Like The Movie “Night At The Museum”. But Funny.
About a week ago, the teens asked if we could visit our city’s newly-remodeled art museum. They do this thing, my kids, of deciding on something between themselves and then coming to me together as if to say “We are the majority, you are the minority. We highly suggest you make this happen.” It’s like they knew I’d be powerless against their two sets of big blue eyes and trembling pouty lips asking “Pweeease? We just want to wearn about art!” So, I agreed under some duress to take them to the museum on my next day off, thinking “Surely, they’ll forget by then.” God, I hate when I promise people things and they remember and try to hold me to them. Today was my next day off and they hadn’t forgotten.
With a predicted high of 104 degrees, I frantically ran through, in my head, reasons that we couldn’t leave the house. Chicken pox? No bumps. Worried about Lindsay Lohan’s future? They’d never buy it since they just heard me say “Girl, you are about to have SEVERAL freaky fridays! IN JAIL!!” the night before. How about global warming? Surely there’s enough proof now, right? My daughter arched an eyebrow when I tried frantically to convince her that Al Gore was right and we should all stay inside, lest we end up like a 3 Piece Meal, extra crispy.
“You don’t even LIKE coleslaw!”
“Mom, go get in the shower.”
Resigned to my fate (and also a teensy bit curious about art shit but mostly resigned), I cleaned up and grabbed the Gold Bond Medicated Powder. If you’re not a chub or are a chub and don’t know, Gold Bond is basically like grownup baby powder that you can sprinkle in your cracks when it’s hot, to keep them dry and fresh-smelling. The medicated version has menthol in it and, when air hit the crack, it’s like a frozen angel is blowing you a kiss. Under your gut. Or between your thigh and your giant cooch mound. Which is totally where frozen angels would kiss, anyway. Of course, if those areas got much air in the first place, you wouldn’t need the powder. Fresh and dry and a front-runner in the Miss Scowly 2010 pageant, I mumbled to the babies to get their asses in the car and we were on our way.
The heat was unfuckingbelievable. You could see waves coming up off the asphalt and birds were dropping out of the sky in complete surrender, praying to their birdie god for the sweet release of death. A quick caffeine stop perked me up (Is speed still illegal? Then, yeah, totally caffeine.) enough that I let the girl choose the radio station for our twenty minute drive. Usher pow pow pow’d and wow oh wow’d as I sipped my liquid personality with an extra shot and gave myself a little pep talk. I knew that in this city, on a weekday, at an art museum, we were bound to be swimming in a sea of old white people when we got there and I practiced my “How interesting!”, “Pop art is for plebs”, and “Pardon me, would you have any Grey Poupon?” faces in the rear view mirror. Locked and loaded, we dashed from the relative cool of the car into the relative cool of the museum and grabbed a map.
Now, for the two of you left who don’t know, I have a bit of a poop problem. As in, I do it. All the time. I know every bathroom in this county and the next one over and the quickest way to get from the front door to the ladies at every establishment I frequent. Going someplace new frightens me. What if I can’t find the restroom? What if they don’t HAVE a restroom? I really need someone to do a national potty review blog with a complimentary blackberry/iPhone app so I can have adventures without worrying I’m going to have to poop while crouched behind a bush. Anyway, the run from the car plus that extra shot I had a whole ten minutes ago made it so that I spent the first twenty minutes of our museum trip appreciating the powerful plumbing and flawless acoustics of their shitter. Nothing like a crap symphony to make fancy old ladies clutch their pearls.
After the poopocalypse, we finally got to some art seein’! We wandered through gallery after gallery of paintings, sculptures, photographs, arts and crafts, and furniture. The teens nudged each other and giggled at statue boobies and played “Where’s Waldo: The Penis Version” with nude paintings and cherub statues. I never realized how hilariously dirty a lot of art is, but leave it to a 15 and 17 year old to point it out. But they also appreciated the pieces more than I expected them to, mentioning things that I hadn’t even noticed and I’ve traveled around the world and been to a countless number of art museums. Then again, it could have been the severe caffeine jitters. Hard to seriously deconstruct a painting when you are flying high with espresso brain. Except Picasso cuz his shit always looks like that.
Which reminds me, we saw some Picasso sketches and one was designed sort of like a comic with six panels. The kids had been playing “That’s me, because I’m so pretty” and “That’s me, because I’m so awesome”, finding themselves in paintings, and my son said, pointing to the Picasso comic, “Mom, that’s you,” referring to some hideously deformed man (Picasso Comics presents: The Monstery Looking Guy Who May Or May Not Have Been Based On A King Who Was A Tyrant). So, anyway, I’m all “Haha, you’re right. That’s totally me” when cut to panel five and I suddenly have a GIANT PENIS. “Is that still me? Me with a giant penis?” The kid shrugs and says, “Yeah, I stand by it.”
It’s comforting to know that I am raising goddamn geniuses who love art but can also crack a joke and put their mother in her place. It’s times like these that I hear Maria Von Trapp in my head, singing “Nothing comes from nothing, nothing ever could. So, somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good.”