Let's Make Some Yummy Shit

When I was a kid, I looked forward to that goddamned Sears Christmas catalog every year. My siblings and I would fight over it as if we were fighting over the actual toys. I’d thumb through the pages and pages of shit I’d never have and daydream about what I would do with all those fucking toys. I would never stop playing. My playtime would be fucking endless.

There was one toy that I wanted more than anything, and that was the goddamned play kitchen. It came in various layouts and sizes and they were all awesome. They came with all kinds of play food, like empty boxes of Jell-O, egg cartons, milk bottles, and plastic oranges. Some were simple – just a stove, some cupboards and a sink. And some were enormous, extravagant luxury pimp kitchens, with a refrigerator, a stove, an oven, a fucking microwave and a dishwasher. One of them even had a goddamn phone! I closed my eyes and imagined preparing a pretend pot roast dinner while wearing a gorgeous apron and cradling a fake phone between my ear and shoulder, talking to no one. Oh yeah…that’s some good shit right there.

I have no idea why I wanted a play kitchen with such unbridled passion. Maybe it was because the pretty little white girls playing with the kitchen looked so fucking happy. One of them kneeled in her blue corduroy jumper with a plastic cup poised under an ice maker – an ice maker for crying out loud! Her little expression was pure joy, like she was saying, “Yeah, bitch, I’m getting’ ice from my ice maker. This ain’t my mommy’s ice maker; this shit is mine!” Another little girl was stirring something on her little stove, making all kinds of pretend food for her dinner party while her younger brother looked on, like, “Let’s make some yummy shit.”

Sears called it a dream kitchen, and that’s all it was: a dream. I would never perch on a plastic stool under a pea green awning and chat with my neighbor while brewing a pot of fake coffee. I would never gaze out a window to nowhere while I washed dishes in my little plastic sink with no water. The dream kitchen was out of reach because that motherfucker was a hundred goddamned dollars.

 We weren’t poor or anything but we sure as shit didn’t have $100 extra bucks lying around so that I could bake pies that no one would ever be able to eat. It was 1983 and my parents were separated, which meant they were paying a mortgage and rent on an apartment. I’m sure when I sidled over to my mother, lugging that giant Sears catalog behind me, and asked sweetly for a dream kitchen that cost as much as two electric bills, my mother was like, “Are you fucking insane?”

 I certainly don’t want to give the impression that my parents never got us fun stuff. During the Cabbage Patch Kid Frenzy, my mother stood in line with a bunch of other crazy bitches and ran through Toys ‘R Us in her pumps so that my sister and I could have them. My father took us all to Disney World when I was 12 and made me go on Space Mountain, which was kind of a rite of passage for me at the time. But the fucking play kitchen eluded me. Eventually, I got over it and set my sights on a pink and mint colored Swatch phone.

About a year ago, I was in Toys ‘R Us with my mother, sister-in-law and nieces. Just so you know, Toys ‘R Us is a miserable place. If you’ve ever been in FAO Schwartz in New York City, then you know what a toy store is supposed to be like. Toys ‘R Us is the exact opposite. It’s like going to Walmart at 2am when you’re wasted: the lights are very bright, you can’t find anything and all you want to do is lie down and take a nap. For the first few minutes, it’s kind of fun to watch my niece get all jacked up about every single thing in the store. But after about 20 minutes I just want to get the hell out of there.

On this particular trip, my mother started closely examining the play kitchens. There they were, in all their plastic glory, mounted to a wall. I gazed up at them and immediately felt like I was 7; I wanted that fucking play kitchen. The draw was still there, even after all the shit I’d seen and done; all the raw moments where I was socked in the gut with the way life is; all the shots of tequila, all the Irish Car Bombs, all the double Captain Diets; all the road trips and airplane rides; all the therapy; and the cartons and cartons of cigarettes.  I still wanted to have an imaginary conversation with my neighbor Sally whilst preparing orange blossom muffins for my imaginary husband.

Why? Had I unconsciously conformed to sexist norms despite my years of rallying against them? Did I see a simpler life reflected in the shiny plastic refrigerator? I mean, I had a real kitchen with real stuff in it but I didn’t want to go play in there. I wanted to play in the place that didn’t really exist: a land of mixing bowls that never got dirty and knobs that turned whatever way you wanted them to, and as far as you wanted them to turn.

“Why are we looking at these?” My hands had begun to sweat.

 “Well…I’m thinking about getting one for the girls.”

 I gasped. “What?! That’s bullshit! I wanted one of these so bad when I was a kid and I never got one!”

My mother looked at me like I was crazy, which, at that moment, I was. I was a crazy 30-something woman, standing in Toys ‘r Us, yelling at my mother because she never bought me a play kitchen. My mother raised her eyebrows at me and said, “You still want one?”

Telling her the truth – yes, I did still want one – would have ramped up the crazy a whole bunch, so I sort of laughed and mumbled no and drifted over to the Barbie aisle. I sulked all the way home. But then I knew that I didn’t still want the stupid Sears catalog dream play kitchen. I just wanted to be a kid again and have a wonderful fucking time in my play kitchen. But let’s be real; I know too much. I’d strap on that apron, start mixing air in my mixing bowl and get bored in 2 minutes.

“Hi Sally; it’s your neighbor. Just whipping up a batch of – oh for… I gotta go. This is bullshit. I have an iPad for Christ’s sake.”