Some people go through life keenly aware of how fucking trivial it all is.
Others give a shit about graduations and goodbyes.
I spent an hour or so today reading letters that my mother wrote to my father in the year or so leading up to their marriage. My mother has always lived life.
I was surprised by many things in those letters.
My mother was a romantic. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the pleasure of reading the letters that he wrote to her.
My mother and I are more similar than I thought.
Life is not that hard. I need more love in my life. Those letters made me feel like all of the things I care about and all of the things that I am angry about don’t matter. Just find someone to love.
In eighth grade my mother said she wanted to be a dental hygienist and that is what she still does today.
I saw pictures of my dad with another girl feeding him hardboiled eggs at some college frat event. My mother went on dates with many boys.
I feel like I could be plucked from the earth and it would make no difference.
Life is a journey, I know, but when will the sucky part be over.
My mother said she would die if she lost my father’s respect. She said it made her unhappy that he didn’t go to communion, but she didn’t want him to go for her. What were they up to?
My mother was a terrible student.
My dad’s friends called him Beans.
My mother and father were confused sometimes. They had conversations that made her feel “icky.” This is such a relief to me.
My mother looked forward to being a good lover and she said she was thinking about their new home and thinking about what to cook for dinner and then she marveled, “I don’t even get angry thinking about it.”
She said “I trust you, but not with directions.”
Fucking tragic that his heart stopped beating twenty-seven years later.
And in the background for me is this nagging feeling that what I should really be doing is studying the Internal Revenue Code for my tax class.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
First I found your house.
And then I found you on the Internet.
Now I scan the obituaries for your name.
I come in peace.
One day I asked myself what if I go down this street instead of that one.
I don’t know, only one way to find out.
And so I took Orchard instead of Dudley and nearly stopped in my tracks when I saw it.
This house is the only thing that could keep me in this city.
Waking up in this house would make life worth waking up to.
Coming home to this house would give me a reason to have left home in the first place.
I smell my lentils cooking in the kitchen.
I hear me typing in the front bedroom.
I see my sisters coming over to play pinochle in the front room.
I see the attic full of fabric scraps and skeins of leftover yarn.
I see me sleeping with the windows open in the back bedroom.
I see me crying in the bathroom.
I see me stretching on the front porch.
I see my laundry hanging in the backyard.
I see me letting the weeds grow on the side of the house.
There is only one place for all of this, for all of me. And you are living there. With your wife and your dog. You are young. You look fertile, like you might try and fill the house up with kids.
And so I must wait.
Now I scan the obituaries for your name.
I come in peace.
One day I asked myself what if I go down this street instead of that one.
I don’t know, only one way to find out.
And so I took Orchard instead of Dudley and nearly stopped in my tracks when I saw it.
This house is the only thing that could keep me in this city.
Waking up in this house would make life worth waking up to.
Coming home to this house would give me a reason to have left home in the first place.
I smell my lentils cooking in the kitchen.
I hear me typing in the front bedroom.
I see my sisters coming over to play pinochle in the front room.
I see the attic full of fabric scraps and skeins of leftover yarn.
I see me sleeping with the windows open in the back bedroom.
I see me crying in the bathroom.
I see me stretching on the front porch.
I see my laundry hanging in the backyard.
I see me letting the weeds grow on the side of the house.
There is only one place for all of this, for all of me. And you are living there. With your wife and your dog. You are young. You look fertile, like you might try and fill the house up with kids.
And so I must wait.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
A composite of some of the writer's facebook friends
I used to say that my mom was my best friend and then I met my husband. Now I say that he is my best friend because that is what people say. Actually, women say it more than men. But they always sound happy when they say it and so I say it. I am married to my best friend. But secretly, we like REALLY different things. If we weren’t married and people didn’t say you should be married to your best friend, there’s no way we would be best friends. I like shopping and celebrity news and lotion. He likes dogs and trucks and sports. One thing that we can agree on is that steak is delicious. He said that he knew that I was a “cool chick” when I ordered a steak on our first date and ate more than half of it. So whenever we fight, which we don’t really do that, we try to remember to go eat steak.
We also really like reality TV. We’ve liked it since the beginning, but now there are so many shows to choose from. We have different favorite shows (me: the bachelor :: him: west coast choppers), but they are all so good that we will each watch the other’s favorite show. That’s what marriage is all about, watching each other’s favorite shows.
We also really like working out. He loves “being ripped” and I just don’t want to ever get fat. He promises that he would love me even if I get fat, but he says such mean things about his sister Janine who probably needs to start working with a trainer that I know that if I got fat maybe he wouldn’t say those things but he would probably think them.
Right now we are saving up our money to update our kitchen. We went to a factory direct appliance store today to look at stainless steel appliances to go with our granite countertops. Our house will look just like a new condo! I can’t wait! After the kitchen is done, we are going to save up for a new motorcycle for my husband. And then maybe we will have a baby or build a deck. I am so happy and blessed and nothing is wrong. At all.
We also really like reality TV. We’ve liked it since the beginning, but now there are so many shows to choose from. We have different favorite shows (me: the bachelor :: him: west coast choppers), but they are all so good that we will each watch the other’s favorite show. That’s what marriage is all about, watching each other’s favorite shows.
We also really like working out. He loves “being ripped” and I just don’t want to ever get fat. He promises that he would love me even if I get fat, but he says such mean things about his sister Janine who probably needs to start working with a trainer that I know that if I got fat maybe he wouldn’t say those things but he would probably think them.
Right now we are saving up our money to update our kitchen. We went to a factory direct appliance store today to look at stainless steel appliances to go with our granite countertops. Our house will look just like a new condo! I can’t wait! After the kitchen is done, we are going to save up for a new motorcycle for my husband. And then maybe we will have a baby or build a deck. I am so happy and blessed and nothing is wrong. At all.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Pearls
My grandfather gave them to my mother on her wedding day.
Many women show up at the office with them around their necks shortly after getting married. Maybe it is a common thing for a bride to get pearls for her wedding. I don’t know much about what is common and not and am always having to ask my older sister.
My mother gave me pearls when I was fifteen shortly after my father died. It sort of made sense at the time. Like it was my consolation prize. You will not be getting these from him when you get married, nor will he be walking you down the aisle or teaching you to drive, all of which is unfortunate and so we will forgo the wait and give them to you now. How’s that? That better? Uh, okay, thanks.
They stayed in my mom’s top dresser drawer while I went away to college and then when I moved to Seattle. Now I am back in the same state as my pearls and I take them out of my mom’s dresser sometimes when I go to work in the same building where my father used to work, which, oddly enough, overlooks his grave.
I am twenty-six now and am realizing how things have been complicated for me as a result of my father’s death. I have come to think that it is quite appropriate that I got my string of pearls when I did.
I have not consulted with my mother on why I got my pearls when I did. I think maybe she had some money after the funeral and didn’t know what to do with it and maybe it was cheaper if you buy 3 strands at once (one for me and one for each of my two sisters). Maybe it was simply that she knew that my oldest sister would be getting married soon and that my other sister and I would be bridesmaids and so we should all have pearls to wear. Maybe I would have gotten them at that time anyway. My mother is much more into thrift than symbolism.
Many women show up at the office with them around their necks shortly after getting married. Maybe it is a common thing for a bride to get pearls for her wedding. I don’t know much about what is common and not and am always having to ask my older sister.
My mother gave me pearls when I was fifteen shortly after my father died. It sort of made sense at the time. Like it was my consolation prize. You will not be getting these from him when you get married, nor will he be walking you down the aisle or teaching you to drive, all of which is unfortunate and so we will forgo the wait and give them to you now. How’s that? That better? Uh, okay, thanks.
They stayed in my mom’s top dresser drawer while I went away to college and then when I moved to Seattle. Now I am back in the same state as my pearls and I take them out of my mom’s dresser sometimes when I go to work in the same building where my father used to work, which, oddly enough, overlooks his grave.
I am twenty-six now and am realizing how things have been complicated for me as a result of my father’s death. I have come to think that it is quite appropriate that I got my string of pearls when I did.
I have not consulted with my mother on why I got my pearls when I did. I think maybe she had some money after the funeral and didn’t know what to do with it and maybe it was cheaper if you buy 3 strands at once (one for me and one for each of my two sisters). Maybe it was simply that she knew that my oldest sister would be getting married soon and that my other sister and I would be bridesmaids and so we should all have pearls to wear. Maybe I would have gotten them at that time anyway. My mother is much more into thrift than symbolism.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Different Strokes
Amazing. Last night I was on my way to a party with my housemate who is very much a dude. I was driving and halfway there he asks me if I think they will have food. I say probably just snacks. He calls the host of the party to ask if there will be food. I try to stop him. (Oh my god! What will the host think!) I try to urge him to call someone else who we think will be there. Preferring to go straight to the source, he calls and asks the host, “Hey, man, do you have food there?” “No, man, just munchies.” “Okay see you soon.” “Yeah.” Click. We stop at jimmy johns. My housemate orders a sandwich, holds the mayo and tomato and replaces with sprouts and mustard. We show up at the party way way way further out in the burbs than I have ever been before. There is a long folding table with every sort of booze imaginable, tons of wine, and a keg of Sam Adams and then various snacks throughout the kitchen such as egg rolls, taquitos, crackers, various cheeses, cream cheese with jelly on top, chips, guacamole, salsa and other dips.
What is most remarkable about all of this is that my housemate had no shame in calling the host to ask if there will be food for him, and the host had no shame in saying the food that we have here will not suffice as dinner for you. There is no apology or self-consciousness on either part. The host doesn’t try to satisfy my housemate and suggest that perhaps he could eat enough tacquitos to make a meal. He just says we don’t have food (even though there was so much food). In the car, my housemate had unabashedly slurped down the sandwich and said, “That hit the spot.” Then at the party he chows down on the munchies and there are no thoughts of “I really shouldn’t.” Just, “Hey man, awesome tacquitos.”
I am awestruck by the whole thing. Largely because of my complicated relationship with food. And because of my fear of offending anyone or making anyone feel bad, which is usually my guiding principle in social situations. It was fascinating to watch my housemate operate without the shadow of either food issues or people-pleasing tendencies. It was frustrating too. Why am I strapped down by all this self-consciousness and he is just waltzing through life happy as a clam? The difference between us is self-awareness, and I know that, most often, it is a virtue. It is better to go through life aware of yourself and questioning the world around you and your place in it rather than obliviously bumbling about. But sometimes it is a drag to be under constant self-evaluation.
The party was fine. I kept finding myself in pleasant enough conversations and marveling at my social skills that had gone unused for weeks. But there was so much taupe there. There was one point where I wanted to stand up on a chair and say, “If you are wearing something from Banana Republic, take it off and put it in this pile.” Then everyone would be naked and we would have a big pile of various shades of taupe clothing made in China.
What is most remarkable about all of this is that my housemate had no shame in calling the host to ask if there will be food for him, and the host had no shame in saying the food that we have here will not suffice as dinner for you. There is no apology or self-consciousness on either part. The host doesn’t try to satisfy my housemate and suggest that perhaps he could eat enough tacquitos to make a meal. He just says we don’t have food (even though there was so much food). In the car, my housemate had unabashedly slurped down the sandwich and said, “That hit the spot.” Then at the party he chows down on the munchies and there are no thoughts of “I really shouldn’t.” Just, “Hey man, awesome tacquitos.”
I am awestruck by the whole thing. Largely because of my complicated relationship with food. And because of my fear of offending anyone or making anyone feel bad, which is usually my guiding principle in social situations. It was fascinating to watch my housemate operate without the shadow of either food issues or people-pleasing tendencies. It was frustrating too. Why am I strapped down by all this self-consciousness and he is just waltzing through life happy as a clam? The difference between us is self-awareness, and I know that, most often, it is a virtue. It is better to go through life aware of yourself and questioning the world around you and your place in it rather than obliviously bumbling about. But sometimes it is a drag to be under constant self-evaluation.
The party was fine. I kept finding myself in pleasant enough conversations and marveling at my social skills that had gone unused for weeks. But there was so much taupe there. There was one point where I wanted to stand up on a chair and say, “If you are wearing something from Banana Republic, take it off and put it in this pile.” Then everyone would be naked and we would have a big pile of various shades of taupe clothing made in China.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Almost getting run over by the doctor who helped deliver you is one of those things that can only happen when you move back to the land of your birth.
Today was a five on a one to ten scale. I woke up at 8:30 a.m. as I am prone to do and had nothing to do. Law school has ceased tormenting me for three months and the law firm where I will work this summer will not begin tormenting me until next week. I ate oatmeal and drank coffee and read the Omaha World Herald and did the crossword. After I had my morning bowel movement, I decided to go for a run. That’s when Dr. Itkin approached the stop sign too fast with no sign of slowing down. I could tell he couldn’t see me. A normal driver would have seen me, but I could tell, by the boat-like nature of his sedan, that this driver was an old guy with bad eyes. I thought I’d saunter out into the street. I wanted him to almost hit me so that he would temper his giddy-up and future runners and pedestrians whose arrival at this intersection coincides with his would be protected. Then I recognized him and sort of wished he had hit me, just because it would make a great story. I also wanted him to hit me, because then, provided that the run-in didn’t actually kill me, I could add this incident to my list of things that I point to when I am second-guessing and regretting my decision to move back here. (Other items on the list include the speeding ticket I recently got, allergy flare-up this past pollen season, difficulty in dealing with cingular to change my phone number to a 402 area code number, and weight gain.)
I know I am the captain of my own ship, but sometimes I blame my mother for my recent, totally voluntary relocation back to the Midwest. She made me feel guilty for being so far away and for having so much fun. She didn’t do it on purpose. She is Catholic and her mother probably made her feel the same way. Nonetheless, I find it necessary to keep a list of reasons why I never should have moved back here so that one day the list will be so long or there will be something on there worthy of 72pt font and then I can take the list to her and say, “Mother, I tried, I really tried, I wanted to be here. I wanted to get settled here so that I could help my siblings take care of you when you are an old nut, but the universe seems to be pushing me out. I don’t want to have to buy plane tickets to come see you or to have to dial three extra numbers when calling you, but things just aren’t working out for me here. I think I would be better off elsewhere.” Then she would take a look at my list and say, “Oh my, you poor thing, my child. I appreciate your efforts, but please, do what you must.”
This will not happen. I will not show her my list. I would never act on this resentment, which I didn’t realize I harbored until I wrote that last paragraph. I hope instead that the next year of my life will be better than the last. I hope to find contentment here in this place where I grew up. I hope that in ten years (hopefully five) I can look back on this decision to move back here and see why it was a good move. Maybe I will meet someone. Maybe I will start writing again. Maybe I will actually like my job this summer. Maybe in five or ten years I will be one of those assholes walking around saying that I have no regrets, but I will never get to that point if I spend my time frantically scribbling down my list.
I know I am the captain of my own ship, but sometimes I blame my mother for my recent, totally voluntary relocation back to the Midwest. She made me feel guilty for being so far away and for having so much fun. She didn’t do it on purpose. She is Catholic and her mother probably made her feel the same way. Nonetheless, I find it necessary to keep a list of reasons why I never should have moved back here so that one day the list will be so long or there will be something on there worthy of 72pt font and then I can take the list to her and say, “Mother, I tried, I really tried, I wanted to be here. I wanted to get settled here so that I could help my siblings take care of you when you are an old nut, but the universe seems to be pushing me out. I don’t want to have to buy plane tickets to come see you or to have to dial three extra numbers when calling you, but things just aren’t working out for me here. I think I would be better off elsewhere.” Then she would take a look at my list and say, “Oh my, you poor thing, my child. I appreciate your efforts, but please, do what you must.”
This will not happen. I will not show her my list. I would never act on this resentment, which I didn’t realize I harbored until I wrote that last paragraph. I hope instead that the next year of my life will be better than the last. I hope to find contentment here in this place where I grew up. I hope that in ten years (hopefully five) I can look back on this decision to move back here and see why it was a good move. Maybe I will meet someone. Maybe I will start writing again. Maybe I will actually like my job this summer. Maybe in five or ten years I will be one of those assholes walking around saying that I have no regrets, but I will never get to that point if I spend my time frantically scribbling down my list.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
I am not an asshole. I am not an asshole. I am not an asshole.
I have an asshole, but I am not one.
People talk about having voices on their shoulders. One is the devil saying, “Do it. It feels good. Go for it.” And then there is an angel on the other side saying, “Don’t do it. What would your mother think?” I don’t have this so much as one very heavy voice that is constantly telling me that I am an asshole. I live by this voice. I build my days and my life around appeasing this voice, so that one day it might say, “Oh, okay, I guess you’re not such an asshole.”
I don’t know where this voice came from or when it took up residency on my shoulders. No one has ever told me I’m an asshole. Most people who know me would say I am nice, conscientious, decent, funny, etc., and yet, here I am, certain that they are mistaken and that underneath I am a vile prick and one day everyone will know it.
Actually, I have a pretty good suspicion of where this voice came from. I’ve led a pretty fucking privileged life. I am white. I went to private schools. I have a wonderful family and had a pretty blissful childhood. Worst of all, I currently find myself in law school.
At law school, I am surrounded by many people who are similarly situated. Some of these people are bona fide assholes, and yet they don’t seem to have even a trace of anything like this voice. I know I shouldn’t resent them and their unwarranted self-assuredness because who knows what kinds of demons they have on their shoulders, but I do resent them.
I know that I am not an asshole. Although I provided the reasons why I am a likely candidate for being an asshole, there’s no need for me to provide the reasons why I am not an asshole. I just am not. I am flicking this voice off my shoulder. And in doing so, I am freeing myself from the fear and I am going to start living more fully, cultivating peace and joy within and without, god damnit.
People talk about having voices on their shoulders. One is the devil saying, “Do it. It feels good. Go for it.” And then there is an angel on the other side saying, “Don’t do it. What would your mother think?” I don’t have this so much as one very heavy voice that is constantly telling me that I am an asshole. I live by this voice. I build my days and my life around appeasing this voice, so that one day it might say, “Oh, okay, I guess you’re not such an asshole.”
I don’t know where this voice came from or when it took up residency on my shoulders. No one has ever told me I’m an asshole. Most people who know me would say I am nice, conscientious, decent, funny, etc., and yet, here I am, certain that they are mistaken and that underneath I am a vile prick and one day everyone will know it.
Actually, I have a pretty good suspicion of where this voice came from. I’ve led a pretty fucking privileged life. I am white. I went to private schools. I have a wonderful family and had a pretty blissful childhood. Worst of all, I currently find myself in law school.
At law school, I am surrounded by many people who are similarly situated. Some of these people are bona fide assholes, and yet they don’t seem to have even a trace of anything like this voice. I know I shouldn’t resent them and their unwarranted self-assuredness because who knows what kinds of demons they have on their shoulders, but I do resent them.
I know that I am not an asshole. Although I provided the reasons why I am a likely candidate for being an asshole, there’s no need for me to provide the reasons why I am not an asshole. I just am not. I am flicking this voice off my shoulder. And in doing so, I am freeing myself from the fear and I am going to start living more fully, cultivating peace and joy within and without, god damnit.
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