Absurdistan May Be Just a Novel to You, But It's Where I Actually Live

Posted February 11, 2008

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Ben and Birdy

Ah, the sweet sounds of my dinner table! It's like a symphony. If by symphony I mean surreal play about people talking and talking like they're the conversational equivalent of a Cubist painting.

Birdy: Mama!

Ben: Wouldn't it be cool if there was a kind of a robot fridge that told you when you were out of stuff?

Birdy: Mama!

Michael: Honey?

Me: What, Birdy?

Michael: Honey?

Ben: Beep. YOU. NEED. EGGS. Beep.

Birdy: I have two things.

Ben: Beep. YOU. NEED. MILK. Beep.

Me: That would be cool.

Birdy: Does this sound like a real baby crying? Wa ha ha haaaah.

Ben: Like The Jetsons we saw at Grandma and Grandpa's.

Me: What, honey?

Michael: Are we registered to vote at our new address?

Birdy: Wa ha-ha haaaah. Did it?

Me: I'm not sure.

Me: Kind of like a robot baby.

Ben: If we opened a bakery, we could, like, put out trays of tomatoes and lettuce for the bread. For sandwiches. If people wanted to make them.

Me: What's the other thing?

Ben: But if we opened a bakery, I would have to, like, double my cookie recipe!

Birdy: Oh. I forgot. Maybe there was only one thing.

Me: At least!

Birdy: Do you think anyone ever had a playdate and got sended to it in the mail with just a little stamp?

Me: Can you deal with that?

Michael: What?

Me: Registering us to vote.

Ben: I picture, like, open one day, closed the next day. Would that work for a bakery?

Michael: Sure.

Birdy [With her eyes and mouth as stretched and frozen as a mime's]: Are my ears wiggling?

Mama: Not really. I mean, it would be relaxing, but you'd probably get a reputation as the bakery that was closed half the time.

Right about now, with about one sludgy inch of celery soup malingering in everyone's bowl, the phone rings. Our caller ID says, "Newman, Lesser," and even though I'm not aware of having any relatives named "Lesser," I answer it. Absurdly, though, it is the Obama campaign, and when I say, "Are we actually related?" the volunteer laughs. She laughs again when I ask if I'll get a date in exchange for donating to his campaign, but then adds, seriously, "I'm afraid not." I wonder, embarrassed, if every middle-aged Democratic mom makes that same joke.

Upstairs, Ben caps off his evening by sitting down at his desk to write a four-stanza poem about SpongeBob Squarepants. "What's your favorite line?" he asks when he's done, and I say, "Crabby patties yum yum yum. / Good enough to fill his tum." Then I add, "You may be the only person in the world ever to write a poem about SpongeBob," and he says, "Really? That's hard to believe." I Google "poem about SpongeBob Squarepants" and get nothing, and Ben says, "That doesn't really prove anything. I mean, I wouldn't have expected, like, a famous poet to have written one." Which is a good point.

When the kids are asleep, though, I Google "SpongeBob Squarepants Poem" and get five hits. But when I check, they turn out to be poems from the show, like a character named Patrick's one about ice cream. While I'm online, I try, as I have been doing for two days now, to avoid reading the New York Times most frequently emailed story: "Corpse Wheeled to Check-Cashing Store Leads to 2 Arrests." I also try not to feel too depressed about the fact that, during some research I'm doing on Buddhism, I discover that the Dalai Lama has his own MySpace page. If you click on it, the song "Funky Cold Medina" starts up, and you can read DM's blog post about Brangelina. Kidding, ha ha, but when I just Googled "Funky Cold Medina" to remember who sang it (Tone Loc), I came to a page of misheard lyrics that had a huge list for that particular title, including "Funky Coleman Heater" and also "Monkey Comb of Dina." Which kind of made my night.

Not that it was especially lacking.

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Absurdistan May Be Just a Novel to You, But It's Where I Actually Live

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Absurdistan May Be Just a Novel to You, But It's Where I Actually Live

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