Monday night at about 10:00 pm Alex was reading in our room and threw out the offhand comment, “Oh.  Tomorrow is our chorus concert.”

“Do you want us to come?” I asked, hoping for a miracle.

“Only if you love your son,” said Alex.

So I made Adam cancel a gym visit, and go with me.  Luckily, Adam was so gracious that he didn’t complain at all.   (Hahahaha!  Oh!  *breathe*  That was a good one!)  It was 2 hours before we saw the regular chorus go on stage.  It’s tough to describe what came first.  Let’s just say that if your kid doesn’t play an instrument, watching a high school orchestra is not the most enjoyable experience.  Let’s also say that if you’re stuck watching a high school orchestra when your kid doesn’t play an instrument, make sure your cell phone is fully charged and has lots of games on it.

Alex is getting a “B” in chorus.  I truly didn’t understand this.  I mean, I can understand a “B” in math, English, science, history… but chorus?  If memory serves correctly, they don’t grade you on the quality of your voice.  You just have to show up and sing.  Ah.  How my naivite makes me smile.  Oh, to be 46 years, 4 months, and fifteen days old again.

Alex stood in the middle of the third row.  As other kids moved their mouths and breathed, Alex stared into space with his entire face looking like Nicole Kidman’s forehead.  His lips wiggled a bit, but I couldn’t discern true movement.  His eyes were glazed over.  He has a deep voice, but I could hear nary a peep from him.

Adam and I looked confusedly at each other.  What was he doing?  “Now I know why he’s getting a ‘B’”, I whispered to Adam.

“Yeah.  Cause the music teacher’s too nice to give him an ‘F’,” whispered Adam.

“She’s a saint,” I replied.

We thought it was funny, but the more I thought about it, the more annoyed I became.  Why choose “chorus” as a course if you’re not going to sing?  Was this an indication of Alex’s attitude towards life – you just do the minimum to get by and that’s enough?  I worked myself into a Grade A Robin Tizzy.

When we got home I yelled at Alex.  “We’re taking you out of chorus!” I yelled.  “You weren’t even singing!  Your face wasn’t moving at all!”

“I was singing!” yelled Alex.  “That’s just what my face looks like!”

“I can’t believe you’re fighting about this,” said Kevin.

“Shut up and go upstairs!” I yelled.

It went on and on.  Alex insisting he was trying in chorus.  Me pulling up his elective selection possibilities on the computer and asking if he’d prefer a course on cultural diversity for the second half of the year.  Adam playing Doodle Jump on his i phone.

We ended the fight with Alex agreeing to ask Mrs. L, the chorus teacher, how she thought he did at the concert.  When I came home from work the next day, Alex met me at the door.

“Well?” I asked, victory’s sharp scent wafting up my nostrils.

“Mrs. L said I did great,” Alex said.  “In fact, she said that she didn’t give me good grades at first because I always had a dazed look on my face, but now she realizes it’s just my face, and I’ve gotten a 20 out of 20 for the last three chorus classes, and now I’m getting an ‘A’.  Plus, kids came up to me in the hall all day, and told me how well I did at the concert.  So, what do you think now, Mom?  Huh?  Huh?”

How quickly victory turns to slime.  At least he’s not a lazy loser who only puts the minimum effort into his endeavors.  He’s a hard worker with a weird immobile face and invisible breathing.

“I fully apologize.  I misjudged you.  Please forgive me.”

What else can you say?

Could somebody stop Kevin from mocking me?  He is sitting next to me on the sofa as I check out my friends’ blogs, and answer comments.

“You think you really know these people, don’t you?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah,” I say (Sort of embarrassed.)  I do know you guys.  I do.

“You think you can confide in them.  You think they’re your bestest friends.”

I pull up my blog to write a post against him.

“I once made a friend on the computer,” says Kevin.  “I had to distance myself when I realized I was becoming too attached.”

I begin to write this post.

“Oh, sure.  Run to your blog friends for help.  They’ll support you.  They understand,” laughs Kevin.

“You’re a mean son,” I say.  “We’re having spaghetti and sausage for dinner, but you can have gruel.”

“I’ll just pull up some virtual roast chicken on a cooking blog,” says Kevin.

Sometimes, I wonder why I had kids.

My kids woke me up out of a sound, drooly sleep this morning to whisper, “Mom, Mom. . .”

I considered blowing foul sleep breath at them to make them shut up, but didn’t .  I’m so friggin’ nice.  They wanted a ride to school because it is pouring out.  We live down the road from the high school.  I once called it “a block” and Kevin was so incensed, he made us measure the distance.  It is .5 miles to the school.

I’m OK with giving them a ride this morning.  Really, I am.  It’s horrible outside, and they have enough books to break a weaker man’s back.  It’s the nice days that bug me.  They always want a ride.  A family further down the street, (and closer to the school), used to send their teenager to our school.  They drove him every day.  Kevin figured out the time of their departure, and would lurk in their driveway until they left.  When they called his name to ask if he wanted a ride, he’d look up innocently.  “What?  Oh, me?  Sure.  Sure, that would be great Mrs. M.  Thanks!”

Why are my kids so lazy?  Why are all kids so lazy?  They all get rides!  The line dropping off kids who live a mile from school is huge.  Is it society?  Is everyone worried a psycho killer will pick up their kids as they walk to school?  How many psycho killers are there?  What are the odds?  I want to know.

I don’t see any kids walking to school anymore.  I walked to school in Kindergarten.  I picked up a girl I didn’t like on the way because my mother made me.  She was a weird, embarrassing girl.  The kind of kid who tried to straighten her own hair, used too much solution, and had a giant bald spot for a year.  We walked to school while crazy Lewis Black threw snowballs at us and called me “The Bird”.

As you can see, I look back fondly on those silly walks.  We’d see other kids on the way to school, and we felt like we were part of a community.  I just don’t see the community in a bunch of kids being driven to school by their parents, or having their own cars to drive a mile to school.

Perhaps I’m just feeling cranky because I was woken up 45 minutes early today.  I’m going to stop at the coffee store on the way to work and have an oatmeal cookie with a cup of “Gingerbread Holiday Brew”.  That should cheer me up.  And I won’t have to slow down and watch for kids walking to school.  That’s for sure.

I would love to post pictures of my beautiful sister-in-law singing the lead in “The Magic Flute” in Beijing, but my camera was confiscated as we entered the theater.  They had airport-like security, and nabbed my camera even though I smiled charmingly and assured them I wouldn’t take pictures.  So here’s a picture of 2 strangers singing in Mozart’s creation:

The girl is “Pamina”, the same part Inna played.  Inna was wonderful.  You can’t really hear this girl, so I’m assuming Inna was better.  I heard the name wrong, and thought she was “Pashmina” during the whole show.  I kept trying to memorize her name  by thinking, “Pashmina.  Like the scarf.”

The guy in the picture is Papageno, the bird catcher.  He is supposed to be a humorous character.  His jokes are hilarious if you lived 200 years ago, and you had half your brain removed.  OK.  I admit it.  I  wasn’t super thrilled with “The Magic Flute”.  The music was great – very light and airy – but the story was demented.  Let me summarize it for you:

An Egyptian prince kills a dragon, meets a humorous bird catcher, sees a picture of Pashmina, and falls in love with her.  Pashmina’s mother, “The Queen of the Night”, (whatever that means), asks him to rescue her daughter from the clutches of Sarastro, the high priest of Isis.  Then there is blah blah, magic flute to help, blah blah, Temple of Ordeals, blahdy blah, happily ever after.

The Chinese  people in the audience seemed to really like the opera.  I think that’s because many of their legends and tales are as random as the libretto of “The Magic Flute”.  It’s way more charming when it’s the Chinese people.  I loved seeing Inna perform.  We met some of the opera singers while we were at the hotel, and I liked seeing them perform, also.

So, over all, I’d rate the experience on a 0 to 5 scale as:

Taking my camera away – 1

Seeing Inna – 5

Listening to the music – 5

Trying to understand the wacked out libretto – 1

Seeing it in China – 5

Overall average: 3.4

The night before our trip to China my friend, M, called to see how my preparations were going.

“Do you have enough socks?  Your passport?  Your visa?” she asked.

“Er.  I know what socks are.  I’m good with the passport.  But WHAT THE HELL”S A VISA?” I replied, as my entire dinner regurged into my nostrils.

I googled “Do you need a visa to go to China?”, and sure enough – you do.  I made Adam look at the article on the computer.  He took it really well – did you see Linda Blair in “The Exorcist”?

For those of you who, like me, are clueless travel morons – a visa is a stampy thing you have to get on your passport in order to go to certain countries.  Europe doesn’t require them.  I’m not completely sure why some countries do.  Something about wanting to more closely monitor who is coming into your country, country relationships, yada yada yada.  If you’re well prepared, you can mail away for them ahead of time.  If the country’s consulate is in your city, you can go in person and get one.  If you ordered your tickets on Expedia, and didn’t read the fine print that tells you to get one, (*cough*  Adam), you’re in big fat trouble.

Our flight left from Newark at 12:15pm the next day.  The Chinese Consulate in NYC opens at 9am.  We got there at 8am.  There were already three people in line – a Russian intellectual, a little bossy Chinese lady, and a thuggish-looking Brooklynite.  I could see Adam’s twisted little mind churning away.  “How badly do you guys need to talk to someone in there when it opens?” he asked the gang.

I saw where Adam was going with this, and pulled my hood over my face, so just my chin was showing.  All three people stared stonily at him.  “We have a flight to China at 12 o’clock, and don’t have visas,” he went gamely on.  “It would be so nice of you if we could be first in line.”

“Buddy, we all got problems,” said the Brooklynite.  I wondered if he was going to China to find fresh people to mug.

“How could you not know to get a visa?” asked the Russian intellectual.  “Don’t you know the political climate of the countries you are going to visit?”  I wished her many years of painful hemorrhoids.

“I’m not moving,” said the bossy Chinese lady, “But if I were you, I’d go to the CVS up the street and get a passport photo for the visa.”  My first stirrings of love for the Chinese were born.

We ran up the street and got passport photos at the CVS.  When we got into the Chinese Consulate at 9am, we were directed to “the boss” at window #1.  She looked like she was just weaned off her bottle and allowed to eat baby cereal.  We explained our predicament to Baby Boss.  Adam tried to bribe her by slipping money under the clear divider.  She pushed it back.

“What’s the matter with these people?  They’re unbribable,” he whispered to me.

“Stop before they shoot you,” I advised him.

Baby Boss told us to come back at 2pm.  Urk.  Adam explained the time of the flight.  I whined so loudly that the clear partition plastic cracked.  “Maybe by 10,” said Baby Boss soothingly.  Subtext – stop whining and cracking my nice partition.

We waited in the consulate.  I eavesdropped on the Russian woman’s conversation at her window.  She was trying to get a visa for a Chinese friend who was just coming into NYC for a couple of days for some esoteric conference.  Oooo.  Aren’t we just sooo smart?  I wasn’t bitter about her lecturing us on visas.  Nope.  Not me.  I’m just not the bitter type.

I kept mouthing, “Thank you” to the bossy Chinese lady.  I think she thought I was insane.  We periodically nagged Baby Boss, who got a tortured look on her face every time she caught a glimpse of us in her line.

The visas were ready at 10:30am.  No wonder they don’t take bribes.  You have to pay so much for a last-minute emergency visa, that they’re afraid you’ll have no money left to buy jade bracelets in China.

We made it to our flight with 15 minutes to spare.  Now we know about the visa.  Betcha India requires a visa.  And the Middle East – I’m thinking visa.  Russia?  I don’t know about you, but I vote visa.

I am almost over the jet lag from our China trip, and am close to human again.  Last night I fell asleep on the living room sofa at 8:00p while trying to catch up with blogs.  I woke up at 2:30a with cotton mouth, body odor, and a puddle of drool next to my head.  Pretty.

The Chinese culture is fascinating.  I have never been on such a cool trip in my life.  After two Chinese women told me I look Chinese, I decided, “What the hell.  I’m Chinese.”  I’m drinking pots of tea and Adam bought me a great jade bangle that I’m never going to take off.  You have to wear it on your left wrist – closer to your heart, you know – so I’m getting used to wearing my watch on the right wrist.  Here’s my bangle:

Oops!  I took it off.  Well, never again.  Now it will remain firmly on my wrist.

I showed my kids my bangle, and explained that it would give me luck and good health.

“Uh, Mom, you’re not Chinese,” said Alex.

“Yes, I am,” I said in fluent Mandarin. (OK.  Maybe not.)

“Will you ever be normal?” asked Kevin.

“I prayed to the Buddha in charge of education that you would stop being such a lazy butt head, and bring up your trig grade,” I told him.

“She’ll never be normal.  It’s too late,” said Alex.

“And for you, youngest son, I lit incense in the temple of the Buddha in charge of music, so that you would bring up your chorus grade.  And do you know what that Buddha said?  He said, ‘What kind of a moron gets a B in chorus?’ “

“Buddha doesn’t talk,” said Alex.

“He does to us Chinese people,” I assured him.  “How does it feel to come from a biracial family?”

“We’re so going to need therapy,” said Kevin.

It’s tough to get used to wearing my watch on the right wrist, but I know it’s worth it.  I waited the whole trip for someone to admire the excellent quality of my jade bangle, but no one did.  Maybe they did inside, but were concerned with being too intrusive.  It’s OK.  I know how Chinese I am.  And, boy do I feel healthy.  When I’m not drooling on myself, that is.

That’s “Until We Meet Again” in Italian.  When I was younger I was like that kid in “Breaking Away”.  I spoke Italian, all my friends were Italian, and I lived in “Italian House” in college.  We were supposed to speak Italian all day, but it was too hard, so we only spoke Italian when the RA came to our table during dinner and we’d say things like, “Questi spaghetti sono squisiti!”

This time I’m going to China!  My sister-in-law’s name is Inna Dukach, and she’s a world famous opera star.  Yes, you heard me. The coolness of it is blowing you away, isn’t it?  Yeah, if you think it’s so f-ing cool, try hanging around a gorgeous talented thirty-something-year-old at family gatherings.  Oh – and she’s nice and funny, too.  Ridiculous.  I wouldn’t have married Adam if I had known this would happen.  Here’s my gorgeous sister-in-law and family:

And it gets worse.  She’s tall and thin.  Why me?  It’s like I’m a female Job.

I’m beyond excited.  I put a pad on my shoulder when I got the Typhoid vaccine, because I heard Typhoid is a great way to lose weight.  Squee!  If worse comes to worse I can always drink water from a rural pond.

We’re going to Beijing, where Inna will be performing in the Beijing Opera.  I get to help with squooshy baby.  I’ll squoosh her all day.  Chinese people will call Child Protective Services on me.  I’ll rot in jail – hopefully with a good case of Giardia.

We’ll stay in Beijing the whole time, except for a trip to Xi’an to see the terra-cotta soldiers.  Like the food obsessed people we are, we bought tourist books, but only noted the best duck restaurants.   I’m sure the terra-cotta soldiers will be amazing, but I’m really looking forward to the world’s best dumpling restaurant in Xi’an.  You’ve seen hundreds of thousands of terra-cotta soldiers, all completely different, you’ve seen them all.

Z will be staying with the boys.  Z is tough.  He will keep them from smoking crack.  He won’t buy dog food if it runs out, but they’ll be no crack smoking.  I hope the dogs are OK.

See you soon, bloggy friends!

Sunday, Alex and I volunteered at our Temple’s Food Festival.  I thought I’d be making liverwurst sandwiches, but we were placed at the Middle Eastern Platter table, which was in the deli room.  It was sort of tough to find.  Vegetarians wandered the halls weeping.

The Middle Eastern platters contained falafel.  What is falafel, you ask?  It’s ground up chick peas and spices, which are smooshed into balls and deep fried.  We served it in a styrofoam box which contained 4 falafel balls, pita bread, hummus, tahini sauce, hot sauce (optional), cabbage salad, and regular salad.  The concept was that you stuffed the pita with falafel, hummus, salad and sauce and made a big, drippy sandwich.

Alex sampling the goods:

OK.  I lie. He’s eating a tongue sandwich.   He tasted a falafel ball and thought it was gross.  In fairness, they weren’t that great without the other accoutrements.

Alex was impressed with my work ethic.  I learned what to do and started selling immediately.  Alex filled up some styrofoam containers with salad and hummus, and then left to wander around and eat.  When he came back I was blathering about the health benefits of falafel and selling platters like crazy.

“How do you catch on so fast?” he asked.

“I guess it’s experience, maturity, and wisdom,” I said.

“Pretty cool,” said Alex.

“Plus, I worked at McDonald’s in high school,” I confessed.  “I have a strong urge to ask people if they’d like to supersize their falafel.”

Here is me with the Falafel Crew:

If I didn’t look mildly psychotic, I might have sold more falafel.

My latest writing project is writing an indie film with 2 friends.  I won’t out them because being associated with me can put you on a top-secret CIA hit list.  Let’s just call them K and C.  How about KFC?  That’s sort of catchy.

Anyhoo – I love our movie, and it’s very fun collaborating.  I’m a born collaborator.  I collaborate my head off all day long, and I find that I like it when I write, also.  It fits my personality.  When I wrote “Shrink Rap”, I sent chapters to my friends each time I finished them.  I loved the feedback.  I didn’t want to write in a vacuum.

(For my writing friends, you can skip this paragraph.)  When writers write novels, or non fiction, they get “beta readers” to read their work and give observations and helpful suggestions.  I beta read one book for a friend.  (I sucked, but that’s beside the point.)  Beta readers are usually writer colleagues and friends who do this out of the kindness of their hearts.  Plus, it’s sort of helpful for one’s own work to critique other projects, I would think.  And, it’s nice to pay back the love one day to your friends.

That being said, I’m completely petrified about asking someone to beta read.  It seems like such an imposition.  Just thinking about it makes my guiltometer zoom to 100.  We’re a third of the way through the movie and I’m already sweating it.  I asked a lovely, bloggy writer friend if she knew of any script writers that might beta read.  Being the sweetie she is, she volunteered to do it herself.

Yet here is the problem – movie scripts are really weird.  When you read the script for “The Wizard of Oz”, you think “Huh?”.  (At least I did.)  It’s just so sparse.  You’re supposed to leave lots of space for the director’s interpretation, so a lot of  groovy description gets left out.  I still can’t resist putting in a couple of “camera goes to his brown teeth mouthing the words” sorts of directions, even though I know it’s wrong.

Do I impose on my writer friends to beta read?  Will they think I’m a pain?  Do I need a screenwriter specifically?  Should I lose weight?  Should I move to a warmer climate?  Should I put my kids up for adoption?

Just wondering.