Channeling Chanel
It was one of those afternoons that I spent doing the nothings that don’t speak well of my ability to be productive. Three o’clock in the afternoon and slumped in front of the TV in my pajamas, watching an episode of that never-ending daytime soap by the name of The Bold & The Beautiful with my mother, my retired 50 something year old mother, I could hardly remember a time, though I’m convinced there was a time, once upon a time, a long, long, time ago when I had a life.
“Is she wearing Channel or just imitation Channel?” my mother asked of some outfit some girl on Bold & the Beautiful was wearing.
It took me awhile to figure out what my mother was talking about. “You mean Chanel?”
“Yes, Channel,” my mother said pronouncing the French designer label as she would a TV station.
“Ma, it’s pronounced Sha-nelle.”
“CHANNEL. CHANNEL. CHANNEL. CHANNELCHANNELCHANNEL!”
“Ma, I know you know how to pronounce Chanel. I’ve heard you say it a thousand times before. You’re just doing this to get a rise out of me aren’t you?”
“Channel.”
Don’t encourage her. I stopped responding. I continued watching Brooke Logan Forrester Forrester Forrester get pregnant for the hundredth time and not age a day since 1983. You would think with all the kids she’s been having, she wouldn’t have time to make new ones but no….That’s the magic of daytime soaps: no one ever invented birth control, there’s no such thing as menopause, kids age faster than adults and when in doubt about life’s challenges, acquire amnesia.
“Maryam, are you sick or something? Do you have a fever?” my mom asked, right after someone on The Bold & The Beautiful saved someone from a burning building who later, no doubt, will have trouble remembering that she was ever in a burning building in the first place.
“N..no,” I replied with suspicion. “Why do you ask?”
“Nothing, it’s just funny to see you at home…Normally, you would be out all day, everyday. With your….what do you call it….your friends.”
“Ma, I’m always at home.”
“No, not always. Don’t exaggerate, Maryam.”
“No Ma, you’re exaggerating.”
“I never exaggerate!” my mom said indignantly.
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“Maryam, I’m too old to argue with you,” huffed my mom.
“Then why are you?”
“I’m not arguing. You’re arguing,” my mom said, feigning innocence.
“It takes two to argue,” I pointed out.
“No it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
There was a moment of silence in the room as a new blackmailer shows up onscreen. Another issue with paternity it seems. Has anyone on this soap ever heard of monogamy? Or condoms?
“So why are you home?” my mother asked once more.
Truth was, I had cancelled plans with my friends for the afternoon because my muscles were aching in such a grand manner from over-exerting myself at the gym the day before. Now when I say ache, what I actually mean is crippling pain, so crippling that in the morning, I could hardly stretch out of the position I fell asleep in the night before. I wasn’t in the mood to socialize. The drama queen in me found that my current state required for too much pain and effort to change out of my pajamas and go out.
But I told my mom…“I’m at home, Ma, because err…I thought it would be nice to spend time with you.”
My mom seemed flattered but hardly convinced. “Doesn’t explain why you’ve been lying there, not moving an inch since lunch”
“I might have overdone it at the gym yesterday. My muscles ache.”
“You know who you remind me of, Maryam? Garfield.”
Yes, how wonderful it was to know that I reminded my mother of a fat, lazy, orange cartoon cat. Don’t respond, don’t encourage her, I told myself. I kept repeating it in my head like a mantra. Onscreen, the drama unfolded – some lady in a ghastly pink silk-shantung suit was begging some dude who recently had his triangular sideburns shaved off to not reveal her secret of meddling with some paternity test. Girl in Fire wakes up and gives lots of uncalled for attitude to the heroic fireman that rescued her. A previously buck-toothed kid grows up to a set of perfect teeth but bushy eyebrows. The end credits for The Bold & The Beautiful rolls around – bold, white letters above Los Angeles in the night time, backed by cheesy saxophone music.
My mom spoke once more, “Maryam…….”
Don’t respond. Don’t encourage her. “Yes?” Too late.
“CHANNEL. CHANNEL. CHANNEL.”
“Is she wearing Channel or just imitation Channel?” my mother asked of some outfit some girl on Bold & the Beautiful was wearing.
It took me awhile to figure out what my mother was talking about. “You mean Chanel?”
“Yes, Channel,” my mother said pronouncing the French designer label as she would a TV station.
“Ma, it’s pronounced Sha-nelle.”
“CHANNEL. CHANNEL. CHANNEL. CHANNELCHANNELCHANNEL!”
“Ma, I know you know how to pronounce Chanel. I’ve heard you say it a thousand times before. You’re just doing this to get a rise out of me aren’t you?”
“Channel.”
Don’t encourage her. I stopped responding. I continued watching Brooke Logan Forrester Forrester Forrester get pregnant for the hundredth time and not age a day since 1983. You would think with all the kids she’s been having, she wouldn’t have time to make new ones but no….That’s the magic of daytime soaps: no one ever invented birth control, there’s no such thing as menopause, kids age faster than adults and when in doubt about life’s challenges, acquire amnesia.
“Maryam, are you sick or something? Do you have a fever?” my mom asked, right after someone on The Bold & The Beautiful saved someone from a burning building who later, no doubt, will have trouble remembering that she was ever in a burning building in the first place.
“N..no,” I replied with suspicion. “Why do you ask?”
“Nothing, it’s just funny to see you at home…Normally, you would be out all day, everyday. With your….what do you call it….your friends.”
“Ma, I’m always at home.”
“No, not always. Don’t exaggerate, Maryam.”
“No Ma, you’re exaggerating.”
“I never exaggerate!” my mom said indignantly.
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“Maryam, I’m too old to argue with you,” huffed my mom.
“Then why are you?”
“I’m not arguing. You’re arguing,” my mom said, feigning innocence.
“It takes two to argue,” I pointed out.
“No it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
There was a moment of silence in the room as a new blackmailer shows up onscreen. Another issue with paternity it seems. Has anyone on this soap ever heard of monogamy? Or condoms?
“So why are you home?” my mother asked once more.
Truth was, I had cancelled plans with my friends for the afternoon because my muscles were aching in such a grand manner from over-exerting myself at the gym the day before. Now when I say ache, what I actually mean is crippling pain, so crippling that in the morning, I could hardly stretch out of the position I fell asleep in the night before. I wasn’t in the mood to socialize. The drama queen in me found that my current state required for too much pain and effort to change out of my pajamas and go out.
But I told my mom…“I’m at home, Ma, because err…I thought it would be nice to spend time with you.”
My mom seemed flattered but hardly convinced. “Doesn’t explain why you’ve been lying there, not moving an inch since lunch”
“I might have overdone it at the gym yesterday. My muscles ache.”
“You know who you remind me of, Maryam? Garfield.”
Yes, how wonderful it was to know that I reminded my mother of a fat, lazy, orange cartoon cat. Don’t respond, don’t encourage her, I told myself. I kept repeating it in my head like a mantra. Onscreen, the drama unfolded – some lady in a ghastly pink silk-shantung suit was begging some dude who recently had his triangular sideburns shaved off to not reveal her secret of meddling with some paternity test. Girl in Fire wakes up and gives lots of uncalled for attitude to the heroic fireman that rescued her. A previously buck-toothed kid grows up to a set of perfect teeth but bushy eyebrows. The end credits for The Bold & The Beautiful rolls around – bold, white letters above Los Angeles in the night time, backed by cheesy saxophone music.
My mom spoke once more, “Maryam…….”
Don’t respond. Don’t encourage her. “Yes?” Too late.
“CHANNEL. CHANNEL. CHANNEL.”
