This is just a little collage of the things I see when I run (or walk and listen to Neil Conan).
One of the best parts about running is that it makes me notice whats around me. The painted address on the telephone pole. The leaves that match the "Dead End" sign and the family of toothless grinning pumpkins.
Fall is my favorite time of year, because everyone is always a little haunted and the branches on the trees look like witches fingers. Also, CANDY.
My essay about working at a taekwondo magazine is out in the Yellow Medicine Review. Also, Andrei Codrescu is in it and I'm in the same journal as him!!AHHHHHHH!
With the exception of the lady who peers into our windows and yells at us for not coming to her terrible garage sales, we have the best neighbors.
When we moved into our house, it was known as the rainbow house, because of a conspicuous pastel rainbow painted over the front door. Our first night, our across the street neighbors, Joe and Natalie, came over and said, "You have to paint that thing, NOW!" We wanted to get rid of the rainbow, but you see. When we closed on the house, the people who owned it kind of freaked out and refused to give us the key, sucking us and several local banks into a cycle of crazy, that ended in the couple demanding that the closing money be given to them in cash. The couple's bank finally agreed that okay, they could come withdraw the money at 9pm on a Friday night and kept the bank open just for them. But, the couple never showed up to withdraw the money and we never got our key. So, on move in day, we hired a lock smith to drill our locks and we busted into our new home. All of this and the couple we bought the house from, lives four houses away. The moving day ended with one of the former owners of the house coming over, demanding to be let in and when I refused she collapsed sobbing on my shoulder. So, naturally, after breaking and entering into our new house and the whole crying thing, we didn't want to aggravate the situation further by painting over their carefully cultivated pastel rainbow.
We explained all of this to Joe and Natalie, our neighbors, as we sipped wine in our new house. When we were done, Natalie said, "So, what's your point?" And at 10:45pm, we drove a car onto the lawn and turned on the headlights. Natalie and Joe drug over their ladder and a paint brush and we each took turns painting away the rainbow. This is the kind of neighbors they are.
A week ago, on Thursday. Joe and Natalie's son was in a car accident and they flew down to Georgia to be with him. This year has been tough for them. Natalie's mom has been fighting a losing a battle to breast cancer. Joe is a pastor of a local church and the recession has been hitting all churches pretty hard. This has given Dave and I a little bit of PTSD. Because our 2007, was a lot like this. A month after Dave's dad died of cancer, two of my sisters ( I have four total) were in a devastating car accident. One sister spent weeks in the hospital and later, months at our home, learning to walk again. Through it all, our neighbors were our best support and ally. They let us borrow a bed, plied us with booze and friendship and Natalie even gave me advice on how to handle suddenly having an 18-year-old in my home. Tip #1: Don't make eye contact, back away slowly.
So, I hope and pray that the same grace, love and humor that they have extended to us will be extended to them. And all I can do is take their dog on walks, try and make sure their car doesn't fight other cats in the neighborhood and stock their shelves with wine.
Looks like my essay about my time working with The Grandmaster will be published in The Yellow Medicine Review. Don't know what I'm talking about? Stay tuned for a link to one of the craziest but true stories that singlehandedly made me a hit at parties.
Last year, I ran my first half-marathon, with a lot of encouragement from my friend Mel. This year, I did it again. This time with my brother.
At the last mile, when my brother saw the finish line, he ripped off his bandanna and yelled, "IT'S ON!" And when I stopped laughing, I ran ahead and beat him like a rented mule.
But really, not much beats crossing the finish line with your brother.
Read the article about Barbara Robinette Moss's passing here.
In college I liked to browse the library. Actually, my whole life I've browsed the library. Wherever we've moved and no matter where I've gone, I always feel at home in a library. I moved in the middle of my Junior year of high school from a school of about 500 to a school of about 4,000. From a graduating class of over 100 to a graduating class of almost 800. It was overwhelming. I had no friends and no one to eat lunch with. So, I hid in the library and read and reread "The Story Girl" and walked among the books, getting courage for my next rush through the crowded anonymous halls.
This is how I've discovered books like Change Me Into Zeus' Daughter. I found that book in college, on one of my many escapes to the library in search of friends. I checked the book out and read and reread it twice in the course of a week. The pages were full of beauty and heartache and unflinching honesty. And the lovely moments of the book seemed to encapsulate a longing that pervading my own childhood. The book opens with a scene, where Barbara describes her siblings stealing money to buy Cokes (or RC Cola's I believe) and that secret joy of stolen luxuries. It brought me back to me when I was 12-years-old. I would sneak coins from my mother's purse and dig pennies from the dirt in my yard, hording them away until I had fifty cents. Then, I would creep down the street to a tanning store and buy a Coke and secret myself away from the chaos of my family and read a book and drink a Coke. The secret joy of stolen luxuries. Until it was all shattered by someone screaming, someone crying, some one yelling for something to be done. Barbara's words so accurately pierced through to that little girl who would hide away, clutching a book as her only protection from world that seemed to constantly tilt and slide away. If you are a reader, then you know, you don't forget moments of connection like that.
Years later, in Iowa I heard her on a radio program and I called in. I asked her how she could write with such courage. She told me, "If it happened to you it's your story. You need to tell your story and let others have the job of telling theirs." Those words were so simple and so powerful. And have given me the courage to write things that make me afraid and to write about things that have kept me afraid. The year after that, I was talking about books with a co-worker and I mentioned Change Me Into Zeus' Daughter. "Oh, I know her," the woman said. "She is a dear friend. You should write her."
And so I did.
I began writing Barbara Robinette Moss in 2008. Just as I was applying to graduate schools.Her emails were full of wisdom and wit and vivacity. I cherish them. When I was rejected from the Writer's Workshop she told me the same thing had happened to her. She wrote, "Move on, I say! Write your heart out. . . and let the chips fall where they may." She wrote, "The most important thing is that this is what you have decided to do - and do it." She told me of her own journey as a writer, "I worked hard. I went to readings at Prairie Lights, took summer classes, took advice from the writers I knew (and threw some of their advice away) - and more than anything, I followed my heart. I cried, and got over it, and cried some more. But I followed the voice inside that said I could do this."
I printed those words out and pasted them over my desk. I've been following her advice ever since.
Today, I learned that she passed away.
I don't know any of the details. Just that she is gone and I am going through her emails and her writing and hording away her words like a sacred currency.
I want everyone to know, first off, I love NPR and our local NPR affiliate. I listen constantly, download podcasts, talk about Michelle Norris as if she is my bff. So, when I say this, I want you to understand that when I approach these situations I have NOTHING but ushy gushy love, creepy love even, for all of my public radio hosts.
So, it's pretty unfortunate, that I end up insulting them. Two years ago, I ticked off Terry Gross. Since then, I haven't been in contact with anyone from any public radio show. Until recently.
Recently, I emailed a local public radio program to talk about ways I could get involved. I'm a graduate student and I thought, maybe, just maybe, I could do a small internship on one of my favorite literary shows. And maybe, just maybe, it would be a good time.
The email was answered by an assistant who misunderstood my request and thought I was asking to interview the host of the show. Whatever, I rolled with it. I contacted a local publication, who was interested in the profile and moved forward. The assistant dallied, ho hummed and stalled before finally passing me on to the host of the show I was interested in.
Or was the host of the show I was interested in.
You see, this very week, there was some reshuffling around our local public radio and this host was no longer moderating the show. In fact, this host is no longer involved with it. AT.ALL. And sent me very terse emails in response. In fact, this host is not happy with me at all.
I emailed the assistant my own tersely worded email and his response: "Oops!"
Public radio, why do you hate me?!
What I failed to emphasize in all this hoopla surrounding my laptop was that Dave's laptop also died. However, he was unfortunate enough NOT to have an extended warranty. In fact, the only computer we had left in this mass suicide of computers was Frankenputer, who was really just a composite of the pieces of his fallen brethren.
You see. Dave loves to horde computer parts, cords, various electronic equipment, which at most times are strewn over the floor of his office, which I call the Dave Den. He calls it the office. Computers call it the PC holocaust. Dave is essentially the death doctor of computers. If computers were people, Dave would be eating them with fava beans and a nice Chianti.
But when he saw my new shiny computer, he started lusting after the living. And after much hemming and hawing and development of spreadsheets comparing costs and prices, the Dave bought himself a netbook. It is so little and tiny. It's like the nerd equivalent of a toy dog. I keep making jokes about him carrying it around in his handbag and buying it matching sweaters. I think he's seriously considering it.
Anyway. Here are the two of us. Sitting side-by-side on our couch, watching TV, playing on our computers and basically not talking to one another. Marriage, the way God intended it. Forgive me for looking a little rough. I just got back from spending two hours with a mass of 3rd grade girls.
Yesterday, I shared mine and one of my brothers' (I have three brothers, four sisters) misconceptions about sex. And as a side note, the other day on Facebook someone made reference to me being from a family of 8, and someone else chimed in "Only eight? I thought there were 12 of you!" And while we can generate the noise equivalent of a bloody coup in a former Soviet nation, there are only 8 of us and if you use that condescending tone about there only being 8 of us, my mom's uterus is going to punch you in the face.
To recap: I thought prostitutes literally sold their body parts and ONE of my brother's thought that well...Sex was the worst thing you could do next to killing someone and that if you had premarital sex you would never have children because that was God's punishment.
My other siblings are a lot more healthy and well-rounded. I attribute this to my parents finally letting us watch TV when I turned 18 and left the house.
One sister noted: "I thought my belly button was where babies came out of, and that myvagina was my urethra."
Another sister: "I thought that French Kissing (or any kiss involving tongue) was a big part of sex. I thought that sex was disgusting, and before that that having a baby was akin to being magic and that you just had a baby once your were married, so if you were getting married then I could expect a baby soon. Oh random, I thought that reading the Song of Solomon was a big sin/wrong, because it discussed sex."
A third sister wrote that she had NO misconceptions because of the book Preparing for Adolescence by Dr. Dobson, which I also read and to summarize it basically said, "Things are going to change, somethings are normal unless they are not normal in which case you should talk to someone. But you are really okay unless you are sinning, so don't do that. The end." And when I read that she said that, I was like "WHAT?! YOU ARE HILARIOUS!! AHAHAHAAHA" but um, I don't think she was kidding. And honestly, I haven't read the book since I was 11. And I distinctly remember tossing it across the room in frustration at its terribleness. But clearly a sibling of mine had the opposite reaction. And some people love Jodi Picoult and think that grease is a food group. It takes all kinds.
But I think the lesson that can be learned here is that you can tell 8 children the same thing and they come away with different answers. Also, let them watch TV.
PS Yes, I did tell my siblings before they shared that I would be sharing this info. They have been left anonymous by my choice, because I am (with the exception of the youngest) the weakest, and the smallest and they can all kick my butt.
In the Bible, people are constantly trying to kill their sons, donning fig leaf g-strings, sleeping with their fathers, stabbing fat men on roofs, you get the picture.
This is a problem because, if you then decide to read the Bible to your children about say Hosea who is ordered by God to marry a whore, you have to then EXPLAIN to your wide-eyed innocent home schooled children, exactly what a whore is.
Here is how my parents did it. They told me that a whore was someone who sold their body for money. Accurate, yes. But I thought prostitutes literally hacked off body parts and sold them. Like, who wants this left femur for $50? Going once. Going twice. Sold to the paraplegic car accident victim!
I didn't get why this was wrong. I remember asking my mom, why it was so bad to sell your body? What if it helped someone?
She replied, "Because our bodies are holy and only meant for special purposes. Not just giving away."
I remember thinking, yeah but if you're charging like a million dollars, that's not exactly giving it away. Plus, the money could go to charity or paying for college. Later, I was surprised to learn that my 9-year-old logic isn't that far off from the logic of a 28-year-old hooker. I hate to brag, but I was advanced. A few years ago, I asked my mom about this and she had no recollection of the conversation at all. I don't blame her. I'm sure it was just another explanation in a string of awkward explanations that are the hard part of parenthood. And it's unfortunate, if you are a parent, that your kids only remember the explanations that screwed them up, not the ones that set them on the right track, because the right track is so blasé and unmemorable. NO ONE BLOGS ABOUT IT. What do they blog about? The time you told them marshmallows grew on trees in Australia just to shut them up from asking, constantly asking. So, I want to make it clear: PARENTS, I DON'T BLAME YOU FOR THIS. Things I do blame you for:
1. My undying love of mayonnaise
2. My ability to sing MOST of everything by Gilbert and Sullivan
3. The hole in the ozone
Recently, I came across this article on the site for which I work, and I was so relieved. Because it makes my experience feel universal. Like all parents screw up their children about sex in similar ways.
I asked my brother what his misconceptions were and he said that up until 16, he thought that if you kissed a girl or held hands before you were married that God wouldn't let you have kids after you were married. Also, he thought that pre-marital sex was the worst thing in the world to do, second only to murder. Essentially, being gay was less of a sin than pre-marital sex.
See, home schoolers, we're just like you. Only our fears have more Hell in them. But other than that, the same.
When I have kids, I'm telling them that you get pregnant by mixing your mixed drinks. That's what I call a two-fer.
Last week, my friend T-Bone needed someone to watch her baby for a couple hours because her daycare lady was sick. Because I'm a ne'er do well, who sometimes wears pants and works on a web site in the morning while eating crackers and pretending people who write blogs are my friends (Lifehacker, wanna hang out?), I said I'd hang out with Allie.
The first time I met Allie, she screamed and screamed and screamed and the MOMENT I walked out the door, she stopped crying and went to sleep. When I told The Dave this his response was, "Wow, that baby had the guts to do what everyone else wants to do, but no one can." And I am pretty sure Allie's dad gave Allie a high five because he and The Dave have a similar sense of humor. If you call making fun of me constantly a sense of humor.
Which also reminds me of the time when I went to see Mel's baby when she was just itty bitty, (now she's a worldly toddler, who knows the answer to life and it is "NO") and she had her first projectile vomit all over me. And Mel was like, "Oh my god, was that a projectile vomit?"
Me: "I think so, maybe, but oh...this one is."
First and second projectile vomit.
This past week was a little busy, I had writing due for school, writing assignments for Sister2Sister, some great freelance opportunities and making sure the comment party over here is rowdy, so it was fun to kick it with Allie for a little bit, even though she did not agree with me that George Saunders is the best and she totally fell asleep when I read her my craft essay for grad school. Lame.
And this is the look she gave me when I said, "Hey, make yourself useful and send out my invoices!"
After that, I ate her.
