Balthy Does Gotham

When my son Balthazar* was 8 years old I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. Because, you know, nothing like planning ahead. He answered, "A stand-up comedian." Which tickled me pink and sent me to the Interwebs to research opportunities for him. I discovered that NYC's Gotham Comedy Club offered a Kids 'N Comedy Workshop. The workshop culminated in a public performance that was just a few weeks away. On the appointed day, off we went.

The performers (mostly teens) were great and Balthy and I laughed a lot. At the end of the show the MC invited kids in the audience to go to the stage and tell a joke. Balthy and I exchanged looks--he'd recently learned a joke from a family friend and, after a nod from me, bravely made for the stage. Here's the joke he told:

A woman boards the bus with her baby. As she pays the fare the bus driver looks at the infant in her arms and says, "Lady, that is one ugly baby." She walks to the back of the bus, sits, and starts crying. A man a few seats over asks her what's wrong and she says the bus driver insulted her. The man says, "Well, you shouldn't have to take that, no one should! Go back up there and give that bus driver a piece of your mind! And don't worry, I'll hold your monkey for you."

The audience predictably groaned but Balthy told the shit out of that joke and I was hella proud (because "hella" was exactly the kind of proud you had to be in 2003). Afterward I asked if he'd like to enroll in a workshop like that but he declined, surprisingly. Still, I didn't (and don't) agree with forcing kids' interests, so I left the matter there.

Fast forward to fourteen years later and Balthy appeared on the Gotham stage once again, in last week's New Talent Showcase! Performances were recorded so comics would have demos to send out to agents and clubs and whatnot; Balthy's follows below.

*Balthazar is my son's Confirmation name, which I used when I began blogging because he was a minor and I feared online predators. The video reveals his identity and, since he's an adult pursuing a public career, I reckon it's all right to share it here. But he'll always be Balthy to me. Except when he's Seby.

This One Goes Out to All You Mothers...

WARNING: This blog post contains a picture of a real-life, disturbing-looking wound. The squeamish should exercise caution and/or go read another blog, maybe one about unicorns and/or fluffy kittehs and bunnehs, or similar.

Have I mentioned that my Senior-in-college son, Balthazar, plays guitar in a friend's band? He met the fellow up at school, but M (the friend) lives in the tri-state area. Anyway, M's a mover and shaker, and hustles to get them gigs, no matter how humble the venue (think unfinished basement of someone's house). Whatevs, folks gotta start somewhere, and I admire that will-play-for-beer/pot spirit.

They regularly gig during the academic year and on breaks. During the January break, Balthy advised me that the band was heading back up to school on a Thursday afternoon for a show, and then going on to New Haven for another performance that coming Saturday. I noted that a blizzard was expected over the weekend and urged caution, a notion promptly scoffed at by the spawn of my womb.

So I went to work on Wednesday and by the time I got home Balthy was already out with some friends. I knew he'd get back in the wee hours and, as it was a school-night for me, I wouldn't be able to see him till he returned from New Haven the following week. Such is life.

Well, the blizzard did hit, hard, and I nervously checked in with Balthy on Saturday. I was relieved to learn the Connecticut gig had been canceled. The Kid and his friends would be driving back from school on Sunday night. My anxiety level spiked again, as the parkway they'd take is hella curvy, poorly lit, and bound to be a snowy mess.

I spent Sunday in a state of useless hypervigilance, frequently sending up prayers that the kids all made it to their respective homes safely. When Balthazar's key turned in the lock around 7:30pm, I let out a whoosh of relief and thanked God for being so utterly groovy.

Balthazar joined me in my room, plopped on my bed and started chatting. He commented on how good my dinner, which was being kept in the oven so as to stay warm, smelled. In a fit of motherly relief and benevolence, I said he could have it. He thanked me, then gave me his weird, "Boy, are you gonna hate what I'm about to dish up" smile.

Me, on alert: What?

Balthy: I'm gonna show you something that's gonna freak you out. (He stood and his hands went to the waistline of his jeans.)

Me, enthusiastically: Didja get a tattoo?

Balthy, still with the shit-eating grin: Nah... (He pushed down the jeans and showed me the stuff of mothers' nightmares.)

Me, feeling the blood drain from my face: What's that?

Balthy: A dog bite.

Me, through numb lips: From what kind of dog?

Balthy: A big one.

Me: ...when?

Balthy: Wednesday night.

(My eyes shot to his face.) Me: Did you seek medical attention for this?

Balthy, grin widening impossibly: Nah, had to travel with the band the next day, remember? Been puttin' Neosporin on it, covering it with gauze and whatnot. The worst part is that the dog ruined the pair of skinny jeans that I'd just bought that day.

Me, miraculously refraining from throttling him: You're a fucking idiot.

Lest you think I exaggerate the horror that was the semi-healed dog-bite, here's a pic.

Balthy's dog-bite, four days after the event.
Yep, those are puncture wounds. From fangs.
PUNCTURE WOUNDS FROM FANGS.

The ruined skinny-jeans.

I made the little blighter eat (my dinner!) while I got dressed and after he finished we slogged our way through the snow-packed streets to the emergency room of the hospital right around the block (thank God for small mercies).

I have to say, that was our quickest emergency room visit to date, as we were in and out in under an hour and I missed only about the first ten minutes of Downton Abbey (What? It was the final season!). At that point, there wasn't much to be done: the medical staff gave the wound a cursory inspection but, as it showed no sign of infection, asked if he was up to date with his tetanus booster, prescribed a course of antibiotics, and took down the dog-owner's contact info so the state health department could follow up and obtain proof that the dog (either a Rottweiler or a Pit Bull) was up to date on its shots.

(OK, there was one gratifying moment when the triage nurse asked when the bite happened and, upon learning it'd taken place FOUR DAYS PRIOR, looked up from her paperwork to sharply admonish Balthy, "It's Sunday!")

Anyway, Balthy has survived the bite (so far!) and, I hope, has learned NOT to let something like that go untreated for FOUR FUCKING DAYS. Also, I've learned that I need to go for my tetanus booster. Maybe y'all should consider it too, if it's been over ten years since you've had one.

The reason I dedicated this post to mothers is two-fold:

1. You all have been through this kind of terror-striking-incident with your own kids and, I'm sure, can so totally relate, and;

2. In honor of all us mothers, I'm making the e-Book version of my Greek-myth-based romance novel, THAT FATAL KISS, FREE for Mother's Day weekend 2016! Be sure to Facebook, Tweet, and otherwise share the hell out of this post to all and sundry and, if you'd like to pick up your own FREE copy, click here from Saturday, May 7 through Monday, May 9, 2016***!

***I think the times for Amazon's promotional events are Pacific times, so don't take any chances and snatch up your free copy on Mother's Day itself!***

Honesty

My son (aka Balthazar, the Kid) tapped on my bedroom door.

Me, looking up from my sprawled position on my bed: Oh, hey Kid. How long've you been up?

Balthy: An hour.

Me, surprised: Yeah? I haven't heard you. Whatcha been doin'?

B, shrugging: Avoiding responsibility.

Me, having lost an afternoon binge-watching the 1st season of Fargo on Hulu: Me too.

Took Balthy up to college for the start of his Senior year this weekend. If all goes according to schedule, he should be graduating in May 2016, God willing.

I almost can't believe it.

These past three years have challenged me, exhausted me. Now I've a year to get my shit together so we can move into a place of our own again, while simultaneously saving the requisite funds to put out another book (oh, and I suppose I should finish writing it, as well). I'm thrilled and terrified. I almost feel like a graduate myself. (I say "almost" because my back and knees frequently remind me that I ain't no spring chicken.)

Not gonna lie—I fear the future. It sucks when you're going through hell, but at least there's a devil you know. Yet all we can do is keep going.

Because what's the alternative? We're either going or stopping. I sometimes don't know which is preferable. But who, on this side of the veil, can know?

I'll keep going, I guess, till I'm either recalled or have no other reason to. In the meantime, I'm going to make myself some hot cocoa and get to work on my story.

That is all.

My Overprotective Kid

You may remember me mentioning how, when he was younger, my son Balthazar disparaged men who showed romantic interest in me. (And by "disparaged," I mean that he denounced them as being serial killers whom I should avoid like...well, like one should avoid a person aiming to end one's life.) Well, given that he's achieved the ripe old age of 20 (holy shit!) and has been away at a very liberal, girl-pow-ah kind of college for the past three years, I figured he'd outgrown this absurd over protectiveness/smart-assed desire to kill my buzz.

I figured wrong.

A few weeks ago, I texted Balthy the following:

So, like, I was waiting for the Shuttle to GCT & this guy comes up to me & hands me a piece of paper saying, "Excuse me, I just wanted to say you're drop dead gorgeous, I love your hair and eyes. Here's my number, if you ever want to call me." Think I should call him?

After two days of radio silence, I nudged him. Thus replied Balthazar:

No

Me: Why not?

Four hours went by. I nudged again. Balthy wrote back:

Ask one of your friends

Me: The two I asked told me to call him. Why do you think I shouldn't?

Balthy: I don't care, do what you want. I just don't want to hear about it or find out that you're beheaded in an alleyway.

So there you have it. I mean, I'd no intention of calling the guy (he never asked me for my name, which I found really weird) and, admittedly, you never know whether a stranger means you harm. But that'd be true at a nightclub or a bar or a party, right? I mean, all the old-fashioned/more traditional ways of meeting people couldn't ensure they'd be decent, non-psycho-killers. Surely there'd be a "safe" way to get to know someone from the above scenario?

Maybe there's a more promising opportunity coming around the bend for me, one even The Kid won't be able to balk at. Obviously, I don't require his permission. But I wonder if he'll ever be OK with me having a love life of my own...

Probably not.

Is The Kid Losing His Edge???

Balthazar & Goth Mom Lite
on Balthy's 19th birthday
May 29, 2014

If you're a regular reader, you'll know how my Kid, Balthazar, and I tend to go out of our way to push one another's buttons. And by that I mean that he goes out of his way to be a smartass and I struggle just to keep up. From being asked how I'd feel about him joining the Church of Satan to being advised that the men who've shown the slightest bit of interest in me must be psychopaths, Balthazar delights in nonplussing me. (What? That's totally a word.) Sure, I've managed to score the occasional hit, but it's generally the Kid who's in the lead in this ongoing game.

Except...I think he's mellowing, a bit. Possibly, he's losing his edge. Rather than seek to blindside me, he's been more...goofy.

A few days ago, I posted on The Facebook the following:

NYC's experiencing mighty stormy weather at the moment. Here's the text exchange between me and My Kid about him getting picked up by his friend to go to band practice:

Me: Ok. Text when u get to [friend's name redacted]'s

Kid: Why???

Me: Cause it looks like Armageddon out there.

Me: Isn't it dark, cloudy, rainy in [hometown's name redacted]?

Kid: Idk what youre talking about the sun is out the birds are singing a unicorn just flew by and Osama Bin Laden is dead like the forecast could not be more positive

Me: ...

Kid: Naw but yeah its p shitty

See what I mean? Goofy! But not obnoxiously so!

I wonder...

...should I worry? Is he simply dialing back in his advancing years? Or is this a fake out, and he's lulling me into a false sense of security, planning to zap me a good one when I least expect it?

Hmmm...

Giving Our Girls Some Chemical X (WIBWIW)

Some family from out of town visited recently. My cousin brought her two girls, ages 3 and 6, and we had a BLAST! They departed Saturday morning for points north of New York and, while I have to admit to utter exhaustion, I was sad to see them go.

We walked around Manhattan, sang real songs and made up songs, watched The Powerpuff Girls (I still have VHS tapes—yes, VHS tapes—of the PPGs I'd bought for Balthazar years ago), and we laughed, a LOT.

We battled balloons, we swung around and got dizzy, we had tickle attacks, we played Shipwreck (in which I was the boat and rocked the girls into a bad storm at sea) and Airplane (in which I was the plane and they "flew" on the soles of my bare feet), we took tumbles, and we ate cupcakes.

I bought them each three books and none of them were about princesses. I quizzed them on stuff. I tried to comment on how pretty they were only once a day. If I told them they were cute, I also told them they were smart and strong.

You see where I'm going with this, peeps?

Though The Powerpuff Girls were made of "sugar, spice, and everything nice," the scientist who created them in his laboratory inadvertently mixed in some Chemical X. This is what gave the PPGs their super powers. And their super powers, in turn, give them the assurance that they can handle any monster who crosses their path, even when they're scared.

My sister, cousin, and I weren't given any Chemical X when we were kids. We were taught to be obedient, quiet, and above all, never to engage in behavior that could be considered ugly.

Well, funk that noise.

Let's teach our girls to be courteous, yes, and polite, and respectful. But let us also teach them to be messy. Let's show them how fun it is to get some dirt under their fingernails, as well as how pretty those nails can look with a few coats of polish. Let's teach our girls to be loud, when it's warranted. Let's teach them to run fast, kick balls, and swing bats.

Let's challenge our girls, rather than make things easy for them. Let's allow them to take a few falls and then show them how to get back up again. Let's talk to them about farts, and snot, and toe cheese.

Let's show them that clothes come in a wide spectrum of colors, not just pink. And let them know it's totally cool to prefer pink, too. Let them know they have options.

Let's give our girls some Chemical X and empower them to be whatever they want to be, not what someone tells them to be, or what they think they should be. Let them know they can just be, and that that is enough.

Streaming Consciousness: The Kid

...So many responses to my most recent post center around the essential "Holy fuck, not Putin?!" theme, yet no one commented on the fact that my Kid's due to go to Russia next week, for a month-long stay. Perhaps y'all were so tightly clutched in the grip of horror at my taste in man-candy that this salient fact escaped you. Never mind. I've nerves of steel and feel perfectly blasé about the fact that it'd take me 10 hours and over a thousand bucks to get to Balthazar in the event of an emergency, from June 12 to Bastille Day.

...I'm clearly lying about that last bit. I plan to tipple steadily throughout the day this coming Wednesday, the day the Kid embarks on his trip, so I can just not give a shit that he's flying an airline I've never heard of before and will be almost completely out of reach till mid-July.

...Balthazar's girlie and some of her fam were in Europe themselves recently and had a brief layover in Manhattan yesterday on their way home, so he and I went downtown to say howdy. When Balthy and his gal reunited, I was struck by how much love for him poured out of her eyes. My next thought, which haunted me for the rest of the day, was how painfully vulnerable we become when we love and how easily our beloveds can destroy us. (What the Kid's initial response was to her I can't quite tell you, as I deliberately turned away so they could suck face in relative privacy.)

...The Kid finished his first year of college! Holy shit! I'm happy to report that I'm over the devastation of Empty Nest Syndrome and have come to enjoy the freedom of not having to rush home from work every day to care for my not-so-little birdling. I'm enjoying the weird journey from Goth Mom to Goth Mom Lite and rediscovering myself as just a chick again.

...Balthy's got way more clothes than I do. Waaaaay moooooooore. And that pic doesn't show even half of his crap. Who the hell's got time for that much laundry, ain't nobody got time for that! (The Kid obviously doesn't, else his threads wouldn't be in a mound on the floor, awaiting the tender mercies of Tide.)

The Kid ~ Vignettes

Apparently, I can't do a nice thing for The Kid (my son, Balthazar) without said act of kindness being regarded with deep suspicion. A while back, he mentioned he needed gloves. I kept forgetting about this until one Sunday that I happened to be at work, I remembered to order him some and have them shipped to him up at college. So I ordered two pairs, each from a different vendor, 'cause, you know, they're easily lost or misplaced (though I didn't tell him he'd be getting two). He let me know when pair one arrived, but when pair two turned up a couple of days later, he texted me, "What is the meaning of this?"

*     *     *

When I moved back in with the 'rents at the end of September, I was appalled to discover that the closet in my "new" room reeked of mothballs. Reeked, I tell you! I tried simply cleaning/vacuuming/airing out, but the stench remained. So I took the advice I read on the Interwebs, to stick some baking soda all up in there, close the door, and wait for the malodorous offense to the senses to disappear. I'd forgotten to mention these to Balthazar, who visited for the Thanksgiving holiday this past week. He made it up to my room before I did and, when I arrived, asked, "What are those bowls of cocaine doing at the bottom of the closet?"

*     *     *

While he was home, he asked if he could hang out with friends Thanksgiving eve, which was fine, as my mother worked that day, so we didn't celebrate the holiday till Friday. I told him to be home by 12:30am, at the very latest (only 'cause my mom works nights and typically gets home by 1am, and if he wasn't home by the time she was, I anticipated us both getting grief). 12:30 came around and Balthy didn't. The following text conversation ensued:

Me: Almost home?
The Kid: Sooooorta.
Me: How soon will you be here?
The Kid: Er like 15. Sryyyy
Me: Sighs
Me: You're not walking, are you???
The Kid: Naw we're [at a diner] in [place redacted]
Me: Wtf
The Kid: We're driving back very soon about to pay the bill

(There was no way he'd get home before my mom. I then went through a swift succession of pre-set "smileys," seeking a frowny one which would adequately convey my extreme displeasure. Amusingly, I hadn't used many of these pre-sets, so I had no idea what image I'd get, half the time. Some of them were doozies. After a heart came up...)

Me (explaining): I'm trying to find a pissed off smiley

(I tried a few more and finally settled on a "smiley" that looked, to me, as though it was pissed off.)
 
Me: I guess that's the one
Me: Though the bat was pretty kewl
Me: But yeah, I'm totally pissed at you
The Kid: Oh, you

PS: He got home significantly later than my mom, who, when I told her he was with friends at a diner and running late, said the equivalent of "Poor baby!" in Portuguese. I'm not sure why she commiserated with him, when I was the one wigged out by his lateness, but there it is: for all the things that would've earned you a strip torn from your hide, your parents will readily forgive their grandchildren (and give 'em cookies, while they're at it).

There's no justice in this world.

Seventeen years ago today…*

Balthazar, June 1995.

…at 10:21 am, I unleashed the fruit of my loins upon the world. Balthazar popped out of my pelvis weighing 7 lbs, 11 oz, and measuring 21” in length. Born of a slightly jaundiced mother, he did a brief stint under bili lights, which allowed me to get a bit of rest after my ordeal labor.

After fetching us from the hospital, his father left to pick up my sister, who was to stay with us for a couple of months to lend a hand and moral support, as needed (and both were desperately needed). I stood in the little hallway beyond the front door, cupping my one-day old baby in my hands, wondering what the hell I should do with myself. I looked over at his bedroom and realized I hadn’t put any bedding on either his crib mattress or the twin bed my sis would be sleeping in. As I pondered which to tackle first, the kitchen phone suddenly rang, an unpleasantly jarring shrill in the otherwise quiet apartment. It scared the crap out of me - and out of Balthazar as well. Literally.

I became aware of an unexpected warmth and looked down, saw the meconium oozing out of his diaper and onto my hands. The phone continued to bleat at me and I just stood there in the hallway, grossed out and nonplussed, feeling completely alone and useless.

Balthazar, September 2011

Today, he weighs about 160 lbs, stands at roughly 5’8”, and is hairier than I could ever have imagined.

And he’s still giving me shit.

:-D

 




*This is an updated version of a post I made on the message board of an author whose works I heart, under my other online persona, several years ago.

Non Sequiturs Part Deux ~ Goth Mom Strikes Back

I mentioned in a previous post that my teenaged son, Balthazar (a.k.a. The Kid) likes to throw these mind-blowing non sequiturs at me out of the blue in order to mess with my wits, such as they are. Over the years I've learned to under-react, either by pretending I didn't hear him or going along with whatever nonsense he's spewing. For example:

The Kid: Knock, Knock.
Me: Who's there?
TK: To.
Me: To, who?
TK: To whom, Mom!
Me (roll my eyes and shut my mouth)

And like that. OK, that one wasn't too bad, and a harmless bit of fun, at that. But I realize that all this time suffering from his intense assaults on my (questionable) sanity have left me punchy. Case in point -

An old high-school chum, her toddler, and I were at the local Target with The Kid to shop for his then-girlfriend's Christmas gift (though it was already late January). I was mildly annoyed that his procrastination on this task was tapping into my afternoon with my friend and quickly came to understand that Balthy hadn't given the matter too much thought beyond getting himself to a Target.

Me: So what do you plan on getting your girlie?
The Kid (with a shrug): I dunno. A scarf, I guess.
Me: A scarf, you guess?
TK: Maybe something else too.
Me: Like what?
TK: I dunno. Something feminine.
Me (with some asperity): Tampons?

I think I made my poor friend snort some of her latte up into her sinuses. (Sorry 'bout that, Dude.) But never fear - old Balthazar got me back soon after.

One Saturday afternoon he was out with some pals and didn't respond to my text asking for his whereabouts (not longitude and latitude, or anything, I just wanted a rough idea of where he was). He didn't reply so when he came home -

Me: I sent you a text, why didn't you answer?
TK: Didn't get it.
Me: Humph. Where were you?
TK: Around. (At my glare.) At the park.
Me: What were y'all doin' there?
TK: Oh, you know. The usual. Walkin' around. Exploring. Meth.

Grrr...Of course, he totally wasn't doing drugs. (I don't think.) (Please, God, let him have been yanking my chain.) I made a mental note to strike back at the earliest opportunity, and here's how that went -

I kicked Balthazar off the PC around 11pm and sent him to bed. The Kid came at me all growly and testy teen-like so I give him a big hug and kiss.

The Kid: Ah, I farted.
Me: Is that what you do when your girlfriend kisses you?
TK: Euw, that's gross.
Me: Which part; kissing your girlfriend or farting while you do it?

And that, I am thrilled to inform you, successfully shut him up. Until he farted again. 'Twas a small victory for Goth Mom but I'll take what I can get.

Non sequiturs…

I mentioned in a previous post that my son, the not-so-little-anymore Balthazar, likes to put me through my mental paces with his rapier-like wit (which is patently unkind, as I am aged and worn-down and defeated by life). Over the years I’ve made note of these ninja-like sallies, to serve as evidence of my mental deterioration and the provocation of same when I face a board of nice young men in their clean white coats.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate his sass (well, ok; I often don’t, as he’s yet to learn when to save it for when I’m not soul-crushed after yet another miserable day out in the world). It’s that he comes at me with these bizarre non sequiturs which defy my ability to retaliate in kind. For example, one day, as The Kid and I made our way home from Sunday brunch -

The Kid: Mom, you got any connections in the industry?

Me: Which industry?

The Kid: The music industry.

Me: Not that I know of.

The Kid: Does my dad?

Me: I dunno. Ask him.

The Kid: Don't wanna ask him.

Me: Why not?

The Kid: 'Cause then he'll know my dark secret.

Me (waiting for it): What's your dark secret?

The Kid: Freezer burn.

See what I mean? But do ya see what I mean??? Wait, here's another one -

The Kid: Hey, Mom, who do you think would win in a fight; Gandhi or Martin Luther King, Jr.?

Me (clueless, but playing along): Martin Luther King, Jr.?

The Kid (with a sneer): Why, 'cause he's black?

Or -

The Kid (in a stage whisper and with a mighty glare): I wish you’d just stop doing all those illegal drugs, Mom, they’re tearing our family apart.

And he said the last two things, like, in public! Loudly!!! (For the record, peeps, I totally don't do drugs. Although I'm seriously considering starting...friggin' Kid.)

But possibly the best one, to date, was after we ordered dinner at our favorite local burger joint:

The Kid (leaning forward with a grin): So, Mom…what would you say if I told you I wanted to join the Church of Satan?

What I probably should've said was, "Honey, they can't handle you."