My friend Lauren and I are here at Fair Grinds Coffeehouse for a writing session and while I was sitting here waiting for inspiration to hit I suddenly thought about JD Salinger and his frozen peas.
I saw a documentary on him a few years ago, you know, about that reclusive writer who had spent the last 40 years or so in a small town not talking to many people. Since he hasn't done an interview practically since The Catcher in the Rye was published, they had to interview people in the town and women who'd lived with him over the years. One of them described his morning routine. He would get up early in the morning, stretch, meditate and then eat fruit or a bowl of frozen peas that he would defrost in the sink.
The peas, more than any other detail, has stuck in my mind about JD Salinger. JD Salinger, one of the best writers of the 20th century. He ate a bowl of thawed peas? For breakfast? From his sink? Were they still cold? Were some cold and watery and thus extra mushy when he bit into them? It's healthy, yes, and not necessarily the creamcheese-laden toasted bagel that one would expect from an old bachelor, but he ate them PLAIN? No pinch of salt? Did he ever fill the bowl with milk and eat it like cereal? You might think I'm gross for suggesting that, but Jesus, the man ate sink peas. How did his lover react when she saw him eating this for the first time?
"Want an omelet?" she would ask, strutting across the kitchen floor in her underwear and a tanktop, because I imagine that young lovers of reclusive, famous writers are always at the ready to be taken to bed. Shit, I would. It's one of the perks.
"Hm. No," he would say, leaning against the sink, holding a bowl up to his chin, and shoveling a spoonful of peas into his mouth.
"How about waffles? I could make waffles."
"Can you put peas in them?" he'd say.
"Excuse me?"
"Frozen peas."
He would open his freezer, which would be stacked from top to bottom with boxes of frozen peas.
"...That would be horrid," she would say, putting her pants back on.
"If you want we could roll them around in the sink first."
And I imagine that the relationship would deteriorate from there. You may think it's in poor taste to assume things about his love life when I didn't know the man, when NO ONE really knew the man, but since he gave us nothing to go on, one must speculate these kinds of things with the information that we have. And all I've got is a sink full of defrosted peas.
I wonder if they've found more of his writing since his death. I can't imagine that he stopped writing just because he stopped publishing. By the same token, I bet they'll find tons of material by Harper Lee, stashed under her bed or something, after her death. On the one hand it seems a shame that people with such distinct voices, whose art influenced countless writers (myself included), would keep their writing from the world. But then, as one of my friends says, you got to do what you can live with at the end of the day. And they couldn't live with the attention.
What will they say about my breakfast habits when I'm gone, assuming I'm ever famous?
"Toast," my former lover will say. "And the blood of her critics."
"That's interesting," the interviewer will comment. "Now, if you don't mind, can you please put on some pants?"
"Genevieve stipulated in her will that I am to never wear them again."
"I see."
Yes. I will be THAT kind of famous person. The kind who makes outlandish requests in her will. "My children may have their inheritance, if and only if they do the following: they must all spend the night in my haunted mansion, which I plan to haunt. And then they must plant a mustard seed garden and then throw a very loud, raucus, costume dinner party and then call the police on themselves." Then I will only leave them 15 bucks a piece. Lord, I'm strange and cruel when I'm dead.
And now, I'm tempted to read Cather in the Rye again. Or his short stories, which I've never read. He was the kind of writer that you could open his book and pick a line out of context and nine times out of ten it would be beautiful. Like this one, "It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road." I wonder what he thought about that line. Did he feel good after he wrote it, like he was having a poetic moment and it was cathardic to write it down? Do you know what I'm talking about?
Or maybe this line will stick with you more, "All morons hate it when you call them a moron." Damn, that could be a T-shirt.
Sleep well, JD. Ole' Breakfast of Champions. Thanks for the voice.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Read, girl
I have to quit the library, even though I love it, even though the other day I met another librarian with a wandering eye, inch thick glasses, and a Boris and Natasha tie on who discussed Anthony Burgess at length and I thought, "I simply love this place. This is the adult nerd's refuge." I mean, I can be openly nerdy there. I am no longer closeted. That's right. I (prepare yourself) am a geek. And goddamn it, I'm proud. I'm here and I'm weird.
But I was offered a full-time job at Ochsner Hospital and the kids and I need the money and the benefits. I'm going to have to be a nerd some place else. Don't get me wrong, I'm thankful for the new job. It's a good step towards becoming a medical writer. But I am going to miss being a professional bookworm and answering questions like "Who wrote A Movable Feast?" To which I dig deep into my superior knowledge and intellect and reply, "Um, Rachael Ray?"
So what can I tell you about this geek's paradise that I shall miss? And I mean that in the most affectionate way. It made me remember some things that I had forgotten. First, book lovers, true book lovers, read EVERYTHING. The other day my manager said she recently finished a book on calculus and that it was just fascinating.
"That would be like reading a foreign language to me," I said.
"Ordinarily me too," she answered. "But this was a young adult book, and it explained it in an easy way. I could really appreciate it, even though I didn't totally understand it."
The woman read a kids' book on calculus and found it fascinating. I love that. These are people who appreciate anything for the sake of its delivery, as long as it's told well it could be about anything.
And it reminded me about something I haven't been doing much of lately. Reading. I've read several times that the best way to learn to write is to read whatever you can get your hands on. But other than reading self-help type stuff, I've fallen behind on the stuff I love. Literature, personal essays, German pornography and stuff like that. So, for some reason or another, the universe has decided to give me a sign. Literally.
If you live in New Orleans, you can drive down St. Claude and see this, and I suggest you do. There is a house that's all boarded up, with four windows on the front of it, like the tall kind of windows you can stand in. Those windows have long boards patching them up, and spray painted on each board, large enough to read easily from the road, is one letter that spells out the word "READ." Below the "D" is the word "girl." So on this broken down, ugly as hell house is the message, "READ, girl."
And I intend to. I'm sorry that I have to quit the library, but I'm so thankful to be reaquinted with an old love. Right now I'm reading Bird by Bird, which I highly recommend. It's by Emeril Lagasse, I think.
But I was offered a full-time job at Ochsner Hospital and the kids and I need the money and the benefits. I'm going to have to be a nerd some place else. Don't get me wrong, I'm thankful for the new job. It's a good step towards becoming a medical writer. But I am going to miss being a professional bookworm and answering questions like "Who wrote A Movable Feast?" To which I dig deep into my superior knowledge and intellect and reply, "Um, Rachael Ray?"
So what can I tell you about this geek's paradise that I shall miss? And I mean that in the most affectionate way. It made me remember some things that I had forgotten. First, book lovers, true book lovers, read EVERYTHING. The other day my manager said she recently finished a book on calculus and that it was just fascinating.
"That would be like reading a foreign language to me," I said.
"Ordinarily me too," she answered. "But this was a young adult book, and it explained it in an easy way. I could really appreciate it, even though I didn't totally understand it."
The woman read a kids' book on calculus and found it fascinating. I love that. These are people who appreciate anything for the sake of its delivery, as long as it's told well it could be about anything.
And it reminded me about something I haven't been doing much of lately. Reading. I've read several times that the best way to learn to write is to read whatever you can get your hands on. But other than reading self-help type stuff, I've fallen behind on the stuff I love. Literature, personal essays, German pornography and stuff like that. So, for some reason or another, the universe has decided to give me a sign. Literally.
If you live in New Orleans, you can drive down St. Claude and see this, and I suggest you do. There is a house that's all boarded up, with four windows on the front of it, like the tall kind of windows you can stand in. Those windows have long boards patching them up, and spray painted on each board, large enough to read easily from the road, is one letter that spells out the word "READ." Below the "D" is the word "girl." So on this broken down, ugly as hell house is the message, "READ, girl."
And I intend to. I'm sorry that I have to quit the library, but I'm so thankful to be reaquinted with an old love. Right now I'm reading Bird by Bird, which I highly recommend. It's by Emeril Lagasse, I think.
Friday, January 22, 2010
A Tillman Conversation Piece
I have to tell you about my hunt for the perfect 2010 calender. Every year it's a big deal to get just the right one. For me, it's not just a way to keep track of appointments, or due dates for the kids' school projects. It says something about where I am at the beginning of the year, and what the rest of the year will look like.
Through most of high school if you would have walked into my bedroom you would have seen a Green Peace calender, telling you that not only did I love critters, but that I wanted you to think I was liberal. Senior year you would have found a Guns N' Roses calender, which should have been a sign to me that I was going to grow up to be attracted to rude, unstable, and emotionally unavailable people. More recently, last year in fact, you would have found a Sandra Boynton Mommy's calender, complete with large spaces to fill the day with everything that a mom needed to remember. It was helpful and cute in an originally Sandra Boynton-whackadoodle sort of way.
This year is different. This year I'm going through a divorce and I'm broke. So I decided to wait until after New Year's when the calenders were 50% off to find the perfect one that would make me smile when I walked into my kitchen. The unforeseen problem with this was, that since I was hitting the after-Christmas sale, I was also hitting the after-Christmas leftovers. I'd gone to Barnes & Noble excited. It's a nerdy thing to get excited about, but still. What would I pick on my first year on my own? Would there be a single mom's calender? Maybe something to do with writers? A coffeecake of the month calender perhaps? No. There was instead "Sock Monkees 2010." "Trout 2010." And most notably "Outhouses 2010."
I flipped through that last one, which someone had taken out of it's plastic to get a better look at I guess and then decided against it, and I thought, "Hey, I could put this in the bathroom." Then I started giggling at the kind of notes I could fill in at random dates just to further confuse guests who use my bathroom. Maybe I would just make scratch marks to indicate that I was counting something, but not specify what that thing was. I would definitely fill in one of those days with something like 21 marks, some number that would make someone's eyes go wide and suddenly feel uncomfortable. But then, to be taking your pants down in someone else's house is already a bit of a compromising act for whatever reason, and I would imagine that I might have trouble peeing if I was sitting across from such a calender. No, no, I thought. I'm too gentile of a hostess for that.
I left Barnes & Noble without getting anything, but now that I look back on it "Sock Monkees 2010" might have been fun.
When I got home, I decided to look on-line, thinking that there might be more available. And there wasn't, really. I also did a search for "single mom's calender," which produced nothing. But then, what would such a thing look like? "February 14th - Get drunk and cry." "December 25th - get drunk, look at pictures and cry?" Would it come with a skull and cross bones sticker to put on the day of my anniversary? I think I would rather "Outhouses" or "Trout."
What I found, eventually, was what seemed like the perfect one. It was called "Coffee Talk 2010." As you all know I kinda dig on coffee. A lot. Almost more than talking. This was a wall calender of 50's-ish looking men and women, looking polished and super enthused and saying things like, "I'm just plain EVIL without my coffee." I looked at this as something whimsical and different from my usual choices. A conversation piece, perhaps.
It was Claire, my conservative 10 year old, who discovered the flaw in it when it came in the mail and she curiously flipped through the months. She had asked to look at it before I had a chance to and because I was wrapped up in something else, most likely dishes or laundry because that's mostly what I do with my life, I told her to go for it.
"Um...Mom," I heard her say tentively from the kitchen. "Did you know this thing swears?"
"Swears?" I poked my head in the room.
Claire turned the page from February to March. Her eyes widened.
"Moooooooom," she said, uneasily. "Why did you get this?"
The month of February isn't too too bad, though still inappropriate for the kids, I think. It's a dad patting his daughter on the head saying something like, "I love you too. Now where's my damn coffee?" The next month is a secretary at a type writer. She has curly blonde hair, rosey cheeks and a jolly smile. She's lifting her cup of coffee, a toast to you it seems, and she's saying, "Coffee takes away 20% of the shittiness of my day." I decided to donate the calender to my sister, April, who's 2 year old and three month old can not read.
So I was once again without a calender, lost in time. Until I went to my friend Brenda's pet store in the French Quarter and she gave me one for free because she's an awesomely fantastical person. I almost didn't take it. I love animal calenders but I'm partial to the endangered ones, the ones who are hurt, mistreated, or otherwise exotic. In other words, "2010 The Year of the Kitten" would not appeal to me. The one Brenda offered me was different though. It's Tillman the Skateboarding Dog. Cute doggy calenders rank down there with kitten calenders for me. I wouldn't have chosen Tillman or paid for him, though I must admit, that dude can tear it up on a skateboard.
But then I realized that my Tillman calender really is perfect. It's free and I'm flat broke. This is where I am in life, working hard to stabilize life for me and the kids, cutting corners where need be, and relying on the love, generosity and silliness of my friends and family. This month, Tillman is featured at the Rose Bowl Parade, his rosey likeness riding a skateboard on a float. Next month is a picture of an officer giving Tillman a speeding ticket. You get the idea. It does make me smile in the morning, when I get up to brew my coffee. It takes away 20% of the shittiness of my day (smile).
Through most of high school if you would have walked into my bedroom you would have seen a Green Peace calender, telling you that not only did I love critters, but that I wanted you to think I was liberal. Senior year you would have found a Guns N' Roses calender, which should have been a sign to me that I was going to grow up to be attracted to rude, unstable, and emotionally unavailable people. More recently, last year in fact, you would have found a Sandra Boynton Mommy's calender, complete with large spaces to fill the day with everything that a mom needed to remember. It was helpful and cute in an originally Sandra Boynton-whackadoodle sort of way.
This year is different. This year I'm going through a divorce and I'm broke. So I decided to wait until after New Year's when the calenders were 50% off to find the perfect one that would make me smile when I walked into my kitchen. The unforeseen problem with this was, that since I was hitting the after-Christmas sale, I was also hitting the after-Christmas leftovers. I'd gone to Barnes & Noble excited. It's a nerdy thing to get excited about, but still. What would I pick on my first year on my own? Would there be a single mom's calender? Maybe something to do with writers? A coffeecake of the month calender perhaps? No. There was instead "Sock Monkees 2010." "Trout 2010." And most notably "Outhouses 2010."
I flipped through that last one, which someone had taken out of it's plastic to get a better look at I guess and then decided against it, and I thought, "Hey, I could put this in the bathroom." Then I started giggling at the kind of notes I could fill in at random dates just to further confuse guests who use my bathroom. Maybe I would just make scratch marks to indicate that I was counting something, but not specify what that thing was. I would definitely fill in one of those days with something like 21 marks, some number that would make someone's eyes go wide and suddenly feel uncomfortable. But then, to be taking your pants down in someone else's house is already a bit of a compromising act for whatever reason, and I would imagine that I might have trouble peeing if I was sitting across from such a calender. No, no, I thought. I'm too gentile of a hostess for that.
I left Barnes & Noble without getting anything, but now that I look back on it "Sock Monkees 2010" might have been fun.
When I got home, I decided to look on-line, thinking that there might be more available. And there wasn't, really. I also did a search for "single mom's calender," which produced nothing. But then, what would such a thing look like? "February 14th - Get drunk and cry." "December 25th - get drunk, look at pictures and cry?" Would it come with a skull and cross bones sticker to put on the day of my anniversary? I think I would rather "Outhouses" or "Trout."
What I found, eventually, was what seemed like the perfect one. It was called "Coffee Talk 2010." As you all know I kinda dig on coffee. A lot. Almost more than talking. This was a wall calender of 50's-ish looking men and women, looking polished and super enthused and saying things like, "I'm just plain EVIL without my coffee." I looked at this as something whimsical and different from my usual choices. A conversation piece, perhaps.
It was Claire, my conservative 10 year old, who discovered the flaw in it when it came in the mail and she curiously flipped through the months. She had asked to look at it before I had a chance to and because I was wrapped up in something else, most likely dishes or laundry because that's mostly what I do with my life, I told her to go for it.
"Um...Mom," I heard her say tentively from the kitchen. "Did you know this thing swears?"
"Swears?" I poked my head in the room.
Claire turned the page from February to March. Her eyes widened.
"Moooooooom," she said, uneasily. "Why did you get this?"
The month of February isn't too too bad, though still inappropriate for the kids, I think. It's a dad patting his daughter on the head saying something like, "I love you too. Now where's my damn coffee?" The next month is a secretary at a type writer. She has curly blonde hair, rosey cheeks and a jolly smile. She's lifting her cup of coffee, a toast to you it seems, and she's saying, "Coffee takes away 20% of the shittiness of my day." I decided to donate the calender to my sister, April, who's 2 year old and three month old can not read.
So I was once again without a calender, lost in time. Until I went to my friend Brenda's pet store in the French Quarter and she gave me one for free because she's an awesomely fantastical person. I almost didn't take it. I love animal calenders but I'm partial to the endangered ones, the ones who are hurt, mistreated, or otherwise exotic. In other words, "2010 The Year of the Kitten" would not appeal to me. The one Brenda offered me was different though. It's Tillman the Skateboarding Dog. Cute doggy calenders rank down there with kitten calenders for me. I wouldn't have chosen Tillman or paid for him, though I must admit, that dude can tear it up on a skateboard.
But then I realized that my Tillman calender really is perfect. It's free and I'm flat broke. This is where I am in life, working hard to stabilize life for me and the kids, cutting corners where need be, and relying on the love, generosity and silliness of my friends and family. This month, Tillman is featured at the Rose Bowl Parade, his rosey likeness riding a skateboard on a float. Next month is a picture of an officer giving Tillman a speeding ticket. You get the idea. It does make me smile in the morning, when I get up to brew my coffee. It takes away 20% of the shittiness of my day (smile).
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
The Dishbreak Bop
The kids are adjusting ok to all the changes lately. When I say ok what I mean is that they haven't started listening to Rage Against the Machine and smoking dope, which is exactly what I've been tempted to do lately but have not. Their dad and I split up in August, and I think they're doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances. There are lots of difficult questions to be answered and intense emotions, but then there is also the usual ridiculousness. This morning I made pancakes from scratch and Claire complained that, though they were tasty, they were too fluffy.
"So what you're saying is," I said, for clarity's sake, "they taste good, but the texture is too light and heavenly?"
"YES!" she screamed, pushing away the plate.
Here is a child, I thought, who would find something to complain about if we won the lottery.
"Well," she'd say, skeptically eyeing the pile of cash. "A hundred million is nice but won't this bump us up to the next tax bracket? Were you thinking about that at all before you wantonly bought that ticket?"
So how am I doing? I'm ok.
Our dishwasher is broken so I've been washing all the dishes by hand lately - and also not washing them at all and letting them pile up, which works for me too. I HATE doing the dishes. Doing the dishes for me is Claire's nightmare equivalent of a stack of fluffy pancakes. So the way I've been muscling through it lately is by playing videos on youtube and dancing while I wash. This is a process that takes longer, exspecially if I'm listening to ska and I have to stop washing for a second to hop in place, but the end result is good. Me and the kids have clean dishes and I'm in a good, peppy mood, despite dish pan hands. How could I not be when accompanied by lyrics like this:
dancin am dancin to the restafarian up--beat,
hangin with ma rude ska brothers in the--street,
our brother oer here say turn up the box-a,
dancin'n'dancin, rock us all the day long!
Can I sing it? No! In fact, I didn't know what the words were until I googled them just now. I only knew that the name of the song is "Skankin to the Beat" and that was enough for me.
And when I'm feeling really angry about having to do the dishes (when the kids aren't home) I'll play Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name." Why is it that's there's something healing about screaming "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" whilst scrubbing a plate of caked-on ketchup? I can't tell you friends. But it works. And if I'm feeling real fiesty I'll play White Zombies "Thunder Kiss '65." I'll try to dance like the girls in the video, all hippy-shaky and sexy, but I'll end up stumbling around like Rob Zombie instead.
When the kids are home, though, the selection changes. It'll be "Rio" by Duran Duran, or "Dancin With Myself" by Billy Idol because sometimes if I play stuff like that the kids will dance with me. Especially is I play "Cool For Cats."
As you can imagine, there have been some dish casualties as a result of this. Cups and plates have broken, sure, but I look at it this way...um, there are now less dishes to do. Yes, that is how I have chosen to perceive it. You could say that my dishwashing process has a Darwinian touch. The strong survive. The weak can't handle hearing Metallica's "Seek and Destroy" one more time, and toss themselves over the sink onto the floor. I'm not just doing the dishes. I'm thinning the herd.
God, I can't wait to get my dishwasher fixed.
"So what you're saying is," I said, for clarity's sake, "they taste good, but the texture is too light and heavenly?"
"YES!" she screamed, pushing away the plate.
Here is a child, I thought, who would find something to complain about if we won the lottery.
"Well," she'd say, skeptically eyeing the pile of cash. "A hundred million is nice but won't this bump us up to the next tax bracket? Were you thinking about that at all before you wantonly bought that ticket?"
So how am I doing? I'm ok.
Our dishwasher is broken so I've been washing all the dishes by hand lately - and also not washing them at all and letting them pile up, which works for me too. I HATE doing the dishes. Doing the dishes for me is Claire's nightmare equivalent of a stack of fluffy pancakes. So the way I've been muscling through it lately is by playing videos on youtube and dancing while I wash. This is a process that takes longer, exspecially if I'm listening to ska and I have to stop washing for a second to hop in place, but the end result is good. Me and the kids have clean dishes and I'm in a good, peppy mood, despite dish pan hands. How could I not be when accompanied by lyrics like this:
dancin am dancin to the restafarian up--beat,
hangin with ma rude ska brothers in the--street,
our brother oer here say turn up the box-a,
dancin'n'dancin, rock us all the day long!
Can I sing it? No! In fact, I didn't know what the words were until I googled them just now. I only knew that the name of the song is "Skankin to the Beat" and that was enough for me.
And when I'm feeling really angry about having to do the dishes (when the kids aren't home) I'll play Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name." Why is it that's there's something healing about screaming "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" whilst scrubbing a plate of caked-on ketchup? I can't tell you friends. But it works. And if I'm feeling real fiesty I'll play White Zombies "Thunder Kiss '65." I'll try to dance like the girls in the video, all hippy-shaky and sexy, but I'll end up stumbling around like Rob Zombie instead.
When the kids are home, though, the selection changes. It'll be "Rio" by Duran Duran, or "Dancin With Myself" by Billy Idol because sometimes if I play stuff like that the kids will dance with me. Especially is I play "Cool For Cats."
As you can imagine, there have been some dish casualties as a result of this. Cups and plates have broken, sure, but I look at it this way...um, there are now less dishes to do. Yes, that is how I have chosen to perceive it. You could say that my dishwashing process has a Darwinian touch. The strong survive. The weak can't handle hearing Metallica's "Seek and Destroy" one more time, and toss themselves over the sink onto the floor. I'm not just doing the dishes. I'm thinning the herd.
God, I can't wait to get my dishwasher fixed.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Need to write
I can't find my journal, and I need to write something. I don't care what it is, I just need to get SOMETHING out and you guys are part of my outlet this morning, ok? Good deal.
The other day at the coffee shop I heard someone say something grammatically fucked, and apparently I wrote it down because I found a draft of a post that started a few weeks ago and it just contained this sentence, "That girl just looks the same for years. The whole time I' known her she's had the same way hair." I need to start writing dialogue like this.
My agent is reading my book this week. This is the scene I imagine if she sends me an email with a list of changes I need to make: I'll be sitting at my laptop Monday morning, sipping my coffee, and I'll excitedly click on an email from Agent Sarah (that's what I like to call her), I'll read the words, "This is great! But I propose the following changes before we send it out to publishers," and I will spew coffee onto my computer screen. The computer will short out, I will be unable to make changes to my book, and she will have to sell it as is. This is a winning scenario because it involves both coffee, and the publication of my book.
Thanksgiving was exhausting but overall good. First I went to Chris's apartment, ate with him and the kids, took the babies to my parents', and then to my Paw Paw's house.
Four scenes from Thanksgiving that are in no particular order, and will contain lots of run-on sentences:
At my parent's house-My grandfather slaps me on the back as I'm taking a bite of stuffing and I think, "Why did I sit next to this man?" He says, "What's going on with your book, fella?" I give him the update and he says, "When can I read it?" I laugh nervously and then realize he's serious. I say, "After it's been banned." Then follows a discussion about how some of the finest books in history are outlaws, which is a much less stressful conversation and I'm able to finish my stuffing. There's something unnerving about the thought of my grandpa reading a piece of my work wherein I use words like, "motherfucker" and "vagina breath." Ok, I made up that last one. Still, you get my point.
I'm at Chris's apartment, feeling very awkward that it's our first holiday separated, but we're physically together in the same kitchen, he's stirring the mashed potatoes, I'm carving the turkey, and I'm thinking about how our roles are reversed because usually he carves while I work on the side items, and while I'm thinking about this and starting to feel depressed I cut my finger and though the cut isn't deep, it bleeds a lot. I am relieved of turkey duty.
Early that morning, while I'm roasting the turkey to bring to Chris', I'm standing by the sink and I'm crying, and I remember that there's rum in the house. It's a stressufl holiday, so no harm, right? I take the rum, pour some into my coffee, take a sip or two, then I remember something my aunt told me about my mom. When my mom and dad were separated Mom was really stressed out, and so she would have a glass of wine a day. "Just one glass," she told my aunt. That's how it started. So I call an Al-Anon friend and say, "This is a bad idea isn't it?" He agrees, and I pour it down the sink.
I'm at my Paw Paw's house that night and the kids are running around with their cousins, while I sit at a table with my grown cousins, talking about the obscene amount of food we've eaten. While I'm talking I'm secretly envious because the four people at the table with me are each part of a couple, and they all have jobs. I begin to feel sorry for myself, and then am suddnely sick of feeling sorry for myself. I make a gratitude list in my head: I am grateful for being fed today, I am grateful that my children are with me, I am grateful that I'm sober and not crippled with depression, and I'm grateful that I have arms and legs that work and opposable thumbs. I feel lighter. I am able to eat more carrot cake.
And now I am unable to look at food. But I feel better having written. I'll let you guys know what Agent Sarah has to say. And I'll maybe let you read it after it's banned.
The other day at the coffee shop I heard someone say something grammatically fucked, and apparently I wrote it down because I found a draft of a post that started a few weeks ago and it just contained this sentence, "That girl just looks the same for years. The whole time I' known her she's had the same way hair." I need to start writing dialogue like this.
My agent is reading my book this week. This is the scene I imagine if she sends me an email with a list of changes I need to make: I'll be sitting at my laptop Monday morning, sipping my coffee, and I'll excitedly click on an email from Agent Sarah (that's what I like to call her), I'll read the words, "This is great! But I propose the following changes before we send it out to publishers," and I will spew coffee onto my computer screen. The computer will short out, I will be unable to make changes to my book, and she will have to sell it as is. This is a winning scenario because it involves both coffee, and the publication of my book.
Thanksgiving was exhausting but overall good. First I went to Chris's apartment, ate with him and the kids, took the babies to my parents', and then to my Paw Paw's house.
Four scenes from Thanksgiving that are in no particular order, and will contain lots of run-on sentences:
At my parent's house-My grandfather slaps me on the back as I'm taking a bite of stuffing and I think, "Why did I sit next to this man?" He says, "What's going on with your book, fella?" I give him the update and he says, "When can I read it?" I laugh nervously and then realize he's serious. I say, "After it's been banned." Then follows a discussion about how some of the finest books in history are outlaws, which is a much less stressful conversation and I'm able to finish my stuffing. There's something unnerving about the thought of my grandpa reading a piece of my work wherein I use words like, "motherfucker" and "vagina breath." Ok, I made up that last one. Still, you get my point.
I'm at Chris's apartment, feeling very awkward that it's our first holiday separated, but we're physically together in the same kitchen, he's stirring the mashed potatoes, I'm carving the turkey, and I'm thinking about how our roles are reversed because usually he carves while I work on the side items, and while I'm thinking about this and starting to feel depressed I cut my finger and though the cut isn't deep, it bleeds a lot. I am relieved of turkey duty.
Early that morning, while I'm roasting the turkey to bring to Chris', I'm standing by the sink and I'm crying, and I remember that there's rum in the house. It's a stressufl holiday, so no harm, right? I take the rum, pour some into my coffee, take a sip or two, then I remember something my aunt told me about my mom. When my mom and dad were separated Mom was really stressed out, and so she would have a glass of wine a day. "Just one glass," she told my aunt. That's how it started. So I call an Al-Anon friend and say, "This is a bad idea isn't it?" He agrees, and I pour it down the sink.
I'm at my Paw Paw's house that night and the kids are running around with their cousins, while I sit at a table with my grown cousins, talking about the obscene amount of food we've eaten. While I'm talking I'm secretly envious because the four people at the table with me are each part of a couple, and they all have jobs. I begin to feel sorry for myself, and then am suddnely sick of feeling sorry for myself. I make a gratitude list in my head: I am grateful for being fed today, I am grateful that my children are with me, I am grateful that I'm sober and not crippled with depression, and I'm grateful that I have arms and legs that work and opposable thumbs. I feel lighter. I am able to eat more carrot cake.
And now I am unable to look at food. But I feel better having written. I'll let you guys know what Agent Sarah has to say. And I'll maybe let you read it after it's banned.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Hell's Bagel
It's 4:30 in the morning and Emma is awake. I got up at 3:45 so that I could get a head start with writing before the chaos of the day began and there she was, right outside my door at 3:50.
I used to have this theory back when Claire was a baby that the sound of my pen moving across paper was somehow loud enough to wake up children. Every time I tried to wake up early enough to get some good writing done, Claire would sense it, wet her diaper and start crying. The only evil streak that my children possess so far is that each one of them has an innate awareness of when I'm writing and an uncanny desire to stop it.
But onto the church ladies at the Waffle Cafe. There are about seven of them and they come in with this priest who's about 25 years younger than them, and the who is the object of their devotion, like the son-who-is-a-gateway-to-the-afterlife that they never had. What I find classy about them is the way they dress and carry themselves. Dove gray suits, heirloom jewelry, and those diamond pendents on their blazers, like angels or turtles. Hair always done just so. Lots of makeup and bright pink lipstick. I wonder if the AARP deals out pink lipstick to women when they turn 70.
A couple of weeks ago they came in during a busy time and they were insistent that the priest get his bagel as soon as possible, even before other people who had ordered before him. They called him "The Father."
"The Father needs his bagel," one of the old ladies said, creeping up to the counter with severely pink lips.
"The Father?" I asked, thinking that if this woman's father was alive I would be impressed if he could choke down a bagel without blending it first.
She pointed to the priest, who was sitting patiently at a table of old ladies with his hands folded. "Yes, The Father. He's in a hurry, and he needs his bagel, please."
"It'll come out soon. He's got a few orders in front of him."
"But it's just a bagel. Can't you get it out now?"
"It's not a matter of what it is. It's the order in which he, um, ordered."
She frowned and shook her head, possibly thinking, "Say hello to Hell for me."
Two minutes later a lady with a darker gray suit and pinker lip stick shoved her way through the crowd and said, "Excuse me, young lady."
I was pouring coffee out of the thermos and turned around. "Yeah?"
"The Father as been waiting for his bagel. He needs it now."
I handed the fresh mug of coffee to the customer who'd been shoved aside by God's Bagel Police.
"Should be soon," I assured her.
She bore her pink-lipstick stained teeth. "Where's the owner? Where's Brad?"
"He's not here this morning."
"Well, tell your cook The Father needs his bagel now."
So I went over to Henry the cook. "The Father needs his bagel."
"Who's the father?" he asked.
"That dude over there. The church ladies keep calling him 'The Father.' He told me his name was Bob."
I pointed to the order ticket above the stove, the one that said, "side bagel - cream cheese - Bob."
"Tell him he's third in line," said Henry.
"The ladies say he needs his bagel now."
Then Henry said something that I'm sure I'll see him in hell for. He popped a bagel in the toaster and told me to stay put. Thirty seconds later he tossed the half-toasted bread on a plate, threw in a side of cream cheese and said, "There's your fuckin' bagel."
"It's not mine, it's Father Bob's."
"GET IT OUTTA HERE!"
So I delivered it to the table. And there was much rejoicing.
You know, I started this post about a week and a half ago. Now I am sitting in a different coffee shop that I am not working at, where there are no priests, gray suits, or Bobs in sight. I'm at Fair Grinds Coffeehouse, the place where the pretty hippies go. You know, ones who bathe, and have jobs and laptops. So i guess I should broaden the term "hippie" to "hippie posers," ones who wear long skirts they make themselves with their sewing machines, and dred locks but also stopped smoking weed five years ago. This person would be more of a hippie fashion kitten. And once I get a sewing machine, that kitten will be me.
I've got to finish the book by the end of this week so I should get started back on it. Just needed to finish this post because it's been bugging me that I left it half done. Been busy lately. But haven't we all?
I used to have this theory back when Claire was a baby that the sound of my pen moving across paper was somehow loud enough to wake up children. Every time I tried to wake up early enough to get some good writing done, Claire would sense it, wet her diaper and start crying. The only evil streak that my children possess so far is that each one of them has an innate awareness of when I'm writing and an uncanny desire to stop it.
But onto the church ladies at the Waffle Cafe. There are about seven of them and they come in with this priest who's about 25 years younger than them, and the who is the object of their devotion, like the son-who-is-a-gateway-to-the-afterlife that they never had. What I find classy about them is the way they dress and carry themselves. Dove gray suits, heirloom jewelry, and those diamond pendents on their blazers, like angels or turtles. Hair always done just so. Lots of makeup and bright pink lipstick. I wonder if the AARP deals out pink lipstick to women when they turn 70.
A couple of weeks ago they came in during a busy time and they were insistent that the priest get his bagel as soon as possible, even before other people who had ordered before him. They called him "The Father."
"The Father needs his bagel," one of the old ladies said, creeping up to the counter with severely pink lips.
"The Father?" I asked, thinking that if this woman's father was alive I would be impressed if he could choke down a bagel without blending it first.
She pointed to the priest, who was sitting patiently at a table of old ladies with his hands folded. "Yes, The Father. He's in a hurry, and he needs his bagel, please."
"It'll come out soon. He's got a few orders in front of him."
"But it's just a bagel. Can't you get it out now?"
"It's not a matter of what it is. It's the order in which he, um, ordered."
She frowned and shook her head, possibly thinking, "Say hello to Hell for me."
Two minutes later a lady with a darker gray suit and pinker lip stick shoved her way through the crowd and said, "Excuse me, young lady."
I was pouring coffee out of the thermos and turned around. "Yeah?"
"The Father as been waiting for his bagel. He needs it now."
I handed the fresh mug of coffee to the customer who'd been shoved aside by God's Bagel Police.
"Should be soon," I assured her.
She bore her pink-lipstick stained teeth. "Where's the owner? Where's Brad?"
"He's not here this morning."
"Well, tell your cook The Father needs his bagel now."
So I went over to Henry the cook. "The Father needs his bagel."
"Who's the father?" he asked.
"That dude over there. The church ladies keep calling him 'The Father.' He told me his name was Bob."
I pointed to the order ticket above the stove, the one that said, "side bagel - cream cheese - Bob."
"Tell him he's third in line," said Henry.
"The ladies say he needs his bagel now."
Then Henry said something that I'm sure I'll see him in hell for. He popped a bagel in the toaster and told me to stay put. Thirty seconds later he tossed the half-toasted bread on a plate, threw in a side of cream cheese and said, "There's your fuckin' bagel."
"It's not mine, it's Father Bob's."
"GET IT OUTTA HERE!"
So I delivered it to the table. And there was much rejoicing.
You know, I started this post about a week and a half ago. Now I am sitting in a different coffee shop that I am not working at, where there are no priests, gray suits, or Bobs in sight. I'm at Fair Grinds Coffeehouse, the place where the pretty hippies go. You know, ones who bathe, and have jobs and laptops. So i guess I should broaden the term "hippie" to "hippie posers," ones who wear long skirts they make themselves with their sewing machines, and dred locks but also stopped smoking weed five years ago. This person would be more of a hippie fashion kitten. And once I get a sewing machine, that kitten will be me.
I've got to finish the book by the end of this week so I should get started back on it. Just needed to finish this post because it's been bugging me that I left it half done. Been busy lately. But haven't we all?
Monday, October 26, 2009
late
Woke up an hour late. Have to get the kids up, dressed and fed. Have to brew the coffee. Then take kids to beforecare. It's my first day of work. Um...why am I blogging? Oh yeah, WISH ME LUCK!
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