Such a shame that it was directed towards my cat, as it’s such a potentially kinky sentence to utter first thing in the morning. Except for the “stinky” part. I don’t go for that.

Ah, the life of the swingin’ singleton, whose social life is so demanding that she sleeps through most of it. I am a winner.

Speaking of winner, my theatre company and I hosted a benefit on Saturday, where we ate burgers and onion rings, drank beer and sangria, and played a 9-hole mini golf course that we made ourselves, on which I scored, like, an abysmal 57. The event was held at the pub across the street from the theatre, where we are ridiculously regular clients. They consequently love us, and were all about having us spread out our cardboard and Astroturf in their beergarden while they brought out platters of grilled-and-fried summer food and pitchers of picnicky ballgamey beverages.

As much as I protest hot weather, which makes me feel fat and miserable, causes my skin to break out, and turns my hair into a mushroom cloud, I do love summer. The smells are lazy and reminiscent of childhood and camp, yet the air is so relaxed that I don’t get sucked into the quicksand of nostalgia. Yesterday, spending hours in the shade of trees drinking beer with friends and sucking hard-core at mini golf, wearing one of the diaphanous dresses that I forget I own during the winter months, I felt like a Phish concert and a beer commercial rolled into one. And regardless of how you feel about Phish and/or beer, you can’t deny that people who willingly exist in those worlds seem to live on a steady stream of Hakuna Matata.

I spent a good portion of the afternoon talking and making messy paintings with the 8-year-old and 10-year-old on the premises, Leo and Peter, respectively. As is the case whenever I spend time with kids, I basically forgot that they were children and just, like, hung out with them. Seeing how children are not the brain-damaged monkeys that adults sometimes take them to be and are, in fact, people, I find it’s best to treat them as such. Given, kids have slightly less sophisticated tastes than grown-ups and a near-psychotic amount of energy, but that’s only because they haven’t yet learned how important it is to impress other people with class and ennui, and just want to make messy paintings and have fun. Too bad they’re generally not allowed to cuss and drink sangria while doing it. They really miss out.

Based on my experience, kids are impressed by a woman who is willing to make an asshole out of herself, and end up behaving pretty damn well if you just relax. Throughout high school, I babysat for a little girl who was a sweetheart, and sharp as a tack, but honestly kind of a tight-ass. But I’d put Cher’s “Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves” on her parents’ record player, and after she stared at me, aghast, for a moment, we’d both be whirling around throwing scarves at each other with whimsy that would make Walt Disney’s cryogenically frozen head spin.

I think kids are more likely to get annoyed with me than I with them. I’ll play with them as long as my energy holds out, and as long as they’ll put up with my constant questions. I don’t entirely remember what it’s like to be a kid, so I enjoy talking to them because they say … such weird shit.

There’s this strange sense of ownership that sometimes sweeps over a person when they raise a child. Hell, a lot of that is warranted; a parent/guardian is in charge of a lot of what goes into a kid’s brain. But parents don’t have much of a say in how that kid processes the information, and sometimes, especially when the child is still quite young, parents have little regard for their child’s privacy.

OK, I fully intend to embarrass the hell out of any children I birth/adopt/whatever, but there are some neuroses that should remain confidential. At Saturday’s benefit, Leo’s mother was telling me about some sort of information retrieval problem (read as: bad memory? Damn, they’ve got names for everything, these days) that Leo had, which made learning to read an inordinate challenge for him. He’s a smart kid, but he would get angry that it took him so long to figure out a sentence. Leo’s mom then told me that out of frustration, he’d bang his head against hard surfaces and yell at himself for being “stupid.”

Leo’s mom is actually quite cool, but for a second I was mortified to be let into what might be a sensitive issue for Leo. I don’t know … at eight, maybe he’s still too young to be as neurotic as I’ve come to suspect most people of being. Maybe I don't know what the hell I'm talking about, never having been a parent, myself. Maybe I’m projecting my own hypersensitivity on him. I tend to do that, because I’m desperately afraid of hurting people’s feelings through my own dumbassery, until I get to know them well enough to tease them until they cry.

I was at a party once, talking to a two-year-old whose body language reflected that she was way more interest in her shiny shoes than in our conversation. Finally, having decided that I was not worth her time, she just wandered away. I started to get all paranoid and panicky, like it was a really awkward first date, thinking “Oh, God. This really isn’t going well. She must think I’m such a loser. Am I sweating?”

This was years ago, though, and I’ve loosened up considerably since then. I don’t take things as personally. I mean, if a two year old wants to snub me, then fine. She can pay for her own fucking dinner and find her own fucking ride home.

Kids in groups, however, are not so appealing to me. I don’t have the super-cheerleader, rein-‘em-in mentality that seems necessary to captivate more than, say, six hyper children at a time. I’m really too laid back for that, and would just as soon let them do their own thing, and trust that they’d have the survival instincts necessary to work things out, and maybe in time set up some sort of "Lord of the Flies"-esque paedarchy. Or maybe the pack would eventually thin itself out, allowing the weak to perish before having to suffer through Junior High.

If those kids knew what I was saving them from, they’d thank me. Especially the fat ones.

I’ve lately been making up my own versions to Motley Crue’s “Smokin’ in the Boys’ Room.” It goes with just about anything that’s in keeping with the formula of “[gerund form of monosyllabic word] in the [duosyllabic location]”.

Unless I’m the only one who remembers (and was actually sort of fascinated by) that song, try it. And be gone.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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