Amy and the Lesbian Drama

My imaginary daughter Amy, 6, really got into it this past weekend at Gay Pride.

Amy went again this year with Jean and Lynnae, who typically celebrate their sisterhood by having an argument, breaking up, and getting back together again two days later with an emotional display usually seen in such refined dramas as "Melrose Place."

"Lynnae called Jean bipolar. Is that where Santa lives?" asked my inquisitive little meat-eater as she microwaved a Lean Pocket.


"Yes," I lied. "What were they arguing about?"

"Lynnae wanted Jean to come to her birthday party, but Jean said Lynnae didn't respect her schedule, and Lynnae told her what mom used to say to you about 'go fuck yourself', and then Jean got all up in her stuff because Lynnae went shopping."

"Well, that's clear," I said, rolling my eyes far enough to nearly cause a retinal detachment. "Where did you go?"


"First we went to Hugo's, but we had to go home again because Lynnae was mad that Jean didn't take her lithimum, and Jean was mad because Lynnae asked this lady for a cigarette."

"Lith-E-um, darling," I corrected.

"That's what I said," she corrected. "Then Jean got a migrained."

I didn't correct her.

"So we had to go back to get Jean's medicine because Lynnae said she'd be a crazy beeyotch if she didn't take it. And then they were really quiet and Lynnae kept texting somebody, which made Jean even madder and she said we should go to breakfast without her and Lynnae was like, 'okay, whatevs', and Lynnae and I went to Coffee Bean. When we got back to Jean's, she was throwin' Lynnae's stuff off the balcony, and it was rainin' Xena comic books and a margarita machine and all these Jodie Foster DVDs."


She took a too-hot bite of her Lean Pocket and continued.

"And Jean was yellin' about Lynnae goin' to The Palms with her muffin and gettin' a tattoo or somethin' like that, I don't know what the hell they were talkin' about, and then this giant cardboard statue of Hillary Clinton was flyin' off the balcony, and then the cops came... two lady cops... and Jean got arrested for actin' crazy I guess. That's when mom came and got me and we helped Lynnae put her stuff in her truck."

"And what did you and mom do after that?"

"We went home and watched 'Real Housewives of New Jersey' on DVR."

Yes, I know, she's big for six.

Amy and the High Court

My imaginary daughter Amy, 6, spent Saturday at the home of her friend Shinnae, whose mother, Mahogany, is a plumber.

"Mahogany showed me how to use a pipe wrench," chirped my curiously accomplished angel as she reached for a third piece of toast (from my plate). "You're not eating that, right, Ricky?"

"So Mahogany and her friend Jane were discussing the Supremes Court nominee," she blurted in a display of whole grain crumbs. "Supreme," I corrected. "And?"

"Jane was mad that people on TV were talking about how Kagan wasn't a lebsbian, and why it even mattered if she was a bread baker, but I don't understand what one thing has to do with another. Don't they allow bakers on the Supremes... Supreme Court?"

My inquisitive girl left me momentarily stumped as to which direction to take this conversation.

"Whether or not she is a lesbian is irrelevant. Her sexuality does not make her a better or worse justice." I ignored the whole bread-baking remark, hoping that it could wait for another day.

"Mahogany said it would be interesting to watch them try to get into her panties during the Senate conversation hearings, but I don't understand why they're talking about her panties to begin with... do you think she has Dora panties like mine?"

"I don't know if she has Dora the Explorer underwear, sweetheart, but I'm sure that if she does, they'll probably find out about it."


"They're really the best underpants, I think," offered her budding legal mind, adding, "Maybe I should send her a pair? Can we, Rick?"

And so I bought some Dora panties on Amazon and sent them to Ms. Kagan, c/o the Supreme Court with this note from Amy: "Dear Elena, when they want to see your panties, you will be ready. Love, Amy."

Yes, I know she's big for six.

Amy Goes Goth

My imaginary daughter Amy, 6, spent a long weekend with her mother, Carolyn and her boyfriend Fahd, visiting with Carolyn's relatives in Massachusetts. As you can see by the above photo, Amy returned as a Goth. Yes, I know she's big for six. I was especially reminded when I insisted on taking temporary custody of her new tee shirt, a gift from her Aunt Crystal.

This unfortunate episode seems to have been prompted by Carolyn's sister Crystal's new look, as seen below. I haven't seen Crystal for over ten years, not quite long enough to create a comfortable distance. Amy tells me, "Aunt Crystal's apartment looks like those places on 'Clean House' on Style Network. Before."


Now, I'm all for Amy's sense of self-expression, but my encouragement runs into some paternal hesitancy at fingerless gloves, black nail polish and cringeworthy nose jewelry. I was thankful, at least, that her tattoo was temporary, like her mother's civility. Amy modified her look with this cheery tee shirt so we could attend her school's father/imaginary daughter conference.


I drove Amy back to her mother's, where we found Carolyn outside, waiting, barefooted, for what she said was a "Domino's delivery." As you can see by her expression, she was delighted to see me. Nearly as delighted as her second toe was with its ring.


It was a rough flight back for Carolyn. Her boyfriend, Fahd, was bounced off the plane when he didn't fit in his seat. Amy took this pic with her Hello Kitty iPhone.


This apparently ended with some type of scuffle in which a flight attendant, Geraldo, was not just hurt, but offended.


Amy said, "Geraldo reminded me of you, Ricky. Only cuter. And younger."

Amy and the First Lady

My imaginary daughter Amy, 6, had a very rough day at school, with kids teasing her about being part of Michelle Obama's campaign against obesity in children.

"Am I obese, Ricky?" she lamented, while reaching for a celery stick. "Am I like Maury Pobitch fat?" She refuses to get his name right.


Amy has had a slight weight problem since she was 2, exacerbated by her recently blonded mother Carolyn's insistence on viewing the food pyramid as a tourist attraction. As you can see by Carolyn's expression, the Nile is, indeed, a river in Egypt.


"No, you're not obese, honey," I lied. "I like to think of you as delicious," which she is. "But you could follow the rules and eat sensibly," I paternally added.

"I'm thinking of going on a diet," she said, "because Mrs. Obama thinks I'm fat. At least I'm not stupid like those kids who say I'm obesity." She had an excellent point there, and I didn't have the heart to correct her usage.

"I mean, look at this cute outfit I have on!" I couldn't deny that her socks, faux tats and Converse were precious. Yes, I know, she's big for six.


She trundled off to her room to write Michelle Obama a letter. Here it is:

Dear Michelle First Lady,

My name is Amy. I'm 6. I'm sorry I'm so fat, but I'm big for six. I will try to lose weight. I think you are very beautiful. My imaginary friend Delilah is going to help me. Oh, and Ricky too.

Love,

Amy Elaine

P.S. Can Sasha and Malia come over sometime? My dad will make something not fattening.


Just after I finished reading it, Carolyn blew the horn (she can't come in per the court order). Amy grabbed her things and went outside to Carolyn's VW Jetta, where, as I watched from the window, she was handed a bag of food from Carl's drive-thru, which Amy refused!

Thank you, Mrs. Obama!


'Maury' Illustration by Rev. Josh of Life Without Taffy, from Chexy's collection.

Amy and the Haitians

My imaginary daughter Amy, 6, has decided to help the Haitians.

"What can I do for them, Ricky?" she asked while picking at a plate of greens, the likes of which she hadn't seen all week because Carolyn has substituted the McDonald's drive-thru for actual food preparation, and has convinced Amy (to a point of New England stubbornness) that pickle slices are a healthy green vegetable.


"I think the best thing we can do is give money," I said.


"But I'm a kid, I don't have money," she said rolling her eyes, wiggling her head forward and down while curling her smile into the "duh" expression so favored by Carolyn and her sisters, and while pushing arugula leaves to the perimeter of her favorite Mary Engelbreit plate. "I know, we can send all the vegetables you bought yesterday!"

"Nice try. How about taking up a collection at school?" I suggested, despite half knowing that Amy's weight-based unpopularity would be a likely impediment. (She's big for six.)

"I know! I'll ask rich people for money!" she exclaimed with the giddiness that typically accompanies brainstorms of the guileless. "I'll send some emails!" This also provided a task, the urgency of which necessitated immediate abandonment of salad.


And with that, she plopped herself on the couch with her Hello Kitty laptop and began her search for the excess lettuce of the cash-encumbered, while helping herself to a couple of Chiclets.


"I know! I'll write to Robert Pattinson!" she bleated with a confidence unfettered by realism, while chewing her gum. "Wow, check out this pic, Rick!"


"You can write to him in care of the Screen Actors Guild, and they'll forward it to him," I said with a mechanical indifference to seeing a vampire in his underpants.

Amy swiftly opened Word (I taught her to touch-type by writing the appropriate letters on her fingers) and typed: "Dear Bobby," she began, having earned familiarity by virtue of having her room wallpapered with "Twilight" clippings. "I am taking up a collection to help the people in Haiti. Can you send some money? P.S. I love you so much." And with that, she galumphed to my desk to print it.

We do what we can.

Happy New Year, 2010!

Thanks for making 2009 Chexy's best year ever... here's to a great 2010! Ahoy!

Love,

Your Chexy (and Amy)

Amy and Cinnabons for Jesus

My imaginary daughter Amy, 6, had a few erudite questions about the Christmas holiday, which I attempted to answer with the aplomb befitting a father who is also a daydreamer and pantheist.

"What's the deal with Christ?" Amy asked aggressively, "I don't get his whole thing," she mooed in the Boston drawl of her mother's side. "If he was so great, why'd they hang him up?"


"Well, dear," I hesitated, "Some people don't like it when you tell it like it is."

"If it's Jesus' birthday, how come we don't get him a present?" she asked.

"I think that's a splendid idea," waiting to suggest some charitable endeavor. Amy had other ideas.

"Let's go to the mall and get Jesus a Cinnabon."


"But Jesus died on the cross, Amy, and that has a way of killing one's appetite," I said, with the pithiness of a lifelong wisecracking mercenary. Amy laughed, "Okay, if he doesn't want it, I'll eat it."

At times, I wonder if Amy's past life was lived in Vaudeville.

"You can try your theory with some celery sticks and almonds," I trumped.

"What if he prefers candy?" she retorted. You know Christ has to be into dark chocolate." She had a point, and knew that I would accept nearly any excuse to get some See's candy to test her theosophical presumptions.


On the way back from the mall, with a mouthful of raspberry truffle, Amy bleated, "Chocolate is definitely Jewish." Her complex labeling was again not only food related but ethnically titillating. "How do you figure?" I honked.

"I'm going to have to work on my theory," she said, reaching for the box with a grin.

Amy was careful not to get chocolate on the new coat I bought her for Hanukkah. Yes, I know, she's big for six.