Plucky Letters to US soldiers in Iraq

Friday June 20, 2003



Dear Rob & Buddies,

Anybody need anything? I read in an article that your living conditions are still not optimal. Do you even get hot food yet? Showers? Do you get to watch CNN or Fox News? I hope so. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on the intricate maneuverings in the Laci Peterson case. (Everytime I see that crap I want to throw something at the TV. I don’t want to know about Laci Peterson, I want to know about the 101st Airborne!) Don’t let deprivation get to you. I’ll send you an article about living conditions in the 16th century. By comparison, you’ll feel that you are living in relative luxury.

Dylan and I have to go to the dreaded Best Buy so he can get a new tape player. He needs it to listen to the new Harry Potter book coming out tomorrow. He prefers to listen to books on tape than to read. I think he doesn’t like anything, such as reading, to interfere with his compulsion to constantly manipulate small toys and make representative noises on their behalf. He has little plastic “guys”; animals, Pokemon & YU GI OH! characters, etc. They must be frequently flown to and fro by Dylan-power. They must be made to speak or make odd noises to each other. Doing this keeps him much too busy to actually read a lengthy book.

I detest Best Buy almost as much as Wal-mart. The Best Buy employees are lazy untrained nincompoops. They stand around looking bored until you wander up and beg them for assistance. Then they shrug and say, “This isn’t my section.” (Well then why are you standing around looking bored in it??) They don’t try to find the dull half-wit whose section it actually IS or anything. They just continue staring blankly into space or lazily stocking shelves. They spend an inordinate portion of their work days playing video games.

Rudy and I were in there last year to buy a DVD player. We asked the guy about the difference between two DVD players and he read to us off the box. It should have been quite obvious that we’d already read the boxes, since we’d been there an hour and had the boxes lined up on the floor at the time we finally interrupted his Nintendo game to ask. I didn’t mind so much that he didn’t know anything about the product he was supposed to be selling. I minded that he didn’t even bother to try to find out. He just strolled over, read the box out loud, then went back to playing Doom, or whatever.

Maybe I’ll go in there wearing a blue shirt and see if I can sell stuff from one department to the employees in another department. Or I’ll try to confuse them, just for fun. I’ll walk up to various employees and say things like, “Can I help you sell something today?” and, “Is there anything you can help me find?” I’ll use exactly the same "sales voice" one would use to ask a customer if you can help them find something. I’ll approach another bored employee and ask, “Are you working here for a living, or do you just want to look around?”

If I speak quickly enough, in just the right tone of voice, I’ll bet a few of them would automatically say, “No, thanks” or “I’m fine” before they realized anything was backwards. After selecting a tape player in the electronics department, I’ll ask the sales guy, “Would I be interested in a Best Buy extended warranty on this?” In the checkout lane I’ll say- in my most chipper sing-song voice- “Did I find everything I was looking for today?”

There’s got to be a way to make this work in restaurants, too. I really hate it when a waiter asks, “How does everything taste?” I don’t know why, but that drives me crazy. It seems too personal- too intimate. I feel like they’re asking me to let them lick my spoon.

I don’t want to describe to some stranger how my food tastes specifically. That’s private information shared only between me and my tongue. It’s inside-my-mouth private business. I much prefer, “Is everything alright?” Much less intrusive. Whenever a waiter asks me how everything “tastes”, I want to whisk a shower curtain around my plate and yell “None of your damned business!” I’ve got to think up an answer that will shut them up for good. Rudy has suggested a cheery “Tastes great! How does it look?” whereupon he will open his mouth and display the food in question, chewed to perfection, upon his extended tongue. Hard to top that idea.


Much Love,

--Mom

June 12, 2003


Dear Charlie & Buddies,

I am sorry to inform you that I did NOT win $10,000 of free furniture in a contest I recently should have won. I think the whole deal was rigged. Also, I wrote a complaint letter to the management of Leath Furniture regarding the outrageous outfit worn by their employee, Christy. She had on a red polyester top so low-cut and clingy as to be a virtual bikini top- only without the support features of a bikini top, if you know what I mean. In a business environment, no less! She looked like she should be serving drinks in a men’s nightclub, not selling furniture. It was an infringement upon the labor rights of professional boobs all across this great land of ours! Maybe I can get Playboy Bunnies to set up a picket line in the Leath Furniture parking lot. If I had a fuller figure, I might even have a chance at becoming the Norma Rae of my generation.

I am gradually overcoming my Wal-Mart phobia. This morning I made my first solo foray. It was a big step, but I handled it with stoic determination. I managed to select 1 loaf of bread, 1 package of hamburger buns, 1 T-shirt, and 2 packages of feminine hygiene products before fear & loathing drove me to the checkout.

I waited patiently in line as the surly clerk grudgingly waited on the Wal-Marters ahead of me. I refrained from loudly verbalizing my annoyance at the incessant BLIP! BLIP! BLIP! of the obnoxious Wal-Mart cash registers. I assaulted no one, and I suggested to the clerk only that she have a nice day.

This is the first time I have managed NOT to give the clerk a rundown of my list of the improvements Wal-Mart ought to make. Progress towards goal. I believe I earned an A+ as a Wal-Mart shopper today. Well, okay, maybe a B-, on account of I’m not very fat, don’t wear polyester pants, and had no dirty children hanging all over my shopping cart. Maybe if I drag a dollar bill through a trailer park I can acquire some of those beloved Wal-Mart shopper accoutrements. One can dream.

I had planned to bleach the ceramic tile floor grout today (oh, joy), but didn’t feel up to it. I have a dreadful backache and a general malaise. I may be suffering from either West Nile virus or Monkey Pox. There is a dead bird on the deck, so West Nile is most likely, although I have none of the usual symptoms. Still, you can’t be too careful. As for Monkey Pox, I think I might be infected, even though I don’t have any of those symptoms either. I haven’t come in contact with any prairie dogs, but you never know who Mama Kitty might be hanging out with in the backyard.

In fact, she could be responsible for the dead bird, in which case I might well have both West Nile AND Monkey Pox! HELP!! MEDIC!!!

Dylan is gone on vacation with his dad, so it is excruciatingly boring around here all day. Rudy will no doubt go down into the basement to work on the drywall tonight. I really ought to get my butt down there and work on my screw holes. He works incessantly down there just to make me look bad.

Perhaps my having West Nile-Monkey Pox will make him feel sorry for me. If I hurry, there might be time to pose myself miserably on the couch before he gets home from work. Wash off all makeup and mess up my hair to achieve that “Sick Look” we all know and find repulsive. But then I’d be stuck there for the rest of the evening and it might be boring. Guess I’ll just stick with the truth; that I feel slightly crappy and am too lazy to fill screw holes or bleach grout today.

I gotta get a life.

Much love,

--An Army Mom

April 10, 2003


Dear Rob,

There’s a website called “GI Jargon” that I was visiting today. It’s pretty funny. Ever heard of “Fort Livingroom?” That’s where you want to ETS to next. In the Australian army, medics are called “Scab-Lifters.” UK Signal Corps guys are called “Bleeps.” Also in the UK, inbred retarded fuckers are called “Ruperts.” As in, “Get your fourth point of contact down, you stupid Rupert wanker!” (I gather that the "Fourth Point of Contact" is your butt.)

Anybody not in the Airborne is a “Leg.” But you probably already know about the “dirty, nasty” Legs.

MARINE is an acronym for “Muscles Are Required- Intellect Not Expected.” Be sure to watch out for "BMOs" (Black Moving Objects). Those are Iraqi women wearing black tableclothes. How about a “Lost Lieutenant Finder?” That’s a hand-held GPS unit which is relied on entirely too much by "Butter Bars" who can't read a map or use a compass.

Do you have “Shiny Kit Syndrome?” If so, you don't know what it is or what it does, and you may never use it, but you’ve GOT to have it. The "Sham Foo Master" is the soldier who manages to do nothing, yet looks very busy all day. “BOHICA,” as you may know, is “Bend Over Here It Comes Again.”

Now, you want to watch out that you don’t catch “A Case of The Ass” because it's a common illness in the Army. It means “Always being pissed off at everything.”

One thing the Legs say they know for sure: only two things fall from the sky: bird shit and fuckin’ idiots!
(ALL THE WAY, Airborne!!) The newest entry into this GI Jargon website is “In The Big Suck.” Apparently, it means “to be anywhere in Iraq.”

Are you having fun yet?
TTFN (Take Time For Naps)


Much Love,
--Mom

(This is an oldie- I sent it along with a package of thermal underwear to Rob when he was stationed in South Korea.)

December 12, 2001

Dear Rob,

Enclosed are the Thermalwear undergarments you requested. While it is doubtful that you can look as absurd as the guy modeling these garments on the front of the package, I’m certain you will do your best.
Simply follow these easy, step-by-step instructions:

1) Put on Thermalwear.

2) Imagine that you are looking at some interesting sight in the distance (perhaps a ship on the horizon, or a pair of mating dogs) and casually pose accordingly. Pointing and/or shading the eyes are effective casual postures one can assume while being photographed in underwear, especially in a woodsy outdoor setting.

3) Have a friend take of photo of you and send it to the Sears catalog publishers.

Hope that helps!

Much love,

--Mom

April 17, 2003


Dear Rob,

I realize the fighting has diminished and you have won the war. But don’t let your guard down. There are still dangerous creepy Saddam loyalists lurking in the shadows. Keep ever in mind that they have nothing to lose and you have everything to lose. They have no future, whereas your future is stretching out before you like a red carpet of opportunity. These desperate soulless characters will not hesitate to die killing you, because their lives are over anyway, and they know it. Your life is an unwritten book; you must protect those clean, white, unturned pages. My future grandchildren are counting on you to be safe so that they, too, will have an opportunity to see the sunshine.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we are preparing for you to come home.

A carpenter named Josh came over to look at our basement to assess the remodeling tonight. Rudy is still laughing his ass off because I made such a fool of myself. (I am grateful he is laughing and not yelling.) I am no longer allowed to participate in discussions of remodeling when professionals are present. Seems I have "diarrhea of the mouth" and blab on and on about things I know nothing about.

I can't even deny it.

I don't know why, but I find myself "cheerleading" whatever the guy is talking about, even though I obviously don't have a clue what any of it means. I do this at car dealerships, too. If the salesman says the car has a multi-powered 350 flux capacitor, I'll say something like, "Oh, wow, those are the BEST, and worth every penny!" I'm like some sort of salesman's dream/consumer verbal prostitute.

I also feel compelled to pretend I'm "hip" to whatever technical jargon is "going down." At one point we were talking about crown molding. Josh said something like, "Yep, with this stuff, you cut backwards and upside down." I said, "Absolutely right! That's the only way!" Then I blurt out, "What do you mean, backwards and upside down?" I sounded like a retard with a split personality.

Rudy claims I said "Oh, yeah, that's great!" about 14 times while Josh was here. I have absolutely no idea what was so great about any of it, but that didn't matter. Josh could have said "This will take 37 years, cost you $12 billion dollars, and I'll do the whole thing with Tinker Toys." I would have jumped up and down cheering, "Wow! Tinker Toys are the BEST!"

I also make things up on the spot. We were talking about the staircase and Josh said it would probably be more than $500 for the materials. I open up my mouth and out comes, "Actually, I think we figured it would be around $700." Rudy looked at me like:
A) I just made that up, which I did (I don't know why), and
B) Like he wants to kill me for somehow giving away classified information, which I did not. (see A)

I am somehow driven to want to make the guy feel not only like an expert, but like I think he's got the best prices in town, and I'm more than willing to pay whatever it costs just because he and I are both so gosh darn smart.

This is nothing new. When buying the cursed Achieva, I was all ready to sign the papers, when it suddenly dawned on me to ask "What color is it?" As you recall, I bought the car and had to replace the engine 6 months later. (Well, it was December, my bookstore was in Decatur, my old car was shot to hell, and I felt I needed to get a damned car and get on in to work that day!)

I wonder if this disorder of mine is rooted in some childhood trauma or other. Maybe it all goes back to the time my dad made me lie about my age to get a cheaper ticket into Six Flags??

Whatever, I am banned from further basement interviews.

Stay safe, hurry up and WRITE BACK, and for goodness sake, take a shower! You probably stink to high Heaven.

Much Love,
--Mom

PS: What DOES "cut backwards and upside down" mean? Is that like "measure twice, cut once"?

Tuesday July 22, 2003


Dear Captain S,

I am an Army Mom. My son, SPC Rob M, is a medic in your unit. I am writing to express to you and your men the respect, gratitude, and pride we here at home feel for all of you.

Despite the deprivations of war, you continue to carry out your missions with genuine honor and dignity. You have conducted yourselves with a grace and poise this nation has not seen since WW II. Images of you are broadcast worldwide every single day. In all cases our troops are professional in appearance and deportment. You have successfully become both the ambassadors of peace and the keepers of order. Nowhere is this more apparent than in and around Mosul. Today the 101st Airborne achieved a great victory.

The Princes of Iraqi Darkness are Dead. LONG LIVE THE 101ST AIRBORNE!

Do not for one moment believe you are forgotten or unappreciated. The soldiers of the United States Army are the pride of hometown America. And the soldiers of the 101st Airborne are the epitome of the awesome force and valiant heroism of that Army.

We have apple pies in the oven, hot dogs on the grill, and the porch lights of America will be left on for you until you come home. We love you all and can't wait for your safe return.

You guys ROCK!!

--An Army Mom

April 1, 2003


Dear Rob,

Happy April Fool’s Day! (You’ve got something on your shirt.)
I have a special treat for you today, which I will put at the end of this letter. It is WAY cute and WAY good. You’ll love it, and I suggest you share it with your buddies, because it is priceless.

Being a Lunch-Lady on April Fools day is a trip. I can’t count the number of times a small child pointed at my shirt today to inform me, quite gleefully, that I had something on it. I, being nice, would act like I had no idea whatsoever that this might be an April Fool thing. I would look down and say, “Really? Where?” at which point the delighted child would get to yell, “APRIL FOOL!” and I would act utterly surprised. They loved it.

The kids really deserve to get one over on me once in awhile. I lie to them all the time. Seriously, I am the Lying Lunch-Lady. When they ask silly questions, I just make things up. My boss, Ethel, gets a big kick out of it because I am so good at it. Some kid will say, “Eeeuwww, what’s THAT??” and I nonchalantly say, “It’s from McDonald’s. Our oven broke down, so we had to get McDonald’s to bring this over.” The kid will then eagerly take the questionable food, whatever it might be, because it’s from McDonald’s and therefore “kid approved.”

Today we had sugar cookies sprinkled with cinnamon. David M. (whining 2rd grader) said “I don’t like that stuff on there!” I said “No problem, I have extras over here that don’t have it.” I gave him an identical cookie and he took it, no questions asked. Ethel cackled with glee. Then Alex R. (very cute but picky 1st grader) said “I don’t want no smashed potatoes!” I said “Well, don’t worry about it, Alex! Today we changed the menu because the smasher broke down. We only have regular potatoes today.” He looked a little confused, but he ate the “smashed” potatoes. With gravy.

Gravy seems to be rather confusing for a lot of our kids. On days that we have cheese sauce, they say, “I don’t want no gravy!” On days we have gravy they say, “I don’t want no sauce!” On days we have red sauce they say, “I don’t want none of that red gravy!” Today, having “smashed” potatoes & gravy, I had a lot of fun. Some kid would come up to the window and say, “I don’t want no sauce!” I would, very casually, say “Okay, I’ll give you gravy instead.” Then the kid is stuck with the gravy because I’ve decided if he can’t identify it, he has no real right to refuse it.

There are ethnic trends that I have observed. It may not be politically correct to notice these things, but I notice them anyway because I am not politically correct. (Hey, I’m blond, what do you expect?) Ethnically speaking, the African-American (black, in blond-speak) kids are usually more polite than the European-American (white, in blond-speak) kids. Nobody knows why this is true, but I suspect they have better mothers. Food-wise, the differences are clear. On a day when we have broccoli, I can guarantee you that 60% of the white kids will say, “eeeuwww” and not want broccoli. 95% of the black kids will want broccoli, and 40% of black kids will ask for extra broccoli. Same goes for green beans. On the other hand, tuna salad sandwiches are exclusively eaten by white kids. No black kid worth his salt will touch one with a ten foot spork.

Black kids also don’t like cookies very much for some reason. 1 out of 5 black kids will turn down the cookie with any given meal. 99% of white kids want the cookie.

Indian kids are the most interesting. Sridhama is a kindergarten kid whose mother simply cannot adjust to American ideas of child independence. She calls nearly every day to tell us what Sridhama should be allowed to eat. Now, keep in mind, we have been told nearly every day for the entire school year that Sridhama cannot have meat. On top of that, Sridhama TELLS us everyday “NO MEAT.” We get it already. Two or three times a week Sridhama’s mom comes to supervise his lunch. She brings all kinds of white stuff that nobody can identify. Sridhama has a bad habit of throwing up white stuff immediately after his mother leaves, and then asking for potato chips. (This kid loves potato chips)

Sridhama, of course, speaks perfect English by now. But his mother doesn’t believe that he speaks perfect English. (probably because she cannot understand him when he speaks perfect English.) So she always tries to interpret to me what he is saying. It really cracks me up, because Sridhama will say something like “Can I get some Scooby Snacks?” and his mother will then haltingly tell me that “My son wishing to aquire very tiny packaging of small old television foods.” I really have to admire her accuracy, though.

On any day that we serve Freedom Fries (we are no longer allowed to use the word “French” for anything) Sridhama’s mom will ALWAYS call and say “Susaaan! You have today the Frenchies Flies? My son will aquire the Frenchies Flies!” (She has learned to ask for me because Ethel cannot understand a word she says. There is no good reason I can understand her; I just do.)

There are a few other Indian kids, but most of them have been in school long enough to restrict their mothers to showing up less frequently. Some of the Indian moms hang around outside the school every morning talking and staring at the windows, maybe trying to figure out how to break in and personally supervise every moment of their kids’ lives. But I’ll tell you this: if there is an assembly, an awards event, a singing program, or any other kind of parental event, the first seats go to the Indian mothers. They are very much involved in their kid’s education. Which is maybe why they are soooo much smarter than your average American.

The Asians are cool, too. On Saturday I was at the Post Office mailing you a package. I saw second grader Anders Lu. He was very excited to see me, told his mom “Hey, hey, that’s Mrs. Hart from school lunch!!” His mother, a small Asian lady, couldn’t have cared less.

Today when he came for lunch he was wearing a desert cammie hat. The kind sort of like Gilligan’s hat, with the round brim all the way ‘round. He suddenly noticed my 101st Eagle lapel pin which I wear every day on my collar at work. He yelled “HEY! Where did you get that pin?!!” I said “My son is in the 101st Airborne, Anders. He is fighting right now in the war.” Anders was star struck. “But I KNOW that one, that one is UP HIGH! How did he get up that high?” (I wasn’t too sure what he meant at that point) I just said “Anders, that’s the insignia for the 101st Airborne. That’s my son’s job in the war. Go eat your lunch.” Anders would not even get out of the way so the next kid could get lunch. He was all “Yeah, but that’s the one my dad had, and that’s way up high! Oh, wow, wait till I tell my dad!”

I got him to move on, then after everybody got lunch I went out to find him. I asked him where he got his hat. He said “My dad was a one hundred and thirst airflung! That’s how he met my mom! And, wow, that is SO HIGH UP! I can’t believe they gave you that pin. You have to be airflung to get that, you know!” I agreed that being “airflung” was, indeed, a noble thing. I think I’ll order another lapel pin just for Anders. He made my day, and Ethel’s.


And, so, Rob, be proud that you are One Hundred and Thirst Airflung. Anders Lu, 2rd grade kid from the West Side sure is proud of you!
And so am I.

TTFN.

Love,
--Mom

Monday June 23, 2003


Dear Charlie & Buddies,

I hope all is well and you are healthy, secure and comfortable. I’m sending hugs to you & all the guys in your unit. Tell everyone we are very, very proud of you and the One Hundred and Thirst Airflung. We want you all to come home safe & soon.

Yesterday my husband Rudy and I went to the Medieval Faire at Jubilee College State Park near Galesburg, Illinois. It was one of the better of such affairs. During the summer months we often trek out in search of interesting local events, so we know a good one when we attend it. This one had lots of actual stuff going on, rather than the usual nothing but Arts & Crap. We saw jousting, swordplay, some sort of bludgeoning fight, and leather craft. (and, of course, the usual Arts & Crap.)

Seems there is an underculture of Medieval folk, probably those who participated in madrigal events in their college days, who apparently travel from one of these sorts of faires to the next just for the thrill of it all. They sashay around in period costume and seem not the least bit embarrassed. (although they do seem to suffer a bit from heat prostration; we saw one woman in an elaborate gown lying in the shade having her feet elevated by a man in tights. I felt immeasurably sorry for both of them, but, hey, it’s a lifestyle choice.)

My favorite event was the sword fighting. Those guys went to town! Clink, clank and touche, they were all over the place. My bets (had there been betting allowed, which as far as I know, there was not) were on "Juan Diego of Spain." A dashing young man, and personality to boot. Dressed to the nines in some sort of leather tunic and brightly colored bloomers, this guy was dark, romantic cool. You should have seen him wielding his hefty sword. I wanted to dramatically rush into the ring and offer my hand for his victory, but I guess that would have been a bit post-mature. Not to mention stupid, but those youthful romantic dreams die hard. I did yell “Ole” which earned me a minor laugh from the rest of the crowd.

We were instructed at the jousting match that in merry olde England nobody yells “Yay!” at tournaments. The proper cheer is “Huzzah!” Somebody asked what “Huzzah!” means and somebody else replied that it means “Yay!” I’m hip to that, and so I yelled “Huzzah!” for everyone out there, especially the horses, who looked somewhat miserable. One had an enormous pock-mark on its neck, which could only be the result of having been jousted accidentally by one of the authentic-looking jousting poles. The poor horse seemed not too excited about rushing headlong into another injury, but it did its duty nonetheless. Just goes to show you how stupid horses really are. A pig would have learned its lesson and refused any and all further jousting challenges, preferring instead to hunt truffles or some such less dangerous occupation.

I admire horses for the way they look but, rather like supermodels, they are not often the sharpest pins on the cushion. Pigs, on the other hand, are very clever and intelligent animals. Which, I think, has got to cause them much emotional distress. They are smart enough to KNOW how stupid they look running around on those short little legs with those silly curly tails. They must know they look like George Castanza in high heels. And they are basically running around naked, which must only compound the humiliation. Being fat must make it even worse. Pigs are like the Kathy Bateses of the barnyard; they have all the smarts and all the talent, but none of the glamour. Horses are like Brittney Spears; they get all the attention but they don’t understand the first thing about barn yard politics.

I’m sure the pigs absolutely loathe the horses and say mean things about them at the trough.

Much Love,
-An Army Mom

Thursday, August 7, 2003


Dear Rob,

I keep getting email from people saying I should blog. Should I blog? I don’t think I’m cool enough to blog. I mean, doesn’t a blogger have to live in the artsy district of a large city, have many interchangeable boyfriends, and hang out at trendy nightspots drinking cosmopolitans? Don’t bloggers generally know what constitutes a dirty martini? Do you know anything about blogging? Me neither. I may have to investigate. I’ve never actually read a blog, although I have heard of them somehow. I had a hazy idea that they were all lonely 57 year old men pretending to be cute 16 year old girls with crushes on their 57 year old teachers. Or something like that. Hmmm. Tomorrow I will research this blogging thing and find out if I’m qualified. I wonder if you need a blogging license? Maybe I’ll just blog my letters to Iraq. Kill two birds with one stone, and get these pesky emailers off my back.


I just put your mosquito-bitten little brother into the tub. He was babbling something about how, if he had three wishes the first would be to eliminate mosquitoes. I said, “Whoa! What about world peace, an end to injustice, children starving in Somalia?” He said, apropos of whatever goes through his odd mind, “Yeah, kind of like the 26 days of Christmas…(then he sings)… On the 26th day of Christmas my true love gave to me…pants?” He then laughed like crazy. I had no idea what he was saying, as usual, so I laughed too. I didn’t get it, but I wanted to be part of the bathroom “in-crowd.”

I often feel Dylan is too cool for me; that I am just not hip to his vibe, or flava, or… whatever. He wears an ankle bracelet that I did not purchase for him while school shopping at Sears last spring. I think he made it in art class. His sandals look expensive on him, although I distinctly remember paying $12.99 for them at Shoe Carnival. He knows how to hold a tennis racquet, and that intimidates me a little bit. He has things in his room arranged in ways I don’t really understand. I rearrange them and he puts them back without saying anything about it. Like quirky rocks and odd product wrappers and Gameboy accessories. I am worried he will become the millie generation version of one of those goth weirdos.

Actually, I used to think Dylan was kind of dorky. But lately I’ve noticed that neighborhood kids come to our door seeking Dylan, and he is sometimes too lazy to go out frolicking with them, which makes them think he is difficult to attain and, therefore, cool. For example, Charles lives across the street. He is the smartest kid in Dylan’s grade, has a black belt in Karate, and can speak Korean. (His parents emigrated from there.) Last year I wanted desperately to get Charles to hang out with Dylan. As class room-mother, I noticed right off that Charles was the cream of the fourth grade crop. I flirted with Charles incessantly, but he ignored me.

Now he is suddenly at our house ALL THE TIME. I mean that literally. He has eaten supper here the past 3 nights in a row. I often have to kick him out at 10 PM, and I always wonder why his mother lets him stay over here so late. I call her and say “Li, did you know Charles is here?” She says “Ahhh! I not know he there, but OKAY!” (You can fill in the Korean accent for yourself.) Charles is at our door four or five times a day. Sometimes Dylan is so busy watching babyish Japanese cartoons I can’t muster the enthusiasm needed to get him to play with Charles. This seems to make Charles desire Dylan all the more. Nick from next door does the same thing. He actually tries to call Dylan on his walkie-talkie all the time. He says things like “CQ, CQ. Over!” I say, “Dyl, Nick is on the walkie-talkie.” Dylan says, “I know” and doesn’t even bother to look up from Pokemon Yellow Version on the Gameboy Advance.

Some kid I have never seen before in my life stopped by yesterday and asked me if we have ever called Baghdad, Iraq. “Because, um, like, um, it costs like, um, about one hundred and fifty dollars a minute to call BaghdadIraq!” (He said it as all one word- bag-dad-I-rack.) I said,
“Really? Wow, that’s a lot!” Then the kid got bored with me because of my obvious lack of Bag-Dad-I-Rack calling experience and asked if Dylan was home. He was, but he was “resting.” I had to actually tell this kid that Dylan was “resting.” Now that kid undoubtedly (and wrongly) thinks Dylan is awesomely cool. (and that I am a non-bagdadirack calling idiot. I tried to save it by telling him you called us from bagdadirack several times, but it didn’t impress him at all.) So I’m not cool, but I guess Dylan still is.

I mean, think about it. You’re eleven years old, and you watch Blues Clues without any embarrassment whatsoever. You say things like “That would be acceptable” and “additionally…,” not because you are particularly intelligent, but because your ancient hag of a mother has been speaking to you in those terms since your birth. Your exotic 22 year old brother is a soldier in the “Elite” 101st Airborne during an actual war. You wear his dog tags AND you have a cool ankle bracelet just above your expensive-looking sandals. You are aloof and hard to get, and your mom gives out free loaded baked potatoes. (I was out of Popsicle’s and had all these potatoes waiting to rot on me, so what else could I do?) And you really don’t give a shit what anybody thinks of you because, after all, Yu Gi Oh! will be on at 3:30 regardless of whether you have any friends or not. You are physically attractive, have a good tan and stunning blue eyes, and you are nice to everyone equally. This is apparently a recipe for instant, undeserved coolness.

Your dorky little brother has become a hot commodity in this neighborhood, mostly because he is anti-social and a potential hermit.
Also, he has what I call a “food disability.” He won’t eat anything, and he really means it. Maybe he should blog. Oh, I forgot, the kid can’t write for shit, so that would never work. Maybe I should pretend to be him and blog. Nah, that won’t work either. I have no idea what it feels like to be cool; I could never pull it off. I’m just one of those faceless groupies who hang around the bathroom laughing at his meaningless jokes. God, I am pathetic. My eleven year old kid is more cool than me. I never should have started listening to talk radio.

Much Love,

--Mom