How could I NOT love my daughter’s blog? She is beautiful, smart, witty, and unbelievably courageous…
I’m having lunch with my sister (a relationship about which a whole series of novels could be written, or maybe only a couple of lines) in Petaluma:
“I think Alana’s drinking too much” she says.
“What?” (I am blissfully unaware of my daughter’s escapades)
“Haven’t you read her blog?”…
So I do.
But before that happens we agree that Alana probably isn’t drinking any more than we were at her age. And while my life certainly turned into a train wreck of booze and drugs, my sister turned out just fine. My sister also refers to the boy as “Alana’s Creepy Boyfriend”- an example of just how different we are…”creepy” is not the descriptor that comes to my mind…
Sure, no mom wants to hear about her daughter breaking the bed with some guy in New York, or that she’s gone back to the boy (hereinafter referred to as “the douche”) yet again (when he clearly causes her so much pain), or that other members of my family (and, indeed, the whole world wide web) know more about what’s going on in her life than I do…
But I can’t muster up the level of co-dependency necessary to NOT love her unconditionally. Besides, considering the amount of chaos, drama, and damage I caused in her life, I just don’t have any room for judgment.
Oh yeah, I was billed as “hilarious”…
Alana has always been a sharp dresser…
I have a picture of us at the Gilman St. Club in Berkeley. She’s 3 or 4, I’m 22 or 23. I’m dressed in a black vintage dress from the thrift store, with bleached white hair, and (although you can’t see it) my eyebrows are shaved off. Alana is wearing a red-and-white checked, tiered ruffle skirt, matching red top, matching tights, shoes AND hat…She dressed herself girly-girl from the very start. It’s probably also my fault about the shoes. Although you wouldn’t know it now, I was taught early on in my punk rocker-ism to double-spit-shine my steel toes, and my friends called me “Imelda” (a time-dated reference) due to my closet full of shoes (preferably stiletto-heeled) and boots (preferably thigh-high, and worn with garters, ripped stockings, and too short skirts).
Oh, and was I supposed to swear?
Things I’m sure my daughter doesn’t approve of….
1. My UNwillingness to be politically correct. (although I am also a tree-hugging dirt-worshipper, I REFUSE to be guilty for being White)
2. My on-going social gaffes. (Sorry, Lara, for trying to set you up with the cute guy at Chevy’s)
3. My secret fantasy of joining the D.A.R. (Sure, they’re raving republicans, but I want to know what those fascists are up to…)
I’m walking across the street in Sebastopol with Alana. She’s talking about family pressures, the state of the world, and telling me I’m probably not going to get to be a grandmother. “That’s okay”, I say, “I never wanted to have children either”…
I love you, bunny-rabbit, with all my heart.
Always have. Always will.
Just remember about designated drivers and condoms.
Because I can't easily find any pictures of the time period my mother is referring to, I offer you this as proof that my obsession with style started young...
Especially when dining at my great grandfather's where I apparently wore the most appropriate birthday attire.
I'm guessing I was wearing something so adorable my mother didn't want me to get chocolate on it? And how weird is it that I was that blonde as a child?
P.S. I love you too, Mama.
P.P.S Auntie Maya, May I remind you of your year in France during which you once told me you were a "drunken floozy"?
We are now tied for amount of time spent in drunken floozy-dom.
P.P.P.S If either of you tell Grandma Susan about this blog I will post many pictures of both of you as sullen teenagers all over the internet. I have my baby album and Grandma's entire photo collection to work from. Just sayin'