have to tell the whole story, start to finish, of how I ended up sitting, sobbing curbside of a porno boutique in NYC, with a homeless man offering me his last three dollars. Including how I became briefly involved with a mafia run ticket scalping ring, was chased by police twice, and was asked for my autograph for just looking famous.
Today was quite a roller coaster for me. There was the high of registering Thor for school, then getting breakfast at the Waffle House, followed by the low of realizing that the skirt I had on was a wrinkler, and I looked like I’d slept in it. I’m always pretty happy to walk into my office and see my coworkers, so that was a high–how many people can say that?! Then the day was crazy in a manic sort of way, and that wasn’t great. There was the further low of it starting to rain while my sunroof was open, and having to run out into it to save my car from filling up like an aquarium. And then I got some bad news. I’d been expecting it, but it was a blow just the same. Really just a blow to my ego, but still! I picked up Thor, and I was happy again. Then, I came home and went to work on the Women Worth Knowing project.
Do you know what? That makes me so happy! I really enjoy sitting down and writing nice things about people. So much more fulfilling than my short lived career as a gossip blogger.
I also came home to some very sweet emails from you all. Thank you. My day ended on a high. You are good people.
Used with permission. Photo by Jason Wesley Upton.
I started reading Pamela Ribon’s recaps of The Gilmore Girls on Television Without Pity several years ago. She never failed to make me laugh. Liking to laugh and being a nosy thing, I followed a link to her blog and spent many happy hours catching up on her world. Then, I started following her on Twitter. It was like making a friend, only she was an imaginary friend since she had no idea I existed. I will not lie. I have fantasized about how much fun it would be to hang out with Pamie at the Krystal Burger or the Krispy Kreme. I don’t know why, but all my BFF fantasies about Pamie have to do with fast food. Wait. Yes, I do. Ha!
Over the years, I have emailed Pamela Ribon (I can only call her Pamie if I am in the throes of a BFF fantasy, otherwise, she is Pamela Ribon) and been fangirl giddy when she responded. I wrote her once just to tell her how much I enjoyed her blog. Then I wrote her to get more information on Pamela’s annual book drive the Dewey Donation System. I wrote her to say congratulations when she started writing for Samantha Who?, and again to say bravo when she was leading a strike team during the 2007 WGA strike. When I picked up this project again, I thought, “Oh my gosh…Pamie! My BFF Pamie would be so good for this!” Then I remembered Pamela Ribon wouldn’t be able to pick me out of a crowd with a pink carnation, so I wrote to her again with fingers and toes crossed, knowing she was very busy with her latest book release. I named dropped my high school chum, Laura House, hoping that would help sway her.
Graciously as ever, she responded, and I’ve been teasing you with her profile ever since.
Pamela’s latest publication is Going In Circles, a book about friendships and finding your way out of heartache through, well, ass-ache. I just finished it last night, and it is every bit as good as her other books.
Along with being a sitcom writer, novelist, blogger, twitterer, former television recapper, activist, and philanthropist, Pamela is a Roller Derby girl. Isn’t she exactly the sort of woman you want to know? She is.
Meet Pamela.
Name: Pamela Ribon, aka Pamie, aka Wonder Killer
Age Range: I just turned 35 and I don’t understand how that happened.
Preferred Job Title: Writer, performer, derby girl, professional silly person.
Industry: Your television and your bookshelves.
How did you come to writing as a profession?
I hustled. Oh, Internet. You used to be so much smaller. I wrote a “web diary” back when people couldn’t understand why other people would willingly read the words of strangers on the Internet. And upon that, I built my empire! In all seriousness, I seized every opportunity I could find. At one point I was performing six shows a week in a comedy club, writing a weekly tech-humor column for the Austin American-Statesman, wrote the dub scripts for Japanese anime, updated my personal site every day, and at two in the morning I would write recaps for Television Without Pity (which back then was known as Mighty Big TV). Oh, and I had a full-time job doing tech support for IBM. I do not understand when I slept.
As the freelance work became more consistent, I was able to support myself through writing alone…as long as I maintained at least six active jobs at all times.
It occurs to me that I still, twelve years later, have never held just one single job. I moved out to Los Angeles in 2000 and started the hustle all over again. I was lucky enough to find a few very supportive agents, and within a few years I’d sold my first novel, a screenplay (based on that novel), and landed my first television gig on a pilot for Oxygen that you never saw.
I consider myself very lucky to work in an industry that spends 99.9% of its time saying “no.”
Where do you draw inspiration?
I have a hard time drawing inspiration from anything other than my life. If I don’t see myself in the situation, or know how I’d react to it, it doesn’t feel real to me. I wouldn’t know what to say about it. This is probably what keeps me from the entire vampire phenomenon. I don’t know how to imagine myself in a world filled with immortal blood-drinkers. If only Twilight was about klutzy people who dance uncontrollably whenever they hear “Shake Your Rump” by the Beastie Boys. There’s a genre I can embrace.
How much research goes into a novel?
I often quote my literary agent when this question arises. A few years ago, I think right after the second novel was published, she smiled and asked, “So what terrible thing are you going to have to go through in order to get your next novel?”
Describe your family: I can’t do that succinctly, so I will direct you to 320 pages of answers in a novel called “Why Moms Are Weird.”
What does the first hour of your day look like?
Make coffee during the following: Feeding two cats (give insulin injection to one cat) and last night’s dishes. Coffee. Daily Show during: email, Twitter, Facebook, Words With Friends, more coffee, and then “Oh, crap. Did I forget to brush my teeth?”
The last hour?
I either fall asleep with a book in my hand or in the middle of laughing about something that probably won’t seem as funny in the morning.
What makes you feel successful?
When someone I don’t know tells me about something I wrote that made them feel something they’ve been struggling to understand.
What brings you joy?
The people I love in places I love. Travel. Karaoke. French fries. David Sedaris.
What women do you admire?
Mary Tyler Moore, Carol Burnett, S.E. Hinton, Carole King, Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, Ellen DeGeneres, Fiona Apple, Tara Ariano, Cori Stern and of course: Oprah.
What advice would you give boys about girls?
The fact that they might be smarter than you is a good thing. Never make them feel small.
How do you overcome adversity?
Without adversity, I wouldn’t be anywhere. Since I was very little I only wanted to do the things I was told I couldn’t do. Not *shouldn’t*, like touch a hot stove or something. I’m still very observant of rules and laws. But if someone ever told me something was “too hard” or “extremely unlikely,” that’s when I went at it full-force.
How do you want to be remembered?
This question is so morbid! But you know, obviously I want to be remembered. Why else would I have written half of my life down for people to see? For strangers to judge? But I can’t actually think about someone I love missing me because it makes me too sad. I can’t even handle how much my mom misses me right now even though we got off the phone about an hour ago.
Fondly. I want to be remembered fondly. And that something I said or did or wrote makes them laugh right when they need to most.
The Outside Lane 