B is not enjoying the Rec dance and music class. The class is deceptively perfect: It’s close to our house, he can run free and bang on stuff and show off for the ladies—all of his favorite pastimes, and it’s really, really cheap. He loves the magnet board on the wall just outside the class and if left to his own devices, could spend hours repositioning “boy” “like” and “cat” or hanging monkey-style from the water fountain in the hallway, but when we enter the mirrored room with buckets of costumes and musical instruments, he shrieks and bolts for the door.

Rec class is Mondays, Bounce gymnastics is Tuedays and Wednesdays, soccer is Thursdays and Playgroup is Fridays. As I’ve said before, my mantra is Wear the Fucker Out. Luckily, he’s reached an age where he’s eligible for the youngest groups in each field. At Bounce he’s a “Rollie Pollie,” at soccer a “Bunny” and at the Rec he’s . . . a cranky, ill -mannered twenty month old.

When I enrolled B in the Rec class a month ago, he was underage and so didn’t meet the requirements. The red blinking light on my computer screen told me so when I typed in his birthdate—and then it froze me out of the online database. It’s a weird sensation, being bitch-slapped by a database. I retaliated by getting crafty: I called a real live human being at the Rec department and hoped she wouldn’t do the math. “He’s twenty months. His birthday was Feb _ 2005.” “Perfect Dear,” the nice lady chimed. “You’re all set.”

A typical day at the Rec class consists of me dragging B around to the various stations in the room wherein I act out the tricks we’ve been asked to do (leap frog, high kicks, lunges) while my son sits on the floor and cries or runs to the door, rattling the metal lever as he works to bust out. In the moments when he isn’t planning his escape, his eyes look into mine as if to implore, “Mama, this ain’t Bounce. Why the fuck are we here?” To which, I would answer this: We’re here, Honey, because this costs about a third of what Bounce costs and because Monday mornings are always difficult, especially now with fall rain and your unending pleas to go "ou-sy” (go outside). We’re here because otherwise Mama will have to start drinking her expensive pear brandy, the stuff she reserves for Friday’s Battlestar episode, on early Monday morning just to take the edge off. We’re here because there’s a hole in Monday’s schedule and by God, Mama is going to fill it—before you came on the scene she scheduled events for a US Senator so she can sure as hell schedule you. We’re here because Mama can’t take another morning of you wailing and slapping the TV chanting “TT, TT!” (code for Teletubbies).

When I talk about Bounce gymnastics class, my normally pale face takes on the healthy glow of a newly kissed co-ed. Bounce makes me swoon. Bounce indulges my son’s need to wear himself out silly and my need for a midday nap. Plus, B loves Nadja, the brilliant teacher/owner. And Nadja adores B. They’re always giggling and hugging each other. And at the end of each class, Nadja stamps the kids on the back of their hands and the tops of the feet—sometimes it’s a cow, sometimes a kitty, the charm is that you never really know what it will be and therein lies the Bounce allure. The piece de resistance, however, is the glitter stick. Noisy children are suddenly quiet as they follow Nadja’s call to congregate in the center of the soft, padded floor, their eyes dewy, and arms outstretched in supplication so that she may give them that which they most covet—a swipe of the amazing glitter stick otherwise known as “SPARKLES.”

There is no glitter stick, no sparkles at the Rec class. The Rec teacher has the early morning faux chirpiness of someone who has never had children. Luckily, her first name is my mother’s middle name and it is for this reason only that I am able to recall it. The woman has mousy, dirty blonde hair, wears nondescript black jogging pants, and seems to embody every tired, disaffected college senior I’ve ever met. I feel bad for her. She has to lug out the clunky tumbling mats and the rickety little beam and the tiny tramp, which might as well be an inner tube with a cover on the top for all it’s pathetic glory. She takes out her trusty masking tape and draws a two foot by two foot square on the linoleum floor. She tells the kids that inside this sacred square they are to practice their kicks. I look at B as she calls out her orders. His facial expressions are always the same. He vacillates between bored, vacant stare and a squinty-eyed scowl that verges on outright contempt.

This woman with my mother’s middle name is not really the problem. The problem is another mother, a strange, awkward woman of no age, she could be 25 or 55, she is cursed with one of those seriously worn faces. She smells like Meth, bacon and cigarettes.

When it’s nice out, most of the parents take their kids to the park next to the Rec building. One morning after class, B was swinging on a big rubber tube with two children from our class. The scene was straight out of a Hallmark card--three cherubic blondes swinging in the morning sun. Their mother and I snapped pictures and pledged to share the photos. The mom told me my son’s eyes were beautiful. I told her how much I loved her little boy’s outfit. We were gelling and I was thinking possible play date. Meanwhile, Meth lady was standing on the sidelines, making awkward small talk. I, erroneously I see now, decided to answer her feeble asides. I told her B’s birthdate when she asked. I smiled half-heartedly when her voice cracked with excitement as she told me her son was just about the same age. Meanwhile, my new play date friend with the fellow towheads shrank back whenever Meth lady came closer. Meth lady is just one of those unfortunate souls that can’t seem to get it right. Her stained jeans and stale odor, her penchant for interrupting, I wanted to be far away from all of it, and luckily, B made a break for the rope ladder. I ambled after him and waved goodbye at my possible play date, repeating that I’d email her photos. She shepherded her kids close-in under her arms and headed in the opposite direction of the smell interloper.

On the rope ladder, B grabbed for the second tier and his little feet, pointed toes and kicking, left the ground. He reached higher with his right hand, slipped a bit and then recovered. Meth lady, assessing all of this from the swings, approached B from behind, hugged his little back and made a furtive attempt to place his foot on the next rung. Cradling him by his lower back, she took weird, mama sniffs of his hair. It was at that moment that I experienced a searing, visceral urge to tackle her in the sand and beat her with the chain link swing.

Instead I took hold of B’s hand, moving my body into her space and said, “Didn’t I hear you tell the teacher you have a fever of 103?”
“Oh, yeah. I do.”
“Then get away from my son.” I jerked B off the ladder and into my arms.

Meth lady followed us around the playground apologizing. I met her awkwardness with socially sanctioned “it’s Ok, It’s Ok”s. I was trying to placate the crazy bitch as the other moms scattered like a herd of frightened deer.

The next Monday, with my possible play date conspicuously absent and the other moms and grandmas dodging Meth lady at the beam, the summersault area and even at the frog jump, she latched onto me and wouldn’t let go.
Her brilliant opener was this: “Are you Grandma?”
To which I replied, “Um what?”
“I thought I heard you call him . . . I don’t know, are you his Grandma?”
“What? No. I’m his Mom.”
I tried to get away but B was still working on his summersault and Meth lady’s admittedly cute son was right there playing along with him, two boys communing through poorly executed gym moves. She kept on with it. “You know, my grandmother was the youngest grandmother in California history. She was a thirty year old grandmother.” The teacher called out that it was music time. As I held B’s hand walking toward the tambourines, maracas and triangles, I did the math. The best case scenario is both her mother and grandmother gave birth at 15. The worst case scenario is . . . much worse.

B’s refusal to do pretty much anything in class has made him the problem child. From day one, the teacher would look at me with pity in her eyes. I found myself saying things like, “Really, I don’t know what’s wrong with him this morning. Normally he loves to clap. He’s very social, really he is. And he’s been doing the butterfly for months now.” I’d be saying this to her while grabbing B as he leapt toward the windows, or as he rabidly scratched his ear. “Honey, we need to stay with the group,” I’d say. “C’mon, now let’s do nose to knees.” The teacher would sigh that condescending sigh and I’d swear she was thinking, “Poor, delusional woman, this kid’s clearly mentally retarded.”

At some point, the teacher and I realized we had a dysfunctional relationship, one that could not be fixed. Last week was the low point. I had a poor attitude driving in the car on our way to class. B had shown no enthusiasm whatsoever when I sang, “Dance and music, dance and music today” while Velcro-ing his shoes to get ready. His eyes were glazed over and disinterested in the drive there and when I pushed through the Rec room door, he started to kick and scream. And yet, I naively soldiered on.

We were a few minutes early so the teacher sat on the floor with us for a morning chat. We exchanged the obligatory how are you’s and as B twisted and turned in my arms, she gave me one of her sighs and a toothy, fake smile. B was agitated only a minute into the room and I was already exhausted. “You know,” I say, “I think it’s the fluorescent lights. I think he’s allergic to the lights.” I point to the ceiling where six rows of thick, canoe shaped lights rained down on us. The teacher’s skin looked sallow, ashen. “I’m allergic to some fluorescent lights, it depends on the frequency, and I’ve noticed B has some of my symptoms in certain stores—irritability, he’ll itch his skin, his eyes are red, he seems really uncomfortable and cranky. He’s been that way here ever since the first day. It must be the lights.” I could tell she didn’t believe me. But even still, she touched my knee and said, “Maybe next week we can do something about that.” I imagined six kids attempting summersaults in the dark.


Meth lady showed up late again, right as the teacher was bringing out the bin of scarves. B reached for the pink neon square, readying himself for serious twirling and waving. Meth lady knelt down beside B, cradled his head in her hands and planted a mouthy kiss on his forehead. B did not reciprocate. He simply waved his pink scarf up and down and trotted away. Meanwhile, I found myself lunging forward unsure of what I was about to do and while in motion, looked up to see the teacher staring not at Meth lady, but at me. It’s clear that she’d seen the kiss, the entire thing—including the furious look on my face that said, “Alright bitch, it’s time for a throwdown.” With wide, frightened eyes the teacher silently begged me not to cause a scene. I cleared my throat and forced a smile. “I hate you too,” I thought.

I really don’t like the teacher. She has an unhealthy fascination with the Woodpecker song, a song with only two lines. The song is vapid, stupid and annoying—all the nose pecking bullshit that she wants the kids to do is like nails on a chalkboard, like watered-down Barney and I just can’t deal. B won’t even attempt the inane head nod—which I admit makes me a little proud. He gives her that squinty -eyed stare whenever he hears the first few bars. He’s not down with her stupid reindeer games.

At Bounce, each child gets their own, huge tramp and Nadja plays “Animal Action,” a song in which the kids act out different animals—meow like a kitty, slither like a snake, fly like a bird—while dancing around their sizable, individual tramp. It’s so gosh darn adorable. Every toddler in the room has a permanent grin plastered on their face and happy moms and dads sit on the padded areas of the their little darlings’ tramps and smile while daydreaming about the two hour respite they’ll get during the post-Bounce nap. Nadja is charming and fun and B’s elephant is fucking fabulous. There's even a bubble machine.


At the Rec class, after the scarves and highly inappropriate kiss, the kids were given a little free time. B ran for the tiny balance beam. The mats that sat on either side were so askew that I made sure to hold his hand and his waist so that should he fall, he wouldn’t crack his head open on the linoleum floor. B was distracted. He was looking for the beanbags, the brightly colored, perfectly-sized -for –sitting-atop-little-heads beanbags that he normally works with at Bounce. On cue, the teacher walked over just as B was starting to fuss. She hadn't said anything, but the vibe was crystal clear: What's wrong with your mentally retarded child this time? I glanced at her with raised eyebrows and announced caustically, “He knows how to do the balance beam. He’s got great balance.”
To which she said,
“He learned that at Bounce right?”

B and I move on to the next station—the pathetic 2 foot by 2 foot square drawn on the floor with masking tape. I play Cheerleader and commence the right kick, left kick drill as B sits on the ground and sulks.
The teacher comes by and chirpily says, “You don’t want to do your kicks?” and B says “nonono” in his sweet sing-song voice and then runs in the opposite direction. Behind us on the speakers, some generic girly voice is singing about having fun and falling in love. The room is filled with such bargain basement syncopated rhythms and badly done techno that I actually find myself wishing she’d just be done with it and put on some Britney Spears. When the song is over, so is the class. B and I are the first ones out. My skin stops itching. I no longer have a headache. B smiles as he heads to the magnet board, skips even, and I realize we won’t be coming back.

My husband wants a tattoo for his 33rd Birthday. Today was the day and though I got to hold his hand in the first few minutes of the process, it was B’s naptime. Maybe it was when Ryan, the tattoo artist, put on the loud, death guild music or maybe it was after B’s second attempt to find the lizard in the terrarium came up with nothing—the look on B’s frustrated little face told me it was time for us to leave. I kissed my husband, who was by now grimacing in pain, and hauled B outside. As I opened the car door, B asked through tears, “Dada? Dada go?” To which I replied, “Dada’s getting a picture on his arm.” My son picked a classic moment for his first clearly discernible “WHY?” If I were to give him the truthful version I’d say something like this: “Monkey, Dada’s having a strange man shoot ink into his arm with tiny needles. It’s called a tattoo, Honey, and it hurts a lot. This is Dada’s warped, adorable way of saying that he still really loves Mama.”
But that would be highly inappropriate, so instead I say,
“Please stop crying. We’re going home right now, baby. We’ll see Dada later. Promise.” He doesn’t like this answer, perhaps he senses that Mama is hedging. I know this because he’s bucking and screeching, his body rigid as I try to pin his arms into the car seat. It’s not pretty. We’re an event, me and my son, like one of those staged happenings by the absurdists, I think “happenings” is actually what they called them. Regardless, I can feel we’ve generated quite an audience. The guy standing at the edge of the parking lot, extensively tattooed and with massive round tribal ear wear thinks I’m a horrible mother because I can’t get my son to stop screaming. The car next to ours has a woman sitting in the driver’s seat pretending not to notice that a toddler just kicked me hard in the chin. We’re impromptu entertainment and B’s wailing could shatter glass.

There’s a statistic out there that claims over half of the American population has tattoos. I would guess very few people with the name “Edna” have tattoos. Little boys and girls don’t have or absolutely should not have tattoos. The very old and very young are pretty much out. That leaves teenagers with all manner of body artwork and sorority girls with Drew Barrymore daisies on their ankles and Goth chicks with black scrawlings on their lower backs and hippies with the Japanese symbol for peace at the nape of their neck and biker dudes with naked women on their biceps and middle aged men with random shoulder tattoos chronicling something or other that seemed momentous at the time and Vietnam Vets and Korean War guys and very old World War Two military men with solidarity tattoos. Even our friend, a wonderful, kind woman with twin babies, a woman who’s so American she loves NASCAR and fantasizes about taking her kids to Disneyland, even she has a tattoo—it’s of Mickey Mouse.

I don’t have any tattoos. I’m of the mind that the only valid reason to get a tattoo is if something truly amazing or life shatteringly horrible has happened. This vital moment merits a permanent spot on one’s body, but only if one chooses the proper location (pick your best feature and please make sure it's not an area that will see significant sagging) and the perfect artistic rendition—a difficult formula to fulfill. And this is key: Any tattoo that a woman models damn well better go with a couture Chanel gown should she ever be invited to the Oscars. Anything else is just superfluous, silly, and the makings of a huge fashion faux pas. My husband has a much more laissez faire attitude about tattoos. He has one tattoo on his left hip—a 1913 comic strip image of KrazyKat and Ignatz Mouse-- and right now, as I type this, he’s having a large rose branded into his right forearm.

My husband wanted a rose because it’s my middle name. I find this deliriously sweet.

Roses are ubiquitous in tattoo culture. They’re everywhere. Rose buds, tiny tea roses, roses with fairies popping out, roses with hearts, thorny roses, roses formed in the shape of chalices, rose vines that twist around naked women, dancing roses, roses with knives, roses with name banners, Jesus and the cross roses, overtly sexual roses with gigantic, pointed clitorises, roses with butterflies, roses with frogs, roses with Jerry Bears, roses with smirking trolls, roses with fairy princesses, Japanese anime comic book roses, skull and cross bone roses, evil looking roses done in the deepest black, and happy roses done in baby-doll pastels. I dreamt about ugly, lame, height of cliché roses for a week.

In the end, we had to get very creative and ironically, very mundane. We went with a representation not found in the forty tattoo books we scoured or the 3,000 wall drawings we scanned—a true, naturalistic rose in full bloom, drawn to scale and with such painstaking attention to detail that it looked real. I wanted it pretty, as though it were freshly picked, with the right color gradations and shadows. I wanted it feminine—because although it was going on my husband’s arm, it was supposed to symbolize me. I wanted it, in one word, perfect.

Did we reach that nearly unattainable perfection? Today was just the beginning—the rose is half-way there. Next Saturday is Corey's final sitting. I’ll have photos of both versions posted here.

I'm late on this "Lost" review but I get a pass because the in-laws were in town and the kid's been entirely too cranky. So without further delay . . .

"Lost" may have redeemed itself in Wednesday’s third season premier, this, after a so-so second season with too many unanswered questions, too much lag time in the middle and a fondness for killing off some of the most interesting characters (Anna Lucia). Again they’re toying with us: The first shot is of a woman we’ve never met before (a la season two’s Desmond) in a house we don’t know. She is burning muffins and looking very post-modern-put-upon housewife. Cut to the bookclub: She’s in her living room surrounded by people dressed in khakis and Izod shirts. They sit on normal looking couches and argue over the choice of novel (we later see it’s something by Stephen King and one crazy blogger sleuthed about to discover it’s a hardcover reprint of “Carrie”--seriously). Muffin Lady is pissed because a male guest is trashing her book pick and in the heated back and forth it’s hinted that she’s somehow separated from her husband Ben, the Henry Gale imposter and possible leader of The Others. Moments later, an earthquake hits and the guests sprint for the doorways. Except it’s not an earthquake—it’s the Lost plane, Oceanic flight 815, screaming and popping through the air as it hurtles toward the earth. Outside, there is measured chaos as we see Ben call out orders to the men we know as Ethan and Goodwin—they must pretend to be survivors and report back. The last shots of the opener are of nicely dressed neighbors milling about finely manicured lawns that abut perfect “Pleasantville” homes . It’s a suburban utopia—well—a suburban utopia prone to magnetic pulses and plane crashes. But still, I am breathless with anticipation because I have to know: How is it that the Others came to own lawnmowers?

The opener was brilliant and compelling and the rest of the show, while chock full of entertaining moments, seemed to be just a hair shy of meeting that bar. A few scenes offered seriously memorable lines, most notably when Ben and Kate (in a pretty sundress) are eating a decadent breakfast beachside. Kate demands that her captor answer these questions: How are her friends, why is she there, what does he want from her, and Ben, ever the control freak, tells her in that weird, messianic voice, “The next two weeks are going to be very, very unpleasant.” Creepy. We don’t know how or why Kate’s world is going to suck, but the fact remains, Ben the weird Messiah guy says so and we can pretty much bank on it.

Meanwhile, Sawyer wakes to find himself in a giant hamster cage and then with the help of some other guy (formerly trapped in his own giant hamster cage and methinks an Others plant, though the motivation is unclear) gets loose and then promptly tasered by aforementioned Muffin Lady. My favorite Sawyer moment though, is when, after he’s spent what seems to be the better part of a day figuring out how to work the feed contraption and brags about it to his captor, Zeke (now beardless and considerably less scary), Zeke scoffs back, “It only took the bears two hours to figure that out.” Yes, we humans are a sad, pathetic lot deserving of being locked in hamster cages and Sawyer is dumber than a bear.

Meanwhile, Jack is trapped in a dark, cavernous room and Muffin Lady wants to feed him. Jack does not want to eat. Jack must eat, Muffin Lady says, because they’ve injected him with some mysterious Others drug that leads to massive dehydration and hallucinations if the injectee goes without food. Jack agrees to be a good boy and eat his meal, but then behaves badly. He attacks Muffin Lady, grabs her taser in the scuffle and while trying to escape encounters Messiah Ben. Jack wants to open the big, heavy door to get away from Messiah Ben but Muffin Lady tells him that if he does, they’ll all die. Curious. So what does Jack do? He opens it and out pours an avalanche of water. Muffin Lady and Jack must swim to safety, and coughing and sputtering for air, Muffin Lady punches bad boy Jack so handily, she knocks him out, allowing for a cool camera angle of floaty Jack captured from below. Score one for Muffin Lady—damn is that broad tough! She’s set to be a major player in this season, perhaps the desperate outcast and lone defector among the Others. And with a little luck, she’ll go Carrie on everyone (as the Stephen King book shot might imply)—blood spatter for all, a severed head for Ben. Or maybe the writers will simply slum it opting instead for the boring and obvious—could she be Jack’s next love interest?

I for one wasn’t so interested in the Jack backstory. Woe is him, sad, pathetic Jack—he of the slutty ex-wife and distraught alcoholic father. As for Muffin Lady’s Jedi mind tricks regarding Jack’s sordid past, I’m certain the writers will be doling out tasty little morsels ever so slowly over the course of this season. Meanwhile, you and I must remain the metaphorical equivalent of poor Sawyer trying to position the rock just right so he can get the fish biscuit. We’re all begging to know: What exactly do the Others want? Why is Jack stuck in the dolphin tank? Will there be a reenactment of that old Sea World skit where the little ferret comes out pushing a shopping cart? No? Well regardless, I’m just thrilled all of us are on this island together and holy fuck, now there’s a freakin’ theme park! Hydra and dolphins and bears, Oh My!