eighth grader, and the end was a leading role in a middle school production of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
But I got the part, so technically,yeah, another one of my mother’s “whatever it takes” moments was a success.
That said, Carly got the guy. She and Larry went on to be the first-ever younger man–older woman scandal in our drama club, so I guess it was a mixed bag.
----
* I failed out of rowing camp, so I had to play water polo for my college admissions résumé. Per my mother.
The Pound Diaries
B iologically speaking, I am my mother’s only child. In my mother’s eyes, however, I have loads of siblings! Of course, that’s only if you count our pack of five dogs and two cats as humans, which my mom definitely does. Her intense love and scrutiny extend to each and every member of our family, no matter how much some of us may drool.
Just look at her boundless devotion to our (arguably psychotic) Chihuahua named Thor. When he startedviciously growling at walls and seeing things that weren’t there, thousands were spent on doggy therapy bills, doggy Prozac, and doggy acupuncture. (Which is a real thing!) Once someone is part of the Friedman-Siegel family, they will never be left behind. Canine, feline, or otherwise.
Practically speaking, what this means is that each time our front door opens, a gaggle of violently yelping Chihuahuas alternate between piddling, wagging their tails, and humping legs with the kind of excitement I’d imagine Snow White felt when Prince Charming woke her up (though I doubt Walt Disney allowed any humping). My mother always shouts a greeting over the pandemonium and shrugs her shoulders as if to say, “What can you do,
right
?”
In fact, there is a lot she could do. For instance, the first time my boyfriend visited, she could have left the dogs in my father’s office, instead of allowing my siblings to gangbang his ankles.
On the bright side, though, we never have to worry about Jehovah’s Witnesses.
And the cats? Humans and dogs alike understand that the feline occupants of my parents’ home have first right of refusal for all horizontal surfaces. But no one has ever ruled the house quite like the all-white cat we inventively named Snowflake. Every parent has a favorite child, whether they’re willing to admit it or not, and when I was growing up, my mom’s heart unquestionably belonged to this little furball.
Snowflake was just a three-week-old kitten when we found her cowering in the middle of a twisty street in the Hollywood Hills. My mother swerved to the side of the road and leapt out of her car, scooping Snowflake into her arms.
That tiny kitten looked up with one green eye and one crusted blue eye, her malnourished frame covered in fleas, and my mom fell in love. She spent the next month nursing her back to health, bottle-feeding her, and composing songs for her. Hell, she practically breast-fed her.
And when Snowflake grew up, my mother treated this cat better than she treated me—she bought cattoys like it was her job, she brought Snowflake to “take your child to work day” instead of me, she forced my dad to prepare her home-cooked meals (mostly wild-caught salmon), and she even bought her a special orthopedic cat bed.
So, when Snowflake died suddenly, my mother was devastated. Like, borderline psychotic break devastated. Unfortunately, her grief didn’t manifest with tears or weight gain; her anguish presented itself in the middle of the cat funeral being held in our backyard when she leapt into the tiny cat grave my father was filling and snatched the box containing Snowflake’s ashes from the dirt.
“No!” My mother clutched the container to her chest. “She can’t be in the cold ground like this!”
From then on, whenever one of our animals passed away, a place on our mantel was cleared for a new designer urn. At this point, our fireplace is 90 percent animal remains. I just thank God my mother never got hooked on taxidermy.
Like
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
But I got the part, so technically,yeah, another one of my mother’s “whatever it takes” moments was a success.
That said, Carly got the guy. She and Larry went on to be the first-ever younger man–older woman scandal in our drama club, so I guess it was a mixed bag.
----
* I failed out of rowing camp, so I had to play water polo for my college admissions résumé. Per my mother.
The Pound Diaries
B iologically speaking, I am my mother’s only child. In my mother’s eyes, however, I have loads of siblings! Of course, that’s only if you count our pack of five dogs and two cats as humans, which my mom definitely does. Her intense love and scrutiny extend to each and every member of our family, no matter how much some of us may drool.
Just look at her boundless devotion to our (arguably psychotic) Chihuahua named Thor. When he startedviciously growling at walls and seeing things that weren’t there, thousands were spent on doggy therapy bills, doggy Prozac, and doggy acupuncture. (Which is a real thing!) Once someone is part of the Friedman-Siegel family, they will never be left behind. Canine, feline, or otherwise.
Practically speaking, what this means is that each time our front door opens, a gaggle of violently yelping Chihuahuas alternate between piddling, wagging their tails, and humping legs with the kind of excitement I’d imagine Snow White felt when Prince Charming woke her up (though I doubt Walt Disney allowed any humping). My mother always shouts a greeting over the pandemonium and shrugs her shoulders as if to say, “What can you do,
right
?”
In fact, there is a lot she could do. For instance, the first time my boyfriend visited, she could have left the dogs in my father’s office, instead of allowing my siblings to gangbang his ankles.
On the bright side, though, we never have to worry about Jehovah’s Witnesses.
And the cats? Humans and dogs alike understand that the feline occupants of my parents’ home have first right of refusal for all horizontal surfaces. But no one has ever ruled the house quite like the all-white cat we inventively named Snowflake. Every parent has a favorite child, whether they’re willing to admit it or not, and when I was growing up, my mom’s heart unquestionably belonged to this little furball.
Snowflake was just a three-week-old kitten when we found her cowering in the middle of a twisty street in the Hollywood Hills. My mother swerved to the side of the road and leapt out of her car, scooping Snowflake into her arms.
That tiny kitten looked up with one green eye and one crusted blue eye, her malnourished frame covered in fleas, and my mom fell in love. She spent the next month nursing her back to health, bottle-feeding her, and composing songs for her. Hell, she practically breast-fed her.
And when Snowflake grew up, my mother treated this cat better than she treated me—she bought cattoys like it was her job, she brought Snowflake to “take your child to work day” instead of me, she forced my dad to prepare her home-cooked meals (mostly wild-caught salmon), and she even bought her a special orthopedic cat bed.
So, when Snowflake died suddenly, my mother was devastated. Like, borderline psychotic break devastated. Unfortunately, her grief didn’t manifest with tears or weight gain; her anguish presented itself in the middle of the cat funeral being held in our backyard when she leapt into the tiny cat grave my father was filling and snatched the box containing Snowflake’s ashes from the dirt.
“No!” My mother clutched the container to her chest. “She can’t be in the cold ground like this!”
From then on, whenever one of our animals passed away, a place on our mantel was cleared for a new designer urn. At this point, our fireplace is 90 percent animal remains. I just thank God my mother never got hooked on taxidermy.
Like
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