You Don't Sweat Much for a Fat Girl

by Rivenbark, Celia

  Oh, I’m sure not.

  Ditto another book a couple of years later. Oh? What’s this? You really think Jon Stewart and his gazillion-member staff is more deserving? Well, go on with your bad self.

  This past summer, my most recent book made it to the top three in the category of Best Nonfiction Book of the Year in the South.

  But what’s this? Another Pulitzer winner beat the snot out of me to take that one? And, yes, I hate him just a little bit. Kidding! I’m sure he’s a delightful fellow and there is absolutely no truth to the rumor that, below the neck, he is covered entirely in scales.

  Oh, high road, you’re just so very overrated.

  8

  Road Trip to Nuh-what-kah Rouses Suspicions

  Nebraska—that’s one of the rectangular states out west known for corn and, well, corn—has been in the news lately because its “safe haven” law, as written, allows people to drop off not just unwanted newborns, but even surly teenagers for someone else to take care of.

  All together now: “Suh-weet!”

  Things got so bad that Nebraska governor Dave (“Hiney man”) Heineman was forced to call a news conference in which he actually pleaded, “Please don’t bring your teenager to Nebraska.”

  One state is simply not equipped to handle that much sass, I guess. There is, after all, no Undersecretary of Attitude, or Department of Demanding Money While At the Same Time Screaming At You to Get Out of My Life.

  Who knew?

  Turns out that once the word leaked that the Nebraska safe haven law has a loophole the size of, well, Nebraska, parents from across the country tossed their unruly teens into the car, and took them for a long ride in the country, so to speak.

  While the governor and others have said they’d just love to take care of every one of the little cherubs, they, uh, have to wash their hair that night or something and have decided to change the law.

  But not in time to prevent parents from as far away as Florida and Georgia from dumping their teens at Nebraska’s finer hospital.

  I’m guessing those were some pretty tense road trips.

  Surly Teen (waking and stretching and removing iPod ear buds for the first time since approximately 2004): “So where did you say we were going?”

  Frazzled Parent: “Hmmmm? Oh, just for a nice long ride in the country. Where there is a huge meadow with a big barn and you can catch all the mice you need.”

  ST: “Whaaaa?”

  FP: “Oh, sorry, I was distracted. That’s what we did with the cat, but this is going to be much better than that. You’re going to live in Nebraska! Isn’t that wonderful?”

  ST: “Nuh-what-kah?”

  FP (nervously): “You love corn, right?”

  Of course, these parents didn’t get to this point overnight. As the mama of a middle schooler, I can tell you it’s scary out there. The Princess is in seventh grade, you remember. The other day she was telling me about a fight on the playground between two eighth-grade boys.

  “Who are they?” I asked, looking around the school yard.

  “I don’t know ’em personally,” she said. “But I do know one of them has a beard. And a son.”

  Holy crap!

  Hard to believe that it wasn’t all that long ago that the biggest worry shared by teachers, parents, and students was whether or not the eggs warming under the light bulb in the kindergarten room’s incubator were going to hatch into fluffy yellow chicks before the kids left for spring break.

  A beard. And a son.

  This was right after a conversation with a friend whose kid goes to a middle school across town.

  It seems the dad was volunteering to help with bus duty when he gently asked a petite sixth-grade girl to wait for traffic to clear before she darted across the street to join her friends.

  “Shut up, dickhead,” she said, staring him down. “You’re not the boss of me!”

  Whoa. You eat Happy Meals with that mouth?

  Yoo hoo! Nebraska! Table for one, please.

  But that’s not all! Leaving a school concert one night, I was shocked to hear one of the seventh graders yelling into her cell phone, “If you can’t pick me up, then stay your ass home, Grandma.”

  When a student shoved me aside to buy tickets at a football game at Sophie’s school one afternoon, I started to demand an apology.

  “Mama, don’t mess with her,” said the Princess, putting her hand on my arm protectively.

  “Why? She just broke in line! No cuts!”

  “She once shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, honey, that’s a Johnny Cash song.”

  “I know,” she hissed. “I had to put it in terms that even you would understand. She’s been to juvie!”

  This was nuts. Did she really think I was going to be afraid of some seventh-grade girl?

  “So what?” I told the Princess as we edged closer to the ticket booth. “I’ve watched every season of Oz. She can’t scare me. Watch and learn.”

  OK, so the girl turned around right about then and gave me a look that made me nearly, well, I believe the technical term for it is pee myself.

  One of the most important life lessons any parent can impart is the importance of choosing one’s battles, as I later explained to an overly smug Princess.

  “Where’s all your big talk now?” she teased.

  “Darling, it’s quite obvious to me that my shoulder was in that nice girl’s way. Bad shoulder!”

  Nebraska is big, but is it big enough to contain the two teenage girls I saw pulling out each other’s hair during a catfight over a boy?

  I mean, the only pair of size eight Marc Jacobs orange leather platform sandals at DSW, that’s one thing, but a boy? Puleez. The world is so full of those.

  Frankly, I think the world would be better if every parent treated their kid the way Betty Draper does on Mad Men.

  At her terse command to “Go upstairs,” Betty’s children wordlessly untangle their legs, stand up, turn off the TV and go upstairs.

  Not even so much as a “Just two more hours of Mario Kart, puleeeez.” (Although, to be fair, the show is set in 1963 so it’s not like the kids are being asked to give up that much.)

  Betty Draper talks to her kids like that all the time, even if the table is set for dinner and you know the kids will have to amuse themselves for hours while she swirls a drink at the kitchen table with moody husband Don, and smokes a cigarette or twelve.

  And there’s more from the Betty Draper School of Parenting.

  When the kids are outside playing and it’s time to get cleaned up, Betty steps onto the front porch, puts her hands on her hips and says, “Go inside.” And they do! No back talk. No eye rolls. No negotiations.

  Sure, Betty “Drano” is harsh and even a little toxic to her kids by today’s standards but I’m pretty sure her son would never be a baby-daddy in eighth grade.

  She often looks at her children with utter curiosity, as if she can’t quite figure out how these short people came to live in her house. But then I have to realize that things were different then. Parents said what they wanted; children, mostly, complied—an unthinkable notion in this kid-centric age.

  Betty Draper would never tolerate a boy named Artemis Battlestar or some such with tangled shoulder-length curls and a stained favorite T-shirt pledging allegiance to a greener planet.

  She’d merely level her imperious gaze at him and say, “Change your clothes.”

  And following that, “Tell your father to take you to the barber. You look like a very unattractive girl.”

  Although I could never be as flat-out mean as Betty Draper, it would be fab to just one time have my will be done. I tried to channel Betty the other day.

  Standing at the Princess’ bedside, I smoothed my vintage apron, folded my arms across my chest, and tapped my high-heel-clad foot before flicking a wayward shred of imaginary tobacco from my front tooth.

  “Get up,” I said, trying to emulate that soft-but-scary wa
y Betty talks to her kids.

  Nothing. Not even a slight rustle of the covers, despite the fact that the alarm clock had gone off ten minutes earlier.

  “Get up!”

  A gentle stirring, then a muffled, “I don’t wanna go to school.”

  WWBD?

  “I’m going to get your father.”

  Too late. She was already asleep again. Betty Draper makes it look so damn easy through her Miltown-induced cold-calm parenting.

  “GET UP!!!!!!”

  I look up, helplessly, at Adam Lambert’s grinning face above the bed. On the opposite wall was Vampire heartthrob Taylor Lautner, looking equally amused at my plight.

  After a minute or so, I sighed deeply and walked out, defeated.

  “Jiminy, what a pussy,” I could hear Betty Draper hiss.

  Betty would’ve loved to drop her kids in Nebraska, but really, why should parents have all the fun?

  Why not drop off every asshole who’s tried to ruin your life over the years? I’m talking deadbeat dads, shiftless spouses, no-account boyfriends, cheatin’ girlfriends, the cast of Jersey Shore, even that jerk of a boss of yours—all under the guise of going to see the World’s Largest Ball of Stamps.

  Pesky magazine salesman at your door?

  Grab your keys and ask, “Hey! Would you like to see the motel room that was trashed by Michael Landon in 1962? It’s in fabulous Neligh, Nebraska!”

  Auto mechanic rip you off? It’s time to visit Carhenge, an amazing Stonehenge replica made entirely from junked cars and located in picturesque Alliance, Nebraska.

  There’s so much more to lure the baggage in your life away to Nebraska. Do I really need to say more than “Expertly taxidermied hundred-year-old two-headed calf?” I thought not.

  Personally, I’m trying not to be suspicious that duh-hubby recently suggested completely out of the blue that we take a cross-country trip to Nebraska.

  “That’s great!” I said. “I know Sophie would love to see the Shoe Fence. I’ve read that it goes on for miles and it’s covered with all kinds of shoes and boots.”

  But Duh held his hand up to stop me in mid quirky-shoe-display swoon.

  He said Soph wouldn’t be going, which was a little suspicious since she’s the one who has always dreamed of seeing a fence covered with old athletic shoes. OK, maybe that was me.

  Also, the time of year made his choice suspicious.

  “But isn’t Nebraska really cold at this time of year?” I asked. “I mean, it’s January. I don’t even think the Kool-Aid man exhibit is open this month. I don’t want to go if it’s so cold I can’t enjoy standing in the giant footsteps of Kool-Aid man, like the guidebook says.”

  “Nonsense,” said Duh, but then he seemed to soften a bit. “Well, I suppose it can get a bit crisp out there. Hmmmm. Maybe you should pack a lot of clothes. That way, you can always layer things if it gets too chilly. Say some summer shirts under a few coats and sweaters. Oh, and don’t forget to pack your medications.”

  Yeah, I’m worried.

  9

  Breakfast with Fabolous

  When you’re on the road plugging a book, you never know who you’ll meet on those morning TV shows like Wake Up, Watauga! or The Breakfast Club with Biff & Susie.

  I’ve done a lot of these shows over the years even though I truly detest that o-dark-thirty time frame. I’ve learned that you want to arrive early so you can spend plenty of time luxuriating in the stale coffee smell of the green room, which is almost never green. You pass the time nervously chatting with another guest, usually a local chef who’s going to cook something that nobody should have to smell at six in the morning but is probably great later in the day.

  One time, my only friend in the green room was an orangutan and its keeper. While you might be thinking Oh, how cute!, you should know that I spent the whole time being irrationally pissed that the monkey’s hair was totally better looking than mine. “Pantene” had tons of silken hair and I coveted it. The orangutan took such a liking to me that during my interview segment, he sprang from his owner’s arms and jumped into my lap, coyly looking up at me while I tried to ignore him.

  Here’s a tip: You can’t ignore an orangutan. It’s damn near impossible. At one point, he became fascinated with my earring and tried to eat it. They should tell you stuff like “Don’t wear shiny jewelry in case a monkey wants to eat you” when you sign up for these shows.

  So while the host and I tried valiantly to talk about my book and pretend there wasn’t a monkey gnawing on my earlobe, it wasn’t what you’d call easy. At one point I wanted to say, “Look, I don’t want to overstate the obvious here, but there is a monkey eating my head and you don’t seem to care.”

  But I’m no diva, so if my biggest fan in the world turns out to be a thirty-five-pound monkey with great hair but a bald ass, well, so be it.

  Truthfully, I usually love the green room. You never know what to expect. Even a dinky TV station can have a terrific green room: a full complement of coffee and tea offerings, lighted make-up mirrors, sanitized little brushes and combs to use (mercifully the orangutan brought his own) and, in rare cases, an actual makeup person who is there to make sure you don’t wash out under the lights.

  Although I’ve been doing this a few years, I’ve never run into anybody famous in the green room. That is, until I was in Atlanta to tape a morning show not long ago.

  When I arrived, it was hard to miss the fleet of Escalades sitting in the parking lot, all backed in as though a quick getaway might be required.

  Since my morning green room company is usually at more of a Ford Focus station wagon level of fame, I could tell something was up.

  But what?

  I went straight to the green room to scope things out. And by things, I mean really excellent crullers that would keep my stomach from growling during the interview. I dived in.

  There was a makeup woman waiting for me and, more important, whoever belonged to all those Escalades.

  Makeup lady seemed a little anxious every time the door opened.

  I dusted the cruller crumbs off my skirt and sat in her chair while she distractedly applied some blush.

  And then, a side door I hadn’t noticed earlier cracked open a little, then swung wide. Very wide, to accommodate not one, not two, three or four but fivevery large men wearing sunglasses and Diesel jeans.

  They immediately sat down in a protective circle of chairs to surround a rather slight young man wearing sunglasses and a hat pulled down low. He slumped in his chair and it was clear he didn’t want to talk.

  It was also clear that he was The Talent.

  The bodyguards for rapper Fabolous had him safe as in his mama’s womb. Good thing; he’s been shot before, you know.

  And then, this surreal sight: One by one, the big men pulled out white bags stacked high with Styrofoam platters of McDonald’s pancakes and sausage. Watching their enormous ham hands try to open those dainty little syrup containers was priceless. Balancing the breakfast on their knees, and using lilliputian plastic knives and forks, they seemed more intent on eating than protecting their charge.

  Fabolous. Right here. In front of me. And no doubt he would’ve been shocked silly to learn that the middle-aged white lady across from him, and wearing the hell out of a Talbot’s suit, knew who he was—let alone that at that moment I was furiously texting my tween that I was “having breakfast with Fabolous, so in … your … face!”

  Of course, a conversation was going to be impossible. “Fab,” as I like to call him, was curled up in true fetal position and seemed a little bothered by the smell of all that syrup and imitation butter surrounding him. I had the sense that he hadn’t slept in a very long time.

  The makeup woman fussed with her brushes and combs, probably wondering if Fab would ever get up and let her work on him but smart enough not to ask him.

  In person, Fabolous looks much younger than he is. What can I tell you? I have a quirky fascination with rappers, especially the ones who’v
e been shot.

  Fab has all that, plus a pesky rumor that he had something to do with stealing a Lamborghini (it wasn’t in the parking lot; I looked) and, juiciest of all, that they had recently confiscated five hundred pounds of marijuana from his tour bus.

  Who does that? Who rides around in America with five hundred pounds of weed in their car? I mean besides Paula Deen. Fab said he didn’t have anything to do with all that. Wasn’t even in the tour bus, which was, no surprise here, coming back from the NBA All-Star Game. He’s a good boy. OK, not really.

  I mean you don’t get shot up outside a nice Manhattan restaurant unless something’s up. You can only play that wrong place/wrong time card so many times.

  Looking at Fab sleeping so peacefully, he looked like a child, not a bad-boy East Coast gangsta rapper who uses exceedingly naughty words on occasion. For effect, of course. See, when people like me and Fab cuss, it’s art. Are we clear on that now?

  I was wondering how to ask the now dead-asleep Fab for his autograph or perhaps if he would pose for a cell phone picture with me, but I knew better. Even though they were completely distracted with making perfect swirlies of butter and syrup on top of their pancakes, Fab’s bodyguards were big agile guys who would happily snap my arm like a Frito if I put a camera in his face. No doubt.

  As I was ruminating on all this, a production assistant stuck her head in the green room and told me it was time for my segment. Which, since you ask, went a lot better than the orangutan one. The host was perky, smart, and had actually read my book, which almost never happens. Meanwhile, I was hoping that Fab and Co. were watching on the monitor in the green room and thinking that I might not be a complete loser. As the interview was winding down, I started to ask the host if I could “give a shout-out to my homeboy Fabolous waiting in the green room,” but thought that might be a bit much.

  I tried to hang around for a while afterward, but my driver was antsy to get to the next stop. And although I was being driven in a pretty sweet Lexus SUV, it just wasn’t the same as having a bad-boy entourage of forward-facing Escalades.