Bottom of the Pile

What's in a Name?

A few evenings back I extricated myself from "Breaking Bad" in the Barcalounger to answer the land mine, er, line. It was my daughter.

"Good evening, madam. Could I interest you in a demonstration of the new Kirby Series G10 Sentria?"

Did I mention my daughter recently dropped out of high school to become a telemarketer? Vacuum cleaners. She wants to get together enough money to buy a car. But as any telemarketer/dropout will tell you, you need more than a car to get outta Dodge.

I mean, she'd be better off selling pot. You can fail Algebra II six times and still figure that one out. What happened to all the blood, sweat and beers of parenting? I mean, you'd think she'd been locked in a closet for thirteen years.

To hear my daughter tell it, she was. A broom closet. Maybe that's where she acquired her affinity for vacuum cleaners. Turns out the closet wasn't big enough for the both of us, so she moved out, taking the vacuum bags with her. Which smelled suspiciously like pot.

Now she only stops by to eat, nap, shower, change clothes, re-do makeup, check messages, borrow money, watch a few hours of cable, and case the joint for anything not nailed down. I've started calling her Sentria.

But not to her face. It's the face that launched a thousand slips. Pretty much every one of them made by Yours Truly.

Dream On

My daughter was four-and-a-half when the angels dropped her on our doorstep, a note pinned to her prison blues:

"Keep away from sharp objects!!"

Which should've been our first clue. But I took one look at that adorable snarl and my natural maternal instinct kicked in. I started drinking. Thirteen years later my liver is trying to enter the Witness Protection Program, and my daughter is pushing vacuum cleaners. Except not around my house.

"That's why god made Housekeepers," she said, back in middle school, when in a moment of weakness I'd foolishly admitted to yet another failure on the parenting scale by not having taught her how to properly clean a house.

"Since when do you believe in god?" I said, privately racking up yet one more parenting failure, at which point she rolled her eyes, signalling the beginning of the Eye Roll Era, which remains ongoing. It's a wonder the kid hasn't needed corrective surgery.

Which is something I dream about. Corrective surgery. So does my husband, although he isn't willing to remortgage the house just to save my face.

"I'm just curious," he said the other day, after I accidentally looked in the hall mirror and screamed. "Can they, um, make you look like someone else? Like Julie Christie or something?"

"Julie Fucking Christie?!" I said. "What are you, ninety-seven? Is she even fucking still alive?"

"Does it matter?" he said.

"It matters to her!" I said.

Suddenly I was remembering "McCabe and Mrs. Miller," how Julie Christie sat around the Wild West all day in high-button boots and vintage clothing, smoking opium and staring at mid-air and Warren Beatty. Nice work if you can get it.

Dues and Dont's

The only time I smoked opium I was living in a cabin on a lake south of The City with a telephone repairman who drank Lambrusco and loved Chicago. The band, not the town. I loved Joni Mitchell and drank Blue Nun. The wine, not your sixth grade teacher. Obviously it was a mixed marriage. Although together we smoked enough pot to finance a small Central American country. It was the seventies, man.

The day we smoked opium, the repairman repaired to his Buick Skylark and cranked "Chicago II" on the eight-track. I cranked "Blue" on the stereo and cleaned the cabin from top to bottom. Then I cranked "Ladies of the Canyon" and cleaned it again.

Later that same day, in a moment of inspiration, the repairman and I repaired to the kitchen, where we emptied the vacuum bag onto a floor you could've eaten off of (although we didn't, not that time) and painstakingly sifted through its contents. Our efforts were rewarded with close to a half lid of some basically okay but rather dusty product. Nice work if you can get it.

Which brings us back to vacuum cleaners.

"This job sucks," said Sentria ironically.

We were still on the phone. Across the room Walter White stood frozen in his jockeys and apron, one hand held aloft as if hailing a cab. Or waiting for a falcon to land, whichever came first.

"You can say that again," I said, so she did.

"But, you know," I said, "everyone has their share of lowlife, sucky jobs, you have to pay your dues, you know, start at the bottom. I remember once I..."

"Whatever," she said, and hung up. I could hear her eyes rolling.

Learner's Permit

I myself drive a Hoover these days. Or rather, the Housekeeper does.

I'm referring to that heroic woman who shows up once a fortnight to fight the neverending battle, gas mask and Scrubbing Bubbles in hand, a modern day Sisyphus rolling the Hoover up the mountain that is our home, only to watch it roll back down again, repeatedly, for all eternity. Or until Social Security kicks in or we're all dead, whichever comes first.

Which reminds me of a story.
 
Awhile back (or maybe it was five years ago), the diamond fell out of my engagement ring, somewhere in the house. I put the Housekeeper on a leave of absence (she immediately hoofed it to a small Central American country) and started crawling around from room to room on all fours, something I hadn't done since the seventies.

It took me about six weeks to cover the distance. At which point, having come up empty-handed, I decided to Hoover the joint and then sift through the contents of the bag, as in days of yore. At which point I stepped barefoot into the broom closet to secure my weapon, and that's when I felt it: a little poke on my sole. And no, it wasn't my daughter.

It was, of course, the diamond. Applause, applause. Some people might call this a miracle. Or a sign. Or a gift from god or the universe. Whatever. I call it a diamond in the rough, ha ha. Which is what I used to call my daughter before I started calling her Sentria. But not to her face.

These days I wait for my daughter to call me. Let sleeping telemarketers/dropouts lie. Something Sentria was becoming quite adept at long before the vacuum cleaner thing.

Although to hear her tell it, it's not a bad thing, lying. It's a talent. It's what makes her a good salesperson. Apparently her commissions are piling up. She may not have enough for a car yet, but she could always take the G10 Series out for a test drive. Like around my house.

How Many Senior Moments
Does It Take to Make a Fortnight?

My relationship with my mother improved after she died. My relationship with my daughter improved after she ran away. Am I insane, or is this a step in the right direction? That's a rhetorical question, man.

I still haven't had my diamond reset. As the Wicked Witch of the West said, these things must be done delicately. Plus, having recently lost my job (Queen for a Day), I'm fucking broke. But rest assured the family jewel is in a safe place, somewhere Sentria would never think to look. Hint: what's rectangular, smaller than a breadbox, and full of many many pages full of many many words?

Being a card-carrying bibliophile, I have hundreds, nay thousands, of said items piled throughout this mountain of a house, one of which doubles as a hiding place. Problem is — and there's always a problem, man — I can't remember which one. Shakespeare? Hemingway? Charles Dickens? Jane Austen? Chelsea Handler? No clue. Which is what my husband always says whenever someone asks him why he got married in the first place.

I figure after all these years (but don't remind my husband), this diamond could cover the down payment on a basically okay but rather dusty used car. Or a busload of kickass pot, whichever comes first. At least I know the diamond's somewhere in the house. Which is more than I can say for my daughter.