Odd Mom Out

“Planning my sleepover party.” She looks at me hopefully and smiles very big. “I really want to have a party.”

With her long dark hair and big smiley eyes, I think, I’d like her to have a sleepover, too, but a sleepover party?

“And I want everyone to come,” she adds. “Jemma, Paige, Devanne, Lacey, Brooke, everyone.” She’s peeling the string cheese, tearing off long, skinny strands so that the cheese hangs pale and forlorn. “Maybe if people came here, saw our house, saw how fun we are—” She looks up at me, her nose scrunching. “We are fun, aren’t we?”

I nod my head. “The coolest.”

She gives me a reproving look. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” I reach for the box of Goldfish crackers and shake some into my hand. But a party, here, to prove it? Sounds dubious at best.

First of all, coolness—like beauty—is in the eye of the beholder, and second, I don’t particularly want Jemma and gang running around the house turning up their noses at everything.

“You can help me do this,” Eva adds earnestly. “We could send out invitations—you could design something—and it’d be really fun. We’d do things no one else does—”

“Like what?” I interrupt mildly, intrigued by this passionate daughter of mine who doesn’t know the word quit.

“I don’t know. Maybe make it like a spa party. We could do manicures and pedicures. And rent a bunch of good movies and decorate. Like Hollywood. Or Arabian Nights. Something no one else does.”

She makes it sound so easy. I know parties aren’t so easy. And it’s not even all the work. It’s the fact that you need people to come.

I try to imagine the parents looking at the invitation and getting one another on the phone.

Who is Marta Zinsser? What is this slumber party for, and who else is going?

Is your daughter going?

No. Is yours?

No.

“Come on, Mom,” Eva pleads. “You’re good at stuff like this. You can make it happen.”

I’ve got stacks and stacks of work on my desk and more headaches, but Eva’s excited and I love it when she’s excited. Her enthusiasm always touches me. “Okay. I’ll help you plan it, but limit the list, Eva. No more than ten girls.”

“Okay.”

“And when are you thinking? It’s almost October, Halloween will be here before you know it.”

“What about the weekend after Halloween? That gives us lots of time to plan. What do you say?”

“I’ll look at the calendar, but I don’t see why not.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Eva jumps from her chair, throws her arms around me, and hugs me tight. “It’s going to be a great party. It’s going to be the best.”

During the weekend while Eva plans her slumber party, I put in some late nights in the studio to make up for my shorter workdays. Almost every night after Eva goes to bed, I head to my desk in the studio and get to work.

Saturday night I get a lot done; however tonight, Sunday night, I’m so tired that I can hardly focus.

Luke never called again. I told myself I didn’t expect him to, but the fact that he didn’t call stings. I liked him. A lot. Too much.

It’s ridiculous to get so interested in a man, especially as I keep telling myself I don’t believe in love and romance. If Tiana is right, that the brain is wired to lust to enable us to reproduce, then it’s great that I haven’t heard from Luke. It’s better not to have contact. It’s better to go through my withdrawals and just get this whole fascination/infatuation over with.

Now.

And speaking of now, I’ve been staring at my blank computer screen for nearly an hour, and I’m not getting anything done. I want to chuck the towel in and go to bed, but I can’t do that. Frank said we’d have a chance to present our proposal to the Freedom Bike Group sometime in the next couple of weeks, and so far, I don’t have a clear vision for an ad campaign.

Why? Because I’m thinking about Eva and Mom and Dad and Luke and Taylor and everyone and everything but work.

This bike thing’s a big deal, too. I can make it work. I know I can. I’ve just got to start somewhere, take some of my vague, disjointed ideas and find a theme to pull off.

Yawning, I rub my eyes and then the top of my head.

Can’t go to bed, can’t go to bed, must get work done.

Standing, I open the windows and door to bring in the cooler night air. The cool air helps.

Caffeine would help, too, so I search out the coffeepot in the studio’s miniature kitchen, pour the dregs from this afternoon’s pot into my mug, and zap the stale coffee in the microwave.

When the microwave dings, I take the hot mug back to my desk and turn on brighter lights before taking my first swig.

God. The coffee is nasty, so damn bitter that at first I don’t think I can possibly drink it. But I gag it down.

I take another sip and gag again, but as I swallow, I kind of smile. The coffee’s terrible. It’s the worst coffee I’ve had in years.

In the morning I like my coffee smooth, laced with milk and sugar. But there’s something evocative about this cup of really awful coffee. The dark, burnt bitterness reminds me of a badness I used to have, the badness I aspired to, denim and old leather and hard-core boots. Tough as in tattoos and long hair and a swagger.

I think of my old bike in the garage, a bike I haven’t ridden in months since there isn’t time and this doesn’t seem to be the place.

But thinking of my bike in the garage reminds me why I bought it, why I needed it.

The motorcycle was an escape. The motorcycle helped me relax, forget, dream, breathe.

My motorcycle wasn’t ever for trips around town. It wasn’t a form of transportation for two. It was just my way to get out, to find some quiet, to get some peace of mind.

The pleasure of the open road. The freedom of riding my own chopper. The freedom of telling people and society to f—— off, to do what you want. With my feet up on the desk, the nasty coffee curling my tongue, I get an idea.

Leaning forward, I search the music folder on my computer and find what I’m looking for, the 1971 album released by Starbucks last year and on it the song by the Kinks, “20th Century Man.”

I click on the song, crank the volume. The guitar strums. Foot-tapping twang. I crank it loud. Louder.

I stop the song, play it again, smiling faintly even as the idea grows, a minimovie playing in my head, a funky film

short.

Dennis Hopper. Easy Rider. Big sideburns, real choppers, an upper lip in a curl. Shaggy hair. A handlebar mustache. Sunlight. Laid-back. And the open road.

Freedom Bikes. Taking the road back.

Making life yours.

I grab a charcoal pencil and begin to sketch on a huge notepad. I see it. I can do this.

And Easy Rider is just the first inspiration.

I’m picturing a whole series of ads based on the 1970s classics, classics popular when Freedom Bikes ruled the road.

But not just white guys like Dennis Hopper. Think the color spectrum from Hair. Blacks, whites, Latinos, Asians, men, women. Everyone groovy. Feeling good. None of the Harley-Davidson biker gang associations. No gangs or groups at all. Freedom Bikes isn’t about fitting in or belonging.

Freedom Bikes are about being yourself. Doing your own thing. Making your own way. And loving it.

Loving rebelling.

Loving flaunting societal mores.

Loving being outside the pack. Alone. Unfettered.

Aretha Franklin, “Rock Steady.” African American woman, big Afro, tan leather knee-high boots, and leather vest over an orange-and-brown-and-white-striped turtleneck.

T. Rex, “Planet Queen.” Biker at dawn, riding Highway 66, desert landscape and the sun rising, appearing over the rugged rocks of Arizona.

Nick Drake, “One of These Things First.” Rider on Golden Gate Bridge, heading up the coast. Vineyards. Napa. More sun. Sun everywhere, glazing, glossy, blinding. Sun being warm, sun being easy, sun being freedom. Life.

The 1970s color, the 1970s mood, the desire for self-determination, the rebellion against the big corporate giants.

And isn’t that what people still need? Isn’t that what they crave? Time for themselves? Time to relax, breathe, think?

Living in Microsoft land, I’ve seen firsthand the price one pays for giving so much of yourself to the company. The burnout’s huge, the stress on families immeasurable.

What America needs is Freedom.

A return to Freedom.

And I’ve forgotten just what started all this until I reach for my coffee and take another sip of really bad java.