Approval Junkie

by Faith Salie

  I learned something about John’s dogs after we were married and moved into a new apartment together. I learned that I don’t want dogs and dog smells and dog noises in my own home. It was too late. We were married, and John came with the dogs, like shedding, incontinent stepchildren.

  I think John thought he married, not a dog lover, but at least a dog liker. Even though I didn’t mean to, he may feel like I pulled a mate and switch.

  In the past few years, there have been a few manifestos written by women who have happily decided to be child-free and want society not to stigmatize them. I support those well-rested ladies with innie belly buttons. But if you mention you don’t want a pet, you get pilloried. If you are not a Pet Person, you are a Bad Person.

  Take a recent conversation with Juan, the daily dog walker. The kids call him Uncle Juan, but say it like, “Un Kwon,” probably making Juan the only Ecuadorian dog walker to have a Korean name. Un Kwon looks remarkably like Salvador Dali. Un Kwon is an agent of chaos. He tosses stuff for the dog to fetch in the apartment, waking up napping children. He encourages them to throw dinner on the floor for the dog. Un Kwon takes avocado meant for Augustus’s mouth and massages it into my son’s hair, sculpting a food mohawk. And we chat like this on the topic of my not enjoying a dog in our apartment:

  UN KWON: I like jew becoz I know jew, but if I deedn’t know jew, I wouldn’t like jew.

  ME: What about people who don’t like children, do you like them?

  UN KWON: I hab no probleem wi dat.

  ME: You have no problem when people don’t like little babies. Small humans.

  UN KWON: Ees fine wi me. Buh how can a pairson not like dugs?

  ME: I like dogs fine, dogs are great, I just don’t want one.

  UN KWON: Jew crazy. Korbie lufs jew.

  ME: No he doesn’t, Juan. I feed Korbie, that’s all. He knows which side of his bone is buttered.

  That Un Kwon barely likes me shouldn’t surprise me. I once did a commentary for Sunday Morning, the world’s most folksy TV show, called “I Am Not a Pet Person.” My basic point was that although, yes, I loved our French poodle Jacques Le Strap as a child, I don’t want a pet now. So please don’t judge me as Cruella de Vil, and I’ll try not to judge you as crazy when you French kiss your pet or dress your “baby” up in people clothes or throw a “barkmitzvah.”

  Sunday Morning airs on Sunday mornings. The amount of rabid comments I received on the Christian Sabbath stunned me. Granted, they were not of the same creative pornographic ilk as the hate I’ve gotten from Fox News viewers. When it comes to which audience spews more vitriol, it’s a question of quality versus quantity.

  First, let’s take quality. Here’s some constructive criticism my Fox appearances have earned:

  you really don’t have much of a sense of humor for a fat asses skank

  Robert S.

  And you’re a complete tool because?????

  Jay N Vanessa

  You have a Stupid airline SLUT!!!!appearance

  You cow like creature, very disgusting…Smelly like. You slutty bitch!!! Fondest Regards

  Steve B.

  You know, you are, without a doubt, the most vile human I have ever seen on TV. Why don’t you go back to O Magazine with Oprah, and the pigs on The View….you would fit right in.

  Ms. Barbara W.

  I don’t know if you have kids…..but I’m sure if you do….when they were born they must have smelled like fish. You probably aborted your pregnancies. Have a great life funny girl BTW….. getting a late start attempting to be in show biz aren’t you?

  Respectfully,

  Kim

  You should stick to failed comedy attempts (aka grade school sarcasm) and leave the thinking to men. Play to your strengths. Then people won’t keep mistaking you for a fire hydrant. And you’ll stay much drier.

  manhood101

  And now for quantity. My “I Am Not a Pet Person” commentary delivered hundreds of responses. Most of them said that it’s clear I’ve never been unconditionally loved; one said I needed to get some sun.

  Then there was Pam.

  I would like to give Faith a cigarette to calm her down after her “I don’t want pets” segment on CBS Sunday Morning. In fact, I’ll be happy to give her a case of cigarette’s.

  My boyfriend would be perfect for you, he doesn’t like pets either, nor does he like women who own dogs. You’re both skinny and uptight, find disgust in everything that you do not produce. Others see your disgust, they are just too kind (a trait learned from pets) to tell you about your scrawny, disgusting persona you cherish and force onto others.

  I think there are rescue agencies for people like Faith and my boyfriend, it’s called the Russian Space program, join it, the planet will be better off without you.

  Sincerely -Pam

  If she hadn’t mentioned the dogs, I totally would’ve pegged Pam as a Cat Lady. I e-mailed her back, told her I was marrying a man with two dogs, and thanked her for thinking I was skinny. She wrote me back saying maybe I’m not as bad as she’d thought, but her boyfriend is the worst.

  The sheer volume of the Pet Person comments hit me hard. So many people took the time to express their disapproval of me on a show I care about. A sweet show I used to watch as a child, over pancakes with my family, before church. My friend Mo Rocca*1 is a correspondent on the show, and one day he called me out of the blue to suggest I write a couple of commentaries he could show to the executive producer, Rand Morrison. I immediately wrote four samples and met with Rand. I tried to remain cool as I talked to the architect behind what’s pretty much the greatest show in the history of television. Rand gave me a shot, then gave me more and more shots. But all those shots did not inoculate me against the virulent comment bath in which my Pet Person piece dunked me. I read every single one, feeling sicker and sicker but unable to stop. It was like bingeing but without the temporary thrill of trans fats.

  But where this all took place is key. I pored over these comments while sitting by the fire in the lobby of a monastery-turned-hotel in Prague. It was a cold, clear April night. John had taken me to Europe for my fortieth birthday. He was outside stargazing, exhaling his pipe tobacco. I was inside, inhaling others’ vitriol.

  John found me in the lobby, robbing Eastern Europe of its Wi-Fi. He was a bit breathless, and I was teary. He wanted to show me the sky, but first he asked me what was wrong.

  “My pet person commentary aired, and everyone hates me! They’re so mean! They think I’m ugly and stupid and horrible! I was just being funny! I even said I like animals!”

  John braced my shoulders.

  “Baby. Why do you read that stuff? Think about it: what kind of people take the time to write shit online? They’re crazy, especially pet people.”

  “But you love dogs and you love me!” I sniffled.

  “Yes. And I don’t dress my dogs up like Abraham Lincoln or push them in strollers in Central Park. They’re crazy. But listen. Just stop. Why do you do this to yourself? Just don’t read it. Don’t let them enroll you in their energy. Look where we are!”

  John says things like “enroll you in their energy,” even though he doesn’t do yoga.

  Then he led me outside to look at the stars to remind me we were literally half a world away from all that didn’t matter and gave me a lovely kiss that tasted gross.

  I’d wanted the CBS audience to embrace me. I’d wanted the executive producers to think I was a fan fave. I didn’t need people to agree with me; I just wanted them to like me. I was STUPID, the commenters were right about that. Because you can’t have it all. In fact, if you’re a woman, and you try to win approval by expressing your opinion, you’re probably going to succeed 30 percent of the time. The other 70 percent of the time, you’re fielding questions about the effluvium of your birth canal.

  Early on, I confess it was fun to discover a thread in a chat room devoted to whether or not I should get bangs. But that frisson of self-importance quickly deteriorated because peopl
e can be downright mean. Reading things about myself is, at some level, a self-excoriating exercise in feeling important. I try not to do it anymore. My father occasionally calls to tell me I should ignore all the horrible comments I haven’t read. It’s best just to tell myself, quietly, WHEN U READ THESE COMMENT’S YOUR LETTING UR EGO HAVE IT’S WAY!!!*2

  I’m now convinced that if I want a loyal audience for my opinions, I should probably get my own dog.

  * * *

  *1 This was a fairy godfather gesture of generosity on Mo’s part that changed my life. Mo is a phenomenal gift giver. At our baby book shower, he gifted our unborn son with a collection of vintage TV Guides from the ’70s. My favorite shows a gauzy Suzanne Somers in what appears to be a flowered beekeeper’s hat with the caption, “I Want It All.” Tucked inside, we found a card: “Dearest Augustus, Your parents are busy right now. If you’re bored, change the channel. Love, Mo.”

  *2 Sic, sic, sic. It’s totally sic.

  Nobody told me that breastfeeding would leave me with blood running down my face.

  You sit in twilight, in a position you’ve assumed hundreds of times before. Your baby touches you like a lover—there’s no other way to put it, sorry to be weird. But you know each other—you know every curve of her face; she knows every curve of your milk delivery system. She grazes you with her hands, she clasps her chubby little fingers around your wrist, proprietary. With her other hand she languidly fiddles with your wedding ring. Then gently entwines her fingers with yours. No one else will ever experience this moment with this child except you. Her hand reaches for your face, and she shoves her fingers straight up both of your nostrils. You learn that a baby finger is exactly nostril-size, and you learn that you need to clip her fingernails. As you begin to bleed from the lacerations, you remove her fingers, and she decides they should land in your mouth. She laughs as she scrapes your gums with the thoroughness of a Virgo periodontist.

  This has happened on multiple occasions.

  I’m going to tell you something else no one told me about breastfeeding, something very important. But first let’s review the things they did tell me. And by “they,” I mean everyone from girlfriends to strangers. Everyone has a thought. A cleaning lady once helpfully pointed out, upon seeing me wearing wedges soon after giving birth, “The heel is bad for the milk.”

  My mother-in-law, who chose not to express milk, was quick to express skepticism of “those lactation people” whom I enlisted to help me. I did receive overt approbation from the French family who lives directly upstairs from us with their two feral youngsters. One afternoon as they were lunching on the public terrace that abuts our living room window, I walked by the window topless, save for a tiny baby covering one breast. The whole family gave me raucous thumbs-up. However, they are French, so I think they were mocking me.

  Here are the things I was told about breastfeeding.

  It’s Miraculous

  First and foremost, are we all clear on how this works? Oh no big D, except that YOUR BODY TAKES YOUR BLOOD AND TURNS IT INTO MILK. I mean, really stop and think about that. That’s some Jesus-like shit right there. Sure, Jesus could turn water into wine, and wine has resveratrol. But ladies can turn blood into milk, and milk has natural galacto-oligosaccharides, which is not a word I made up. Someone named God or Darwin, I guess, created this system, and it’s how the human race solely survived until the first cavewoman with sore nipples grunted “Screw this” and invented formula.

  Yes, breast milk is barely believably amazing. It’s reliably, freshly available; it’s just the right temperature; it has fatty acids and unicorn DNA to turn your babies into polyglot physicists. Research has shown that breastfed children possess higher IQs than formula kids. Now I don’t know if this is really true, because my older child survived almost entirely on formula and, like all parents, I suspect my own child is a genius. But I do know that my entirely breastfed younger child has sucked the intelligence out of me. For the past year, I’ve called elephants “umbrellas” and hailed downtown taxis to take me uptown.

  It’s Healthy

  Nothing’s healthier for your baby than your breast milk. Unless you’re my son. After ten weeks of life, surviving only on what I’d served on tap, my son had dropped off the growth chart. It wasn’t that I didn’t have enough milk—don’t mean to brag, but I’m what’s known as “an overproducer.” No, my baby suffered a severe milk-soy protein allergy that caused blood to streak his diapers and him to scream anytime I put him on me, so our pediatrician prescribed a sci-fi-sounding “elemental medical food for infants who cannot tolerate intact or hydrolyzed protein.” This formula smelled like chlorine. I had to quit breastfeeding him cold turkey. Then I spent months on a strict elimination diet so I didn’t ingest anything that might remotely upset his system. I was one of those freaks who had to tell waiters that not a bit of butter could touch her food, probably ensuring that a lot of their saliva touched my food. I pumped and dumped for weeks to make sure my milk was “clean,” and by that time, Augustus refused to take my breast. So I joylessly pumped around the clock so I could add breast milk to his bottles. Even my lactation consultant Rhona told me I’d gone above and beyond. Rhona is the hip, cool Jewish grandmother from Yonkers you want for your children. I was sitting in the dark at our dining table on the phone with her. My scrawny baby was sleeping, and my husband was once again working late. From my seat, I could see the skyline. I felt completely alone in a city full of mothers with chunky babies. Rhona said, “You’ve done more than anyone could humanly expect. It’s okay to give up, Faith.”

  Did I stop pumping? Well, of course not. I pumped because I felt like it was something I could do to help a situation over which I had no control. I pumped because I was his mother and felt like I’d failed him in some primal way—I can’t feed my baby.

  So when I finally had another baby, I wanted her to suck it up.

  It’s Convenient

  Breastfeeding is superconvenient, because you don’t have to mix formula, put it in bottles, and warm it up. This is entirely true for the father and the nonlactating lesbian mother.

  However, if you are the milk lady, it really comes down to your definition of convenient: Do you think it’s convenient to pour some powder in water and shake up a bottle? Or do you find it easier to engage in public nudity, quite possibly on a cold day or on a flight seated next to a Hasidic Jew who doesn’t even want your elbow to touch his? Perhaps you do find it convenient to be constantly on call so that, five minutes after you sneak out of your home to have one single half hour to yourself, taking with you your gym bag and your breasts, you receive a text composed with the nanny’s signature pith: “he up.” Also, maybe instead of knowing how many ounces your child is consuming by looking at a bottle, you find it handier to lift your breast and then your baby up and down to see if one feels lighter and the other heavier.

  Pumping was invented (a) to make breastfeeding convenient and (b) as a humiliation device. One time I sat down on the airplane toilet, ready, as usual, to pump while traveling and realized I’d forgotten to pack the breast shields. Without shields, there was no flow, and I couldn’t fight crime. I tried to use my hands to squeeze out an ounce, but it felt like a one-woman S&M show. I missed the equivalent of two feedings and arrived engorged at my hotel to find the concierge had mistakenly delivered me a manual pump rather than the parts I needed. I was in town to make jokes on NPR, but all I could do was cry while I sat on the hotel bed half naked, trying to extract a few ounces with the rickety hand pump.

  I’m never embarrassed about pumping, but I do find the loud farting noises the pump makes when I adjust my breasts distasteful. When my son hears this, he announces, “Mommy has gas.” I always want to emerge from the public restroom stall and let everyone know it wasn’t me, it was my boobs. And no matter how much discretion I seek by choosing a stall at the end of the row, the metronomic whir of the pump gives me away like the beating of Poe’s telltale heart.

  The pump is suppos
ed to untether you, make you a gal on the move, a lactating Jean Naté. Look at you, you’re a working woman and a mama! What the pump really does is weigh you down, along with the ice pack you have to take with you to keep your fluids fresh. Because of the nature of what I do, “pumping at work” has found me pumping in a wing of the CDC with a security guard standing by and in waders on an oyster farm. Let’s not factor the convenience of how long it takes the TSA to test fifteen bottles individually after a two-and-a-half-day business trip. I mean. If I were a suicide bomber, you’d better believe I would not have spent my last sixty hours on earth hooked up to a Medela Pump In Style.

  It’s Painful

  I understand breastfeeding hurts some people. Their nipples crack or bleed. Not mine. I have pioneer woman nipples. A saleswoman at the Upper Breastside (our neighborhood “milk bar,” whose slogan is “You bring your breasts, we’ve got the rest!”) watched in awe as I tested out a hospital-grade pump and turned it up to the maximum suckage. “Wow,” she whispered, eyes wide. “Most women can’t handle that.” This from a gal named Bianca who’s seen a lot of nipples pulled in and out of flanges. I asked her if she had a stronger model. My nipples can go to eleven.