OH JOAN!!!

The other morning I sat at my mother's kitchen table while she applied the same Loreal Performing Preference #5MB hair color to my roots, which she has been doing since I was thirteen years old.  Although my roots weren't gray until I was twenty-eight, I have generally spent my entire life, like most women, trying not to look anything like my real self.  My mother, Joan Crawford, was an early inspiration and avid cheerleader regarding my synthetic metamorphosis.  And the other morning the saga continued.

I have told my mother countless times NEVER to read anything by this alleged imposter "Carrie Valium"- and then when she reads it anyway, not to believe a word of it.  How is my mother even familiar with Carrie Valium to begin with, you say?  Well, once again, I come from a very dysfunctional family and in spite of my heroic efforts to release myself - sometimes I slip a little and find myself tap-dancing backwards in a penguin suit asking my parents, "Do you love me now?  Am I pretty enough?  Am I smart enough?  Am I thin enough?"  I really do know the answers to my questions, so don't even think about trying to fill me in (especially on the last question!).

First of all, I LOVE my mother very much, just like I LOVE my kids, and I LOVE my husband - but why are those closest to us always our biggest pains in our ass?  (And with my husband Ken, I mean that strictly in the good way.)

The moment I am all wrapped in a styling cape (completely at Joan's mercy) while she applies hazardous chemicals very close to my brain, she says, "So...I read some of your blog."

Now out of all of the nineteen blog posts I have written since the New Year, my mother chooses to read the one about basically getting my first rim-job from a bi-sexual co-worker during Girl's Night Out, right after leaving a lesbian bar.  The first thing she said was, "I just didn't think it was very funny!"  I also recall her using this line as we were walking out of the matinee of Schindler's List in 1993.  Apparently she was prepared for a "Speilberg movie" (like The Goonies or Gremlins) instead of the ever so obvious "Holocaust movie" that had been all the buzz for quite some time.

"Aren't you just doing all of this silly stuff to be funny?" she pushed.

"Mom, it wasn't really supposed to be funny - just fun."  I replied while giving up all hope of trying to change the subject. My greatest effort was to desperately stay rooted in my thirty-seven year old self, instead of crumbling into a messy little girl which, up until recently, was so typical for me during this sort of interaction with my parents.  I went on to tell her that my story was a mirrored reflection of what so many women of my generation experienced during our college years, but none of us really started admitting to until recently.

"WELL I NEVER DID ANYTHING LIKE THAT!" my mother exclaimed with so much defensiveness and judgement that I couldn't tell if she was more angry at me for doing it - or at herself for never giving herself the opportunity.

"MOM - YOU ARE NOT MY PEER!!!  YOU ARE MY MOTHER!" I shouted, "WHICH IS WHY YOU SHOULDN'T BE READING THIS SHIT TO BEGIN WITH!!!  GOD FORBID I EVER ATTEMPT TO ASK MY OWN DAUGHTER ABOUT HER SEX LIFE - I PRAY SHE WILL HAVE BEEN RAISED WITH ENOUGH GOOD SENSE NEVER TO ANSWER MY INQUIRY!!!"

"But that didn't really happen...did it?" she continued.  The surprising astonishment and judgement in her voice made me suddenly realize that although my mother has a handful of gay male friends - that she is actually something of a homophobe towards lesbians.  This probably now meant that Meredith Baxter Birney would not agree to play the Lifetime Movie version of my mother.  In the '80s everyone always told me my mom looked just like Elise Keaton, so I never questioned the obvious casting choice before.

"No Mom!  Nothing I ever write about ever really happened.  It is all completely made up and created out of thin air - which is exactly why you shouldn't waste your time reading one more word of it.  Now just let it go."  I calmly replied, with one foot prepared to leap on and carry me all the way out her front door - despite the time sensitive process occurring to my mane.  I figured the worst that could happen is I would have to grab the neighbor's hose and rinse out my hair before getting into my car.  And uneven plaid hair color would be perfect for the upcoming St. Patrick's Day.  My vanity just wasn't going to be worth my sanity for this one.

Luckily, for the first time in my memory of our interactions together she backed off.  Of course she took the conversation back to the same old, "Your life was so much easier than mine!" routine, but that one I am a pro at managing.  I employed the same technique which countless therapists of mine have used on me for twenty-five years:  tilted head, concerned and sympathetic brow, and A LOT of "That must have been very difficult for you..." jargon.

Ultimately, I believe, most people just want to be heard.  Which is why I write, and why my mother always makes everything about herself.  My friend, Lamont Cranston III, once told me that writing is "a way to lance our psychic boils."  We all have them and we all attempt to lance them in different ways.  Some of us choose ways which actually work, while others choose what is most comfortable.  Either way, at the very root of it - just like our hair - if we hang around long enough, we all end up the same.  Bald or gray.

For now, I choose to keep fighting the good fight and keep Loreal's stock price stable.  But one day I will finally quit fighting nature and introduce my authentic life to my authentic person.  Of course this will also be the day after my 100th birthday celebration when I FINALLY let go of it all and:  join the Cheesecake of the Week Club, cease all body hair removal endeavors, throw away all restricting body-garments (including bras...ESPECIALLY bras), and show my 2nd husband (who hasn't been born yet) how beautiful I really am!

The televison version of my mother, Joan.  Thank you Meredith Baxter Birney for finally living your authenitic life.