Thank you Amy Sohn for the great blurb!
“The protagonist of HENNY ON THE COUCH is a New York mother we can all identify with - bright, harried, striving, and hopeful. You want her to be your best friend. This is a book for any woman who's ever had dreams for herself or wondered what became of them.”
-Amy Sohn, author of PROSPECT PARK WEST
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
HENNY ON THE COUCH
“Rarely has there been a novel that has dealt quite so honestly with the issues that assail urban women today. Unflinchingly honest and devoid of self-indulgence, Henny on the Couch is a compelling, brave, and beautiful novel.”
-Kaylie Jones, author of Lies My Mother Never Told Me
-Kaylie Jones, author of Lies My Mother Never Told Me
Monday, December 5, 2011
From one son to another--on his Bar Mitzvah
Lies About My Brother
This poem is tricky
Like my brother, so spastic.
Everything I now say
Should be heard as sarcastic.
When he was born
My brother was skinny.
No roles of fat
On his chinny chin chin chinny.
When he grew up
All of that changed.
He’s gotten fat, he’s gained weight
He is oh so very strange.
He is always behaved
And he never says never.
He’s like Justin Bieber
Only one third as clever.
He gets horrible grades
In math, he doesn’t know factors.
And he has no friends,
All you people here are actors.
He sucks at all sports
And he’s slow as a snail.
His Chinese name should be “Shibai”
Google translates that to “Fail.”
He has never shown rage
And looks like Syd from Ice Age.
He’s the least impressive person I know
He gives devious a new low.
He gives new meaning to “don’t judge a book by its cover,”
Because he’s even worse inside than he is a brother.
Whenever he sees me he pretends to admire
But really he’s just wishing I were on fire.
Nobody likes my brother
Not even our mother!
You’ve all seen her yell at him
It’s like a story written by Brothers Grimm!
His head is so full of hot air.
He thinks kicking and screaming is the definition of “share.”
Worst of all: he’s chock full of sass
Whenever he sees me he smacks me in the……........stomach.
He’s the worst kind of guy
He tells everyone the truth
Except to me he does lie
And it’s ruined my youth.
So friends and family
Of Ellis-da-mellis
Please make sure you know
You don’t have to be jealous.
Okay here we go
Now the lies are through
For a short stanza
I’ll say things that are true.
He’s a cool guy
The best I’ve ever seen
He’s got more talent
Than that winner Charlie Sheen.
Ellis, you’re the best brother I have
This should make you all know
He’s the greatest friend I could asked for
MAZEL TOV BRO!!!!!
This poem is tricky
Like my brother, so spastic.
Everything I now say
Should be heard as sarcastic.
When he was born
My brother was skinny.
No roles of fat
On his chinny chin chin chinny.
When he grew up
All of that changed.
He’s gotten fat, he’s gained weight
He is oh so very strange.
He is always behaved
And he never says never.
He’s like Justin Bieber
Only one third as clever.
He gets horrible grades
In math, he doesn’t know factors.
And he has no friends,
All you people here are actors.
He sucks at all sports
And he’s slow as a snail.
His Chinese name should be “Shibai”
Google translates that to “Fail.”
He has never shown rage
And looks like Syd from Ice Age.
He’s the least impressive person I know
He gives devious a new low.
He gives new meaning to “don’t judge a book by its cover,”
Because he’s even worse inside than he is a brother.
Whenever he sees me he pretends to admire
But really he’s just wishing I were on fire.
Nobody likes my brother
Not even our mother!
You’ve all seen her yell at him
It’s like a story written by Brothers Grimm!
His head is so full of hot air.
He thinks kicking and screaming is the definition of “share.”
Worst of all: he’s chock full of sass
Whenever he sees me he smacks me in the……........stomach.
He’s the worst kind of guy
He tells everyone the truth
Except to me he does lie
And it’s ruined my youth.
So friends and family
Of Ellis-da-mellis
Please make sure you know
You don’t have to be jealous.
Okay here we go
Now the lies are through
For a short stanza
I’ll say things that are true.
He’s a cool guy
The best I’ve ever seen
He’s got more talent
Than that winner Charlie Sheen.
Ellis, you’re the best brother I have
This should make you all know
He’s the greatest friend I could asked for
MAZEL TOV BRO!!!!!
Sunday, November 6, 2011
In Anticipation
Dear Joyce,
There are many reasons I’m not making the deadline to submit a memoir piece for the upcoming workshop. Perhaps most importantly is … I don’t have one. I mean, I have a few old narrative essays—some even garnered agents’ attention some years back, but the consensus was they lacked a cohesive thread and an offer of representation was not forthcoming. They were right. (Unless you considered me a cohesive thread.) MOMoir was on its way out and since I didn’t have a substantial platform (shoes didn’t count) they weren’t confident my collection would sell. It was recommended I try to turn it into fiction.
At first I assumed they were being polite. Turn it into fiction sounded like agent code for don’t-call-us-we’ll-laugh-at-you-over-drinks. Besides, about a decade earlier I HAD tried fiction and while character—or more specifically voice, had landed on the page with somewhat ease, plot … not so much. Plot eluded me. I’d managed to create layered, vivid characters brimming with angst, but by page twenty or so I sensed something was missing and lost momentum. In hindsight, I see that I’d equated that which eluded me with that which was evidence of my inherent incompetence. The conclusion: I/m not a real writer.
And yet I continued to write. I figured fiction wasn’t my genre and stuck with true to life experiences. This was especially practical since my true to life experiences were busy being born. Four of them in six years. As you know, motherhood is (among many things) chock full of the necessary components that make a good story: compelling characters, conflicting needs, high stakes and endless obstacles and/or epiphanies. Additionally (don’t tell anyone) mothering young children could also be(at times) profoundly boring. And lonely. I mean juxtaposed between delicious burrito-baby snuggles and compelling conversations deconstructing Clifford the big red dog—one does a lot of wiping (noses, counters, backsides …), so in order not tolose my fucking mind to make sense of my world, I turned to the page.
Interestingly (perhaps only to me), during these years, I could no longer stomach reading fiction either. A lifelong lover of literary novels, I found I couldn’t bear to leave my reality for made-up worlds. I wanted truths. Not parenting-manual truths—those irked me. I yearned for the wise words of (m)others. I wanted to read some version of my story from another's telling. These musings were my mirrors. Echoes in reverse, if you will. And at the time, they were essential.
Years passed. My children got older. We all got older. I’d accumulated enough narrative pieces to query those aforementioned agents (and receive those aforementioned rejections).
And then a miracle happened.
Now if this was fiction, I’d set my miracle in Central Park. Or perhaps the scene could unfold in Lincoln Center as the main character arrives ten minutes into the first act. But this is not a novel (or a screenplay) and my miracle came via email. An agent who had already passed on my collection of essays wanted to know if I’d considered her suggestion and given a try at fiction. It occurred to me that if an agent suggests I attempt fiction—I should probably attempt fiction. I started my novel that day.
This time I went to the experts. Not only did I resume reading in the genre, I devoured books on plot and structure (and many more on the writing life). I learned that those nuanced characters swimming around in my unconscious needed to want something and it was my job to provide the obstacles until she either succeeded, or failed. This seemed manageable. This I could do.
So as I set out, here is what I knew: I wanted to write about an artist who wasn’t making art. I knew it should take place in New York City. I was determined to portray a long-term committed marriage that had a problem other than fidelity. Also, I wanted to illustrate the intricacies in women’s relationships with friends, mothers, nannies, mentors, bosses, colleagues, and daughters.
I also knew what I didn’t want. I didn’t want this to be a story about a woman whose husband and kids were the main hindrance to her owning her artist self. I didn’t want the solution to be that she just needed to set boundaries or find a metaphorical room (and money) of her own.
I looked to my own experience. Something profound had happened when that agent contacted me. My sudden confidence could better be understood in the context of my life—and not just my current-day married-mothering life. I figured the same context should be true for my main character. If I wanted my novel to be rich with meaning, her story needed to unfold over pivotal time periods in her life. I believe an artist neither suppresses nor unleashes her creativity in a vacuum. And this context—these influences and obstacles—I continue to find compelling.
Fast forward three years. Henny on the Couch comes out this April. (Interestingly, I ended up signing with a different agent.)
Which brings me to now. Today—the day my workshop piece is due. I guess the truth is this: I don’t have a narrative piece that I’d like to spend your time (the group’s time) or my time working on because I don’t want to write one. I already have an agent and a publisher who want to read what comes next. Which leads to this … what comes next?
I have a novel percolating. I am also in the thick of turning Henny on the Couch into a screenplay. I’m aware unknown novelists are discouraged from doing this—but having written and sold my novel, I no longer diminish my goals before attempting them.
I’m not sure how to use the workshop time but with four kids (now ages 9-15), a husband, a Bar Mitzvah less than a month away, marketing demands for Henny … time is a precious and scarce commodity. I need to refuel my writer’s self. I hope to spend some of the weekend digging into my screenplay. I would also like to give some much needed attention to the currently faint characters I hope will people my next novel.
There’s also this: I’m a for-real fan of your work—both memoir and fiction. I wept during Labor Day and At Home in the World resonated long after I read the last page. I imagine spending the weekend in your orbit and surrounded by other writers—will be plenty. Who knows? It might even be one of those life altering, memoir inspiring true-to-life experiences.
And if not, it doesn’t matter. There’s always fiction.
There are many reasons I’m not making the deadline to submit a memoir piece for the upcoming workshop. Perhaps most importantly is … I don’t have one. I mean, I have a few old narrative essays—some even garnered agents’ attention some years back, but the consensus was they lacked a cohesive thread and an offer of representation was not forthcoming. They were right. (Unless you considered me a cohesive thread.) MOMoir was on its way out and since I didn’t have a substantial platform (shoes didn’t count) they weren’t confident my collection would sell. It was recommended I try to turn it into fiction.
At first I assumed they were being polite. Turn it into fiction sounded like agent code for don’t-call-us-we’ll-laugh-at-you-over-drinks. Besides, about a decade earlier I HAD tried fiction and while character—or more specifically voice, had landed on the page with somewhat ease, plot … not so much. Plot eluded me. I’d managed to create layered, vivid characters brimming with angst, but by page twenty or so I sensed something was missing and lost momentum. In hindsight, I see that I’d equated that which eluded me with that which was evidence of my inherent incompetence. The conclusion: I/m not a real writer.
And yet I continued to write. I figured fiction wasn’t my genre and stuck with true to life experiences. This was especially practical since my true to life experiences were busy being born. Four of them in six years. As you know, motherhood is (among many things) chock full of the necessary components that make a good story: compelling characters, conflicting needs, high stakes and endless obstacles and/or epiphanies. Additionally (don’t tell anyone) mothering young children could also be(at times) profoundly boring. And lonely. I mean juxtaposed between delicious burrito-baby snuggles and compelling conversations deconstructing Clifford the big red dog—one does a lot of wiping (noses, counters, backsides …), so in order not to
Interestingly (perhaps only to me), during these years, I could no longer stomach reading fiction either. A lifelong lover of literary novels, I found I couldn’t bear to leave my reality for made-up worlds. I wanted truths. Not parenting-manual truths—those irked me. I yearned for the wise words of (m)others. I wanted to read some version of my story from another's telling. These musings were my mirrors. Echoes in reverse, if you will. And at the time, they were essential.
Years passed. My children got older. We all got older. I’d accumulated enough narrative pieces to query those aforementioned agents (and receive those aforementioned rejections).
And then a miracle happened.
Now if this was fiction, I’d set my miracle in Central Park. Or perhaps the scene could unfold in Lincoln Center as the main character arrives ten minutes into the first act. But this is not a novel (or a screenplay) and my miracle came via email. An agent who had already passed on my collection of essays wanted to know if I’d considered her suggestion and given a try at fiction. It occurred to me that if an agent suggests I attempt fiction—I should probably attempt fiction. I started my novel that day.
This time I went to the experts. Not only did I resume reading in the genre, I devoured books on plot and structure (and many more on the writing life). I learned that those nuanced characters swimming around in my unconscious needed to want something and it was my job to provide the obstacles until she either succeeded, or failed. This seemed manageable. This I could do.
So as I set out, here is what I knew: I wanted to write about an artist who wasn’t making art. I knew it should take place in New York City. I was determined to portray a long-term committed marriage that had a problem other than fidelity. Also, I wanted to illustrate the intricacies in women’s relationships with friends, mothers, nannies, mentors, bosses, colleagues, and daughters.
I also knew what I didn’t want. I didn’t want this to be a story about a woman whose husband and kids were the main hindrance to her owning her artist self. I didn’t want the solution to be that she just needed to set boundaries or find a metaphorical room (and money) of her own.
I looked to my own experience. Something profound had happened when that agent contacted me. My sudden confidence could better be understood in the context of my life—and not just my current-day married-mothering life. I figured the same context should be true for my main character. If I wanted my novel to be rich with meaning, her story needed to unfold over pivotal time periods in her life. I believe an artist neither suppresses nor unleashes her creativity in a vacuum. And this context—these influences and obstacles—I continue to find compelling.
Fast forward three years. Henny on the Couch comes out this April. (Interestingly, I ended up signing with a different agent.)
Which brings me to now. Today—the day my workshop piece is due. I guess the truth is this: I don’t have a narrative piece that I’d like to spend your time (the group’s time) or my time working on because I don’t want to write one. I already have an agent and a publisher who want to read what comes next. Which leads to this … what comes next?
I have a novel percolating. I am also in the thick of turning Henny on the Couch into a screenplay. I’m aware unknown novelists are discouraged from doing this—but having written and sold my novel, I no longer diminish my goals before attempting them.
I’m not sure how to use the workshop time but with four kids (now ages 9-15), a husband, a Bar Mitzvah less than a month away, marketing demands for Henny … time is a precious and scarce commodity. I need to refuel my writer’s self. I hope to spend some of the weekend digging into my screenplay. I would also like to give some much needed attention to the currently faint characters I hope will people my next novel.
There’s also this: I’m a for-real fan of your work—both memoir and fiction. I wept during Labor Day and At Home in the World resonated long after I read the last page. I imagine spending the weekend in your orbit and surrounded by other writers—will be plenty. Who knows? It might even be one of those life altering, memoir inspiring true-to-life experiences.
And if not, it doesn’t matter. There’s always fiction.
Monday, September 5, 2011
JC Penney: Where is your judgment?
I’m too pretty to do my homework … so my brother has to do it for me
I think JC Penney showed terrible judgment removing their controversial T-Shirt. I mean what kind of message does it send girls that JC Penney doesn’t think American girls are pretty enough to manipulate the men in their lives? I, for one, think it’s important girls feel empowered by a finely crafted ditzy persona, and if using their sassy-ness frees them up for more important things than education, I say bring on the Justin Bieber albums, pronto!
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Pros and Cons of Moving to Los Angeles
TEN REASONS NOT TO MOVE TO LOS ANGELES
10. ¾ of my kids are in schools that are perfect for them.
9. I'd have to pack.
8. I have a posse of NYC women who soothe my soul.
7. I swear too much for the west coast.
6. I don’t have ankles which rarely bothers me in NYC.
5. My kids would want to get driver’s licenses. Then they’d want to drive cars, probably.
4. The 405, the 101, the 10, Hollywood Blvd, Fairfax, Sunset …
3. What they call bagels are actually rolls with a hole in them.
2. Extended family wouldn’t be able to say “I’ll be right there” and vice versa.
1. I can’t handle the pressure (of remembering to bring my own bags to the grocery store).
TEN REASONS TO MOVE TO LOS ANGELES
10. Pulsing with inspiring, creative people.
9. Fact (no-one-knows-about-on-the-east-coast): You can wear jeans and sweaters in the summer.
8. We could get a dog.
7. And a house with a backyard—yet still be near art, restaurants and a creative industry.
6. Mitchell is more relaxed in L.A. (Interestingly, he is the least relaxed person in L.A.)
5. The kids would make new friends—then they’d be bi-coastal which is easier than being bi-lingual but still kind of cool.
4. The architecture and design are phenomenal.
3. The Pacific Ocean, Santa Monica Mts., near: Big Sur, SF, Seattle, Vegas, San Diego, Portland, etc.
2. A sense of adventure (meeting new people, discovering new places …).
1. This makes no sense. Totally stupid to even CONTEMPLATE! We’re NEW YORKERS. Stop this nonsense right now. Forgetaboutit.
10. ¾ of my kids are in schools that are perfect for them.
9. I'd have to pack.
8. I have a posse of NYC women who soothe my soul.
7. I swear too much for the west coast.
6. I don’t have ankles which rarely bothers me in NYC.
5. My kids would want to get driver’s licenses. Then they’d want to drive cars, probably.
4. The 405, the 101, the 10, Hollywood Blvd, Fairfax, Sunset …
3. What they call bagels are actually rolls with a hole in them.
2. Extended family wouldn’t be able to say “I’ll be right there” and vice versa.
1. I can’t handle the pressure (of remembering to bring my own bags to the grocery store).
TEN REASONS TO MOVE TO LOS ANGELES
10. Pulsing with inspiring, creative people.
9. Fact (no-one-knows-about-on-the-east-coast): You can wear jeans and sweaters in the summer.
8. We could get a dog.
7. And a house with a backyard—yet still be near art, restaurants and a creative industry.
6. Mitchell is more relaxed in L.A. (Interestingly, he is the least relaxed person in L.A.)
5. The kids would make new friends—then they’d be bi-coastal which is easier than being bi-lingual but still kind of cool.
4. The architecture and design are phenomenal.
3. The Pacific Ocean, Santa Monica Mts., near: Big Sur, SF, Seattle, Vegas, San Diego, Portland, etc.
2. A sense of adventure (meeting new people, discovering new places …).
1. This makes no sense. Totally stupid to even CONTEMPLATE! We’re NEW YORKERS. Stop this nonsense right now. Forgetaboutit.
Friday, May 6, 2011
What's all this talk about Twitter? ... Oh. Never Mind
Since many of the people who read my blog (Mom) are not on twitter, I thought I would cut and paste a bunch of my tweets for all of you (Mom) to get a feel for what this social media twitter thing is that all the kids have been talking about. (And by kids, I mean--for example--all those wacky Egyptian revolutionaries or those crazy jokesters who broke that Bin Laden tidbit a few days ago before any of the networks could say, we interrupt this episode of The Apprentice ...)
Please note, when words are preceded by this # it's sort of a symbol for a clever joke or sarcasm.
Now then, shall we?
I'd be remiss if I didn't admit that I enjoyed Lady Di's wedding. I'd be remiss if I didn't admit I just googled 'remiss, definition of'
Lucky 2 catch @RaeMeadows read novel MOTHERS&DAUGHTERS-Then I devoured 1st chapter over wonton soup #Gr8Nite @ElisabethWeed @Darinstrauss
Today I scootered w/ my girls to the orthodontist, yogurt shop & library. Yeah. I was that mom.
I give great bread #PassoverPorn
Talking to my girls about how much i love them Kid1-Some people don't even HAVE a mom or dad Kid2-Yeah, some people just hv a mom & a donor
Just heard vaguely upsetting news & now I'm trying to decide if I want to talk to a real friend, twitter or my mother.
HARD NIPPLES is what I used to call my Bubby! It's like her ghost is communicating via twitter trends-Which is totally NOT plausible. Right?
I need a vacation. That, or 25 people coming for Passover on Monday. #SayWhat? #Seder
I just deposited the last of my 'Advance' for HENNY ON THE COUCH Wonder if I'll ever feel as proud of the $ as I do of my agent's masthead
Loved Sheri Holman WITCHES on the ROAD Tea Obreht TIGERSWIFE RulaJebreal MIRAL& @AlisonEspach THE ADULTS last nite @KGBbar @Behind_the_Book
PaySuck, repeat #PassoverPorn
Hard(matzo)Balls #PassoverPorn
The theoretical--invite 25 people for Passover Seder--got real today. Excited.
The lost 14 yr old boy in NYC was found alive (but shaken) I don't know any other details
It's hard to plan a Seder while reading Good Squad every spare minute. Fuck the brisket. (At least that's what my Bubby always used to say.)
To fix a terrible haircut I went too short. Husband said he liked&then asked if I did. I told him I respected it He walked away laughing.
@KateAurthur That Rob Lowe cover grosses me out. An example of bad-naked, albeit an idealized male form. I prefer imperfection.
@syntactics spoiler alert-but my favorite life of Pi sentence (in the context of all the other sentences) ... The ship sank.
@fuggirls Oh dear God, Please *please* let's not diss THAT WOMAN. Donna Tripp-yes. ML, no
Twitter has taught me this: mothers who are famous cherish each moment with their delightful children. I'm happy for them.
i explained to kids why tgiFridays in an airport is fine- In union square-hells no
I release the filth of these sidewalks-dogshit/vomit/piss/butts/goobers &litter in favor of the heaven that is this William Fitzsommons song
My teen son has a mannish body. I paused uncertain what to add ... ... And now I'm weeping.
Un-solace-it-id-man-you-scripts-will-not-b-red
It's like I'm in a twilight zone. Just misread a massive billboard for vitamin water. Thought 'revive' was REWRITE
Is it me, or do #TheFooFighters sound like Rush?
RLSoo Rebecca Land Soodak
I think it's best for all involved if I wear my comfy jeans
Gonna shake things up this Passover & hide the QADAFFI-KOMMEN ... & when the kids try to sell it back we'll gang-rape em @SarahKSilverman
If one pays 100$/ticket 4 UNTREATED bipolar/addict/woman-abusing/unmedicated/narcissist-h/she might b part of the problem @Justin_Stangel
I just read NYT article on Cathie Black chancellor ousting-I can't BELIEVE they didnt mention her YouTube Friday vid. Fucking dinosaurs.
The Unbearable Lengthiness of Being in the Movie Theater#unnecessarysequels
A Tale of Two Sex in the Cities #unnecessarysequels
The Pursuit of Happy Gilmore #unnecessarysequels
Im pretty sure Epsom salt was my Bubby's aphrodisiac (And now I feel a sense of unresolved loss tinged with nausea.)
@Sirenland @mcnallyjackson Like a wise, aging caterpillar keeping his nose company. Nice, in these uncertain times.
Ass-Over #PassoverPorn &/or #sheenshow
Skank Bone #PassoverPorn
The laying of the first-born son #PassoverPorn
SExodus
Bitter Whores #PassoverPorn
Next Year In ... Jerlissa #PassoverPorn
The Parting of Her Red C #PassoverPorn
My Burning Bush #PassoverPorn
I'm concerned there might be a gefilte-fish smack-down involving my mother & Aunt. I'm not gonna lie-I'm frightened. #Passover
Wait, did CathieBlack get canned because of that Friday song?
Damn-I hate being wrong.
I would really like to see Sheldon and Blossom do the nah-nah. Like on one of those adult channels. #TheBiggestBang#CantTakeItMuchLonger
I am dubious that these brownies will do much for Japan, but I'm a team player.
Two Independent bookstores on UES are out of Bossypants and admit to only buying a few copies. This reflects a disconnect, I think.
@GCPeditor @mitch_hoffman @grandcentralpub Good. Because ALL editors need and deserve an assistant! (Seriously)
@bnreviewer Yeah, that's 2012.
@bnreviewer Mine's coming! Henny On the Couch-Spring 2013 GrandCentral It's Bright LightsBig City from an UES feminist/artist's persp. kinda
the norm for acceptable table switching varies In LA-once, maybe-and only if you have a penis. In NYC? Who gives a shit?
After sitting a table away from Duchovny I'm left w/ this: our not fucking might be due to more than proximity. Possibly.
Please note, when words are preceded by this # it's sort of a symbol for a clever joke or sarcasm.
Now then, shall we?
I'd be remiss if I didn't admit that I enjoyed Lady Di's wedding. I'd be remiss if I didn't admit I just googled 'remiss, definition of'
Lucky 2 catch @RaeMeadows read novel MOTHERS&DAUGHTERS-Then I devoured 1st chapter over wonton soup #Gr8Nite @ElisabethWeed @Darinstrauss
Today I scootered w/ my girls to the orthodontist, yogurt shop & library. Yeah. I was that mom.
I give great bread #PassoverPorn
Talking to my girls about how much i love them Kid1-Some people don't even HAVE a mom or dad Kid2-Yeah, some people just hv a mom & a donor
Just heard vaguely upsetting news & now I'm trying to decide if I want to talk to a real friend, twitter or my mother.
HARD NIPPLES is what I used to call my Bubby! It's like her ghost is communicating via twitter trends-Which is totally NOT plausible. Right?
I need a vacation. That, or 25 people coming for Passover on Monday. #SayWhat? #Seder
I just deposited the last of my 'Advance' for HENNY ON THE COUCH Wonder if I'll ever feel as proud of the $ as I do of my agent's masthead
Loved Sheri Holman WITCHES on the ROAD Tea Obreht TIGERSWIFE RulaJebreal MIRAL& @AlisonEspach THE ADULTS last nite @KGBbar @Behind_the_Book
PaySuck, repeat #PassoverPorn
Hard(matzo)Balls #PassoverPorn
The theoretical--invite 25 people for Passover Seder--got real today. Excited.
The lost 14 yr old boy in NYC was found alive (but shaken) I don't know any other details
It's hard to plan a Seder while reading Good Squad every spare minute. Fuck the brisket. (At least that's what my Bubby always used to say.)
To fix a terrible haircut I went too short. Husband said he liked&then asked if I did. I told him I respected it He walked away laughing.
@KateAurthur That Rob Lowe cover grosses me out. An example of bad-naked, albeit an idealized male form. I prefer imperfection.
@syntactics spoiler alert-but my favorite life of Pi sentence (in the context of all the other sentences) ... The ship sank.
@fuggirls Oh dear God, Please *please* let's not diss THAT WOMAN. Donna Tripp-yes. ML, no
Twitter has taught me this: mothers who are famous cherish each moment with their delightful children. I'm happy for them.
i explained to kids why tgiFridays in an airport is fine- In union square-hells no
I release the filth of these sidewalks-dogshit/vomit/piss/butts/goobers &litter in favor of the heaven that is this William Fitzsommons song
My teen son has a mannish body. I paused uncertain what to add ... ... And now I'm weeping.
Un-solace-it-id-man-you-scripts-will-not-b-red
It's like I'm in a twilight zone. Just misread a massive billboard for vitamin water. Thought 'revive' was REWRITE
Is it me, or do #TheFooFighters sound like Rush?
RLSoo Rebecca Land Soodak
I think it's best for all involved if I wear my comfy jeans
Gonna shake things up this Passover & hide the QADAFFI-KOMMEN ... & when the kids try to sell it back we'll gang-rape em @SarahKSilverman
If one pays 100$/ticket 4 UNTREATED bipolar/addict/woman-abusing/unmedicated/narcissist-h/she might b part of the problem @Justin_Stangel
I just read NYT article on Cathie Black chancellor ousting-I can't BELIEVE they didnt mention her YouTube Friday vid. Fucking dinosaurs.
The Unbearable Lengthiness of Being in the Movie Theater#unnecessarysequels
A Tale of Two Sex in the Cities #unnecessarysequels
The Pursuit of Happy Gilmore #unnecessarysequels
Im pretty sure Epsom salt was my Bubby's aphrodisiac (And now I feel a sense of unresolved loss tinged with nausea.)
@Sirenland @mcnallyjackson Like a wise, aging caterpillar keeping his nose company. Nice, in these uncertain times.
Ass-Over #PassoverPorn &/or #sheenshow
Skank Bone #PassoverPorn
The laying of the first-born son #PassoverPorn
SExodus
Bitter Whores #PassoverPorn
Next Year In ... Jerlissa #PassoverPorn
The Parting of Her Red C #PassoverPorn
My Burning Bush #PassoverPorn
I'm concerned there might be a gefilte-fish smack-down involving my mother & Aunt. I'm not gonna lie-I'm frightened. #Passover
Wait, did CathieBlack get canned because of that Friday song?
Damn-I hate being wrong.
I would really like to see Sheldon and Blossom do the nah-nah. Like on one of those adult channels. #TheBiggestBang#CantTakeItMuchLonger
I am dubious that these brownies will do much for Japan, but I'm a team player.
Two Independent bookstores on UES are out of Bossypants and admit to only buying a few copies. This reflects a disconnect, I think.
@GCPeditor @mitch_hoffman @grandcentralpub Good. Because ALL editors need and deserve an assistant! (Seriously)
@bnreviewer Yeah, that's 2012.
@bnreviewer Mine's coming! Henny On the Couch-Spring 2013 GrandCentral It's Bright LightsBig City from an UES feminist/artist's persp. kinda
the norm for acceptable table switching varies In LA-once, maybe-and only if you have a penis. In NYC? Who gives a shit?
After sitting a table away from Duchovny I'm left w/ this: our not fucking might be due to more than proximity. Possibly.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
My Next Project
Confession: I have not started my next project.
I want to start my next project. I am trying to start my next project. I am confident I will at some point start my next project ... but, alas, I have not started my next project.
Some would say this is a time of grappling and inquiry and in fact it is this act of not yet knowing that marks the beginning of the process. I agree with this sentiment—that a period of uncertainty tinged with yearning is part of the process; however, it is not what I mean when referring to my next project. I don’t want to be wrestling; I want to be writing.
For one thing, writing fiction is a terrific escape and though I have a fantastic life (and for the most part, have always had a fantastic life) I’ve also always been keen on escaping reality and what better way to alter one’s mood than to create a world of others? All I have to do is create compelling characters and give them something to long for, throw in an obstacle or two and voila: hours, days, months go by where I’m (checked out) writing.
I don’t mean to suggest that writing is my crack. It’s more that (at the risk of sounding new-agey) in order to feel like myself (dare I say—my best self?) I need to be immersed in a creative endeavor. Like, daily. And when that creative endeavor is flowing—the feeling is …
Actually, what is the feeling? I struggle to find the word. Sated. Resolute. Relieved. Proud. Thankful.
Damn. No wonder (writing is my crack) I can’t wait to get back to work in earnest.
I mean, I loved writing Henny on the Couch. Except when I fucking hated it. But for now, I only want to think about the good ol’ days. The days when any responsibility other than writing felt like an imposition instead of relief. The days when I closed my eyes and asked myself, what should happen next, and the answer materialized: an autumn walk in Central Park, or chocolate pudding at Ponderosa, or crisp chips in green bowls, or Balduccis in the 80s or Amway in the 70s or the night Andy Warhol died … and before I knew it, I’d written a book.
A book.
So yes, I want to recreate that love affair that is creative-orderly-direction.
The thing is, unlike with Henny on the Couch, I’m not sure of the story I want to tell. Or the characters, let alone other details like tense or point of view.
So, in the meantime, I keep busy. I read—devouring the art of other (poor bastards) writers who managed to put pen to paper. Exercise helps too. Besides, it’s an opportunity to reconnect with family—I’m trying to be a better parent (more patient, attentive) and wife (more patient, attentive).
And I’m sure this is part of the writing process. Certainly if I wrote one novel, I’ll be able to do it again. (Maybe not. What if I can’t? I knew it was beginner’s luck.) Yes. I’m sure in no time, a character will present herself and I’ll be back on the literary beam.
And if not—well, there’s always twitter.
I want to start my next project. I am trying to start my next project. I am confident I will at some point start my next project ... but, alas, I have not started my next project.
Some would say this is a time of grappling and inquiry and in fact it is this act of not yet knowing that marks the beginning of the process. I agree with this sentiment—that a period of uncertainty tinged with yearning is part of the process; however, it is not what I mean when referring to my next project. I don’t want to be wrestling; I want to be writing.
For one thing, writing fiction is a terrific escape and though I have a fantastic life (and for the most part, have always had a fantastic life) I’ve also always been keen on escaping reality and what better way to alter one’s mood than to create a world of others? All I have to do is create compelling characters and give them something to long for, throw in an obstacle or two and voila: hours, days, months go by where I’m (checked out) writing.
I don’t mean to suggest that writing is my crack. It’s more that (at the risk of sounding new-agey) in order to feel like myself (dare I say—my best self?) I need to be immersed in a creative endeavor. Like, daily. And when that creative endeavor is flowing—the feeling is …
Actually, what is the feeling? I struggle to find the word. Sated. Resolute. Relieved. Proud. Thankful.
Damn. No wonder (writing is my crack) I can’t wait to get back to work in earnest.
I mean, I loved writing Henny on the Couch. Except when I fucking hated it. But for now, I only want to think about the good ol’ days. The days when any responsibility other than writing felt like an imposition instead of relief. The days when I closed my eyes and asked myself, what should happen next, and the answer materialized: an autumn walk in Central Park, or chocolate pudding at Ponderosa, or crisp chips in green bowls, or Balduccis in the 80s or Amway in the 70s or the night Andy Warhol died … and before I knew it, I’d written a book.
A book.
So yes, I want to recreate that love affair that is creative-orderly-direction.
The thing is, unlike with Henny on the Couch, I’m not sure of the story I want to tell. Or the characters, let alone other details like tense or point of view.
So, in the meantime, I keep busy. I read—devouring the art of other (poor bastards) writers who managed to put pen to paper. Exercise helps too. Besides, it’s an opportunity to reconnect with family—I’m trying to be a better parent (more patient, attentive) and wife (more patient, attentive).
And I’m sure this is part of the writing process. Certainly if I wrote one novel, I’ll be able to do it again. (Maybe not. What if I can’t? I knew it was beginner’s luck.) Yes. I’m sure in no time, a character will present herself and I’ll be back on the literary beam.
And if not—well, there’s always twitter.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
We Love Charlie Sheen
I am concerned about Charlie Sheen. Sure, there are other things going on in the world—a revolution in Egypt, stonings in Afghanistan, narcissistic judges who want to do away with healthcare reform. But it is Charlie Sheen that keeps me up a night.
For those of you off-the-grid-anti-tech-neophytes: here are some Charlie Sheen tidbits.
He stars on CBS’s Two and a Half Men.
He’s the highest paid actor on TV.
He has a drug and alcohol problem.
Oh, and he assaults women. (More than once.) (Weapons have been involved.)
I’m not sure if Mr. Sheen has been under-the-influence every time he’s been violent, but I think it’s safe to say—the drugs and booze don’t help.
Which is why I would like to assist Charlie. But since Mr. Sheen is a famous addict—I’ve taken a few liberties with the Twelve Steps. I hope he finds solace in the recovery process.
The Twelve Steps (for Charlie Sheen)
Step 1: Admitted he was powerless over his erection & his wife had become unmanageable
Step 2: Came to believe there was NO power greater than himself.
Step 3: Made a decision to turn his will and his life over to the care of CBS network
Step 4: Made a searching and fearless more-whore inventory of himself
Step 5: Admitted to God, to himself and another human being the exact nature of his wrongs & then paid to destroy the evidence
Step 6: Entirely ready to have God remove mandatory sentencing.
Step 7: Humbly asked her not to press charges
Step 8: Made a list of all persons he'd harmed—except for the ones with vaginas, ‘cause those bitches don't count
Step 9: Made direct amends to such people whenever possible except when to do so required admission of any wrong doing
Step 10: Continued to take anything he wanted & when wrong promptly pummeled her
Step 11: Sought through prayer and self-prescribed medication to improve next year’s contract
Step12: Having had habitual rapening as result of these steps—he carried the message that bad-boy Actors can get away with anything
We love you, Charlie. Keep coming back.
For those of you off-the-grid-anti-tech-neophytes: here are some Charlie Sheen tidbits.
He stars on CBS’s Two and a Half Men.
He’s the highest paid actor on TV.
He has a drug and alcohol problem.
Oh, and he assaults women. (More than once.) (Weapons have been involved.)
I’m not sure if Mr. Sheen has been under-the-influence every time he’s been violent, but I think it’s safe to say—the drugs and booze don’t help.
Which is why I would like to assist Charlie. But since Mr. Sheen is a famous addict—I’ve taken a few liberties with the Twelve Steps. I hope he finds solace in the recovery process.
The Twelve Steps (for Charlie Sheen)
Step 1: Admitted he was powerless over his erection & his wife had become unmanageable
Step 2: Came to believe there was NO power greater than himself.
Step 3: Made a decision to turn his will and his life over to the care of CBS network
Step 4: Made a searching and fearless more-whore inventory of himself
Step 5: Admitted to God, to himself and another human being the exact nature of his wrongs & then paid to destroy the evidence
Step 6: Entirely ready to have God remove mandatory sentencing.
Step 7: Humbly asked her not to press charges
Step 8: Made a list of all persons he'd harmed—except for the ones with vaginas, ‘cause those bitches don't count
Step 9: Made direct amends to such people whenever possible except when to do so required admission of any wrong doing
Step 10: Continued to take anything he wanted & when wrong promptly pummeled her
Step 11: Sought through prayer and self-prescribed medication to improve next year’s contract
Step12: Having had habitual rapening as result of these steps—he carried the message that bad-boy Actors can get away with anything
We love you, Charlie. Keep coming back.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Who You Calling Chinese?
I don’t want to write about The Chinese Mother. Not tonight. I’m too tired. And I doubt I could contribute anything meaningful to the virtual conversation anyway. Some people are meant to be on the sidelines. Me for instance.
Plus, in a few minutes, (after I’m done not responding to this Parenting tome on how to rear perfect prodigies), I’m heading to the livingroom to watch Parenthood, The Good Mother and/or Modern Family with my husband and two sons. Tortilla chips will be involved. We will all stay up far too late and there is an excellent chance there will be swearing (me) and regrettably—farting (them).
I am not certain either son has completed his homework despite several earlier discussions. Allow me to include a little snippet that illustrates my parenting style. I think it might be useful here. You know, to clarify my philosophical approach to rearing the legacies I bestow on our future generation. (You’re welcome, by the way.)
Me: Did you do your homework?
Boy: Yes
Me: raises eyebrow
Boy: Most of it, anyway
Me: Jesus Christ (I find prayer an excellent parenting technique with gifted children) I’ve been reminding you all friggin day. (Curse you snowday) I swear, if I have to tell you one more time I’m taking that computer away.
Boy: But I need it for school
Me: Don’t be smart.
Boy: (mumbling) Well, I do.
Me: Then I’ll take that game you like to play
Boy: You can’t. It’s an internet based game
Me: (I momentarily lose ability to formulate a sentence because I’m not sure how to say, oh yeah? Wanna watch me Mr. Smarty Pants! I’ll hack into your account. So help me god, I will.
Boy: Besides, I only have a little bit left
Me: Oh. Well … go do it.
Boy: Ok. I will. In a sec.
I’m not sure how this exchange ended. Maybe I got a phonecall. Tough to say. But the point is, it’s essential I take a stand when it comes to my child’s education. I mean, if not me … who?
That’s why I’m going to make certain I discuss this during the commercials.
Shit. DVR. Well, I’m going to make sure we discuss it while we debate the pros and cons to watching Modern Family BEFORE The Good Wife. There is an art to this sort of decision and my husband and I like to give our children the opportunity to express themselves. (Though it is unspoken that my husband will trust my parenting prowess, should there be a tie.) Still it’s a worthwhile exercise, I think.
Okay, like I said, I’m exhausted. Short blog post for me. Probably won’t even proof-read it.
I guess you could say, NOT proofing this post is a perfect incapsulation (pretty sure that’s not a word, but stay with me here) of my parenting philosophy. You see, (and I feel very strongly about this) I think it is essential one MUST do very important things in a half-assed sort of way. I mean, and I hope I’ve taught my children this … the imperativeness (not really the right word, but fuck it) of imperfection cannot be underestimated.
Said another way, almost good enough is better than nothing.
Maybe.
Plus, in a few minutes, (after I’m done not responding to this Parenting tome on how to rear perfect prodigies), I’m heading to the livingroom to watch Parenthood, The Good Mother and/or Modern Family with my husband and two sons. Tortilla chips will be involved. We will all stay up far too late and there is an excellent chance there will be swearing (me) and regrettably—farting (them).
I am not certain either son has completed his homework despite several earlier discussions. Allow me to include a little snippet that illustrates my parenting style. I think it might be useful here. You know, to clarify my philosophical approach to rearing the legacies I bestow on our future generation. (You’re welcome, by the way.)
Me: Did you do your homework?
Boy: Yes
Me: raises eyebrow
Boy: Most of it, anyway
Me: Jesus Christ (I find prayer an excellent parenting technique with gifted children) I’ve been reminding you all friggin day. (Curse you snowday) I swear, if I have to tell you one more time I’m taking that computer away.
Boy: But I need it for school
Me: Don’t be smart.
Boy: (mumbling) Well, I do.
Me: Then I’ll take that game you like to play
Boy: You can’t. It’s an internet based game
Me: (I momentarily lose ability to formulate a sentence because I’m not sure how to say, oh yeah? Wanna watch me Mr. Smarty Pants! I’ll hack into your account
Boy: Besides, I only have a little bit left
Me: Oh. Well … go do it.
Boy: Ok. I will. In a sec.
I’m not sure how this exchange ended. Maybe I got a phonecall. Tough to say. But the point is, it’s essential I take a stand when it comes to my child’s education. I mean, if not me … who?
That’s why I’m going to make certain I discuss this during the commercials.
Shit. DVR. Well, I’m going to make sure we discuss it while we debate the pros and cons to watching Modern Family BEFORE The Good Wife. There is an art to this sort of decision and my husband and I like to give our children the opportunity to express themselves. (Though it is unspoken that my husband will trust my parenting prowess, should there be a tie.) Still it’s a worthwhile exercise, I think.
Okay, like I said, I’m exhausted. Short blog post for me. Probably won’t even proof-read it.
I guess you could say, NOT proofing this post is a perfect incapsulation (pretty sure that’s not a word, but stay with me here) of my parenting philosophy. You see, (and I feel very strongly about this) I think it is essential one MUST do very important things in a half-assed sort of way. I mean, and I hope I’ve taught my children this … the imperativeness (not really the right word, but fuck it) of imperfection cannot be underestimated.
Said another way, almost good enough is better than nothing.
Maybe.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
I Hate-Youville
I’ve had an epiphany: Motherhood is traumatic. I don’t mean the act of giving birth, I mean MOTHERHOOD. Before I explain—a caveat for those who might take me words out of context. Real trauma=BAD. Motherhood=GOOD.
Now then.
First, let us look at the criteria of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Apparently, it’s necessary to have difficulty in three categories. The recurrent re-experiencing of the trauma, avoidance to the point of phobia and Chronic Physical signs of hyper-arousal. For the purpose of my epiphany, let us focus on the last category: hyper-arousal.
Prior to motherhood, hyper-arousal probably conjured up a whole other set of symptoms—moist, gooey, can’t wait to get back to his apartment symptoms. But not so with PTSD (Post TrauMAMA Stress Disorder). In fact, let us go to DSM description of hyper-arousal.
Chronic physical signs of hyper-arousal include sleep problems, trouble concentrating, irritability, anger, poor concentration, blackouts or difficulty remembering things, increased tendency and reaction to being startled, and hyper-vigilance (excessive watchfulness) to threat.
Hmmmm. Let’s see, sleep problems? Check. Trouble concentrating? Check. Irritability? What the hell are you looking at? Can’t I get some goddamned peace around here!?
Where was I? Ah yes, the symptoms of debilitating PTSD. For shorthand, let’s just call it another day in I-Hate-Youville.
I guess I must have remembered the physical manifestation of PTSD from my prior life as a psychotherapist, because the other night, as I lay peacefully in bed awaiting sister sleep to greet me, I pondered why I’d accomplished so few items on my to do list during the lovely ten days known as Winter Break. I mean, my children aren’t babies anymore. Why did I find it so difficult to read a novel (let alone write one) or return emails or say, think with my kids in the next room. After all, I’d been looking forward to working on that photo album from my son’s Bar Mitzvah two October’s ago, and I’d every intention of perusing the three different school calendars in order to research a jaunt this spring. (Let alone the whole summer camp situation.) Why was I having such a hard time concentrating on very basic tasks?
And then two thoughts came to me at precisely the same moment! One, I’ve been hyper-aware all week because at any moment there is an excellent chance one of my monkeys will enter my psychic space and need something: gloves, dinner, assistance drying off the remote that a certain someone just licked … and Two, it’s 1:15 AM and I’m fairly confident that I hear I’m On A Boat coming from across the hall even though I specifically said YOU MAY CHARGE YOUR COMPUTER BUT DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES TURN IT BACK ON SO HELP ME GOD. This is when I gracefully got out of bed and sauntered into the boys’ room and yanked the computer away from the magnetic charger (which is actually a very cool feature; yay Apple) and said through gritted teeth, if we don’t have trust we don’t have much-Mr. Or maybe it was, you fucking ingrate go to bed. Details. Anyhoo, after hiding the computer under my dirty laundry newspaper, I got back into bed and returned to my next comforting thought: Monday will be here soon.
And then I remembered … professional development day, AKA for two of my kids school wouldn’t resume until Tuesday. Fabulous.
Now then.
First, let us look at the criteria of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Apparently, it’s necessary to have difficulty in three categories. The recurrent re-experiencing of the trauma, avoidance to the point of phobia and Chronic Physical signs of hyper-arousal. For the purpose of my epiphany, let us focus on the last category: hyper-arousal.
Prior to motherhood, hyper-arousal probably conjured up a whole other set of symptoms—moist, gooey, can’t wait to get back to his apartment symptoms. But not so with PTSD (Post TrauMAMA Stress Disorder). In fact, let us go to DSM description of hyper-arousal.
Chronic physical signs of hyper-arousal include sleep problems, trouble concentrating, irritability, anger, poor concentration, blackouts or difficulty remembering things, increased tendency and reaction to being startled, and hyper-vigilance (excessive watchfulness) to threat.
Hmmmm. Let’s see, sleep problems? Check. Trouble concentrating? Check. Irritability? What the hell are you looking at? Can’t I get some goddamned peace around here!?
Where was I? Ah yes, the symptoms of debilitating PTSD. For shorthand, let’s just call it another day in I-Hate-Youville.
I guess I must have remembered the physical manifestation of PTSD from my prior life as a psychotherapist, because the other night, as I lay peacefully in bed awaiting sister sleep to greet me, I pondered why I’d accomplished so few items on my to do list during the lovely ten days known as Winter Break. I mean, my children aren’t babies anymore. Why did I find it so difficult to read a novel (let alone write one) or return emails or say, think with my kids in the next room. After all, I’d been looking forward to working on that photo album from my son’s Bar Mitzvah two October’s ago, and I’d every intention of perusing the three different school calendars in order to research a jaunt this spring. (Let alone the whole summer camp situation.) Why was I having such a hard time concentrating on very basic tasks?
And then two thoughts came to me at precisely the same moment! One, I’ve been hyper-aware all week because at any moment there is an excellent chance one of my monkeys will enter my psychic space and need something: gloves, dinner, assistance drying off the remote that a certain someone just licked … and Two, it’s 1:15 AM and I’m fairly confident that I hear I’m On A Boat coming from across the hall even though I specifically said YOU MAY CHARGE YOUR COMPUTER BUT DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES TURN IT BACK ON SO HELP ME GOD. This is when I gracefully got out of bed and sauntered into the boys’ room and yanked the computer away from the magnetic charger (which is actually a very cool feature; yay Apple) and said through gritted teeth, if we don’t have trust we don’t have much-Mr. Or maybe it was, you fucking ingrate go to bed. Details. Anyhoo, after hiding the computer under my dirty laundry newspaper, I got back into bed and returned to my next comforting thought: Monday will be here soon.
And then I remembered … professional development day, AKA for two of my kids school wouldn’t resume until Tuesday. Fabulous.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Thanks 2010. Really.
I am not a New Year’s Resolution kind of person. Like most people who work hard at being unique—I tend to avoid activities that appeal to the masses. See also—The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and necklaces with charms that represent one’s children.
Also, I’ve given up my share of bad habits, so for me, any day I’m not smoking crack* is considered a good day. And by good day, I mean, a day where I don’t have to vow to eat more roughage or increase my exercise.
You see, I used to spend much time, energy, and $ trying to improve myself. I guess I got to a point where acceptance and self-love became my goal. Varicose veins? Bring ‘em on. Bitchy to my husband? Who isn’t. I mean, I consider the trade off with aging is, I give up perky as a personal adjective, but I gain composure. The kind of poise that comes when one knows and accepts one’s self. Even the messy parts.
Said another way, I fear, for me, it’s a slippery slope from promises for self-improvement to self-flagellation; thus, I choose—take me as I am. A hot-tempered, impulsive, Oreo eating, inconsistent exerciser, who can’t fold fitted sheets for shit … You get the picture.
Although—if I were to make PRETEND resolutions … hypothetically speaking, my list would probably look like this:
Cook more healthful meals for Mitchell and the kids
When I feel over-stimulated by the demands of certain humans, replace that yelling strategy I’ve honed so well, with an entirely different approach. Like deep breaths. Or reason.
Read more to my girls, while they’ll still let me.
Turn off the TV for certain humans, since it appears that they lack the ability to do so, which is actually sort of sad.
Engage in anonymous acts of kindness.
Blog more than 6/year.
Stay away from online scrabble.
Eat more roughage.
Exercise.
Read minimum of 7 hours/week
Call my father more often.
Ditto for sister.
Complain less.
Stop bossing certain humans. Even when he’s driving.
Restraint or pen, tongue and SEND.
Take less cabs.
Remember how grateful I am.
Express love.
Oh yeah, and write every day
In closing, I will say two things: I wish you and yours a very Happy New Year and—*I never smoked crack.
Also, I’ve given up my share of bad habits, so for me, any day I’m not smoking crack* is considered a good day. And by good day, I mean, a day where I don’t have to vow to eat more roughage or increase my exercise.
You see, I used to spend much time, energy, and $ trying to improve myself. I guess I got to a point where acceptance and self-love became my goal. Varicose veins? Bring ‘em on. Bitchy to my husband? Who isn’t. I mean, I consider the trade off with aging is, I give up perky as a personal adjective, but I gain composure. The kind of poise that comes when one knows and accepts one’s self. Even the messy parts.
Said another way, I fear, for me, it’s a slippery slope from promises for self-improvement to self-flagellation; thus, I choose—take me as I am. A hot-tempered, impulsive, Oreo eating, inconsistent exerciser, who can’t fold fitted sheets for shit … You get the picture.
Although—if I were to make PRETEND resolutions … hypothetically speaking, my list would probably look like this:
Cook more healthful meals for Mitchell and the kids
When I feel over-stimulated by the demands of certain humans, replace that yelling strategy I’ve honed so well, with an entirely different approach. Like deep breaths. Or reason.
Read more to my girls, while they’ll still let me.
Turn off the TV for certain humans, since it appears that they lack the ability to do so, which is actually sort of sad.
Engage in anonymous acts of kindness.
Blog more than 6/year.
Stay away from online scrabble.
Eat more roughage.
Exercise.
Read minimum of 7 hours/week
Call my father more often.
Ditto for sister.
Complain less.
Stop bossing certain humans. Even when he’s driving.
Restraint or pen, tongue and SEND.
Take less cabs.
Remember how grateful I am.
Express love.
Oh yeah, and write every day
In closing, I will say two things: I wish you and yours a very Happy New Year and—*I never smoked crack.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Fear of Blog
I feel like I've just gotten out of a long relationship, and I'm a little squirelly about dating again. (I did not get out of a long relationship. I'm very happily married.) Should I really write a blog post? What if I don't feel like it tomorrow? Then I'll feel all sorts of pressure, and then where will I be?
Also, my fourth child just came into my office and said, "I want to cuddle you so much."
Sorry blogosphere. My heart is somewhere else.
Also, my fourth child just came into my office and said, "I want to cuddle you so much."
Sorry blogosphere. My heart is somewhere else.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Language as a family experience
Is it June already?
My last post was in early April. I will spare you the phony self deprecating b.s. and say this: I worked my butt off on those darned revisions.
Which brings me to my point.
Swearing.
And how I have got to cut that mess out. I mean, over the weekend, a certain seven year old I know said to her sister, "That sucks ass." And while I do not condone blaming one's mother ad nauseum, I take full responsibility for my offspring's potty mouth. I get it. We reap what we sow. The apple and the whole tree thing. Monkey see, monkey blah blah blah.
Here is the problem. Swearing is so goshdarned necesary for a woman like me. First of all, it's ahem, making love funny. I think in part because the unexpected often is, and when a petite-mother of four-lady such as myself (stop laughing female dogs) sprinkles her discourse with a four letter word every now and then -- the result can be comical. And, well, let's just say, I'm a comedy lady of the evening. I will alter the truth (see best of craigslist) if it ups the funny factor. And, swearing often does just that.
But there's more.
Anger. Let's not forget that pesty emotion. Because, this little lady (insert evil laugh here) has a temper, and when a certain someone spills vitamin water (vitamin water, what the making love?)all over the couch where he/she is not allowed to consume anything other than saliva (his/her own) I have been known to let the expletives fly.
Plus, my husband and I, though we are a soft spoken people, we occasionaly irritate each other, and when that happens, I tend to clarify my perspective using emphatic language. Unfortunately, the emphatic language at my fingertips is often foul.
Moving on, let's not forget about the unexpected stubbed toe? Or fingers slammed in the bathroom door. When that happens over in my neck of the UES, those little making lovers come spewing out like a bowel movement storm.
Here's a thought. Perhaps it's genetic. Lots of bowel movement is. As I said earlier, I don't like to blame mothers; but perhaps a penchant for the profane is hereditary. I mean, have you met my mother? Though, truth be told, I've even got her beat. And my kids ... they're not far behind.
So the day is here. I must curtail my verbiage. And being one who likes to live in the solution, I have a plan.
On our month long trip down the west coast, I am going to give out nightly badges for the family member who swears the least that day. And since we Soodaks are slightly competitive, I am thinking this just might work. Though I do anticipate a problem; and it is this. Said legacies will want a prize (I mean other than the goshdarned badge) and I really don't want to go there. So I better brace myself for that discussion. Come up with a reasonable retort. Perhaps something like, I am concerned about our family's reliance on material possessions to make us feel whole. Often in life it is reward enough to know one has done a job to the best of her/his ability. Let's marvel in the progress we are making during this special family time that we are fortunate enough to be having. Because, when you think about it, family is so important. And how we speak not only reflects who we are as individuals but who we are as a collective whole. And I would rather communicate to the world a sense of gratitude and love. And that-- my beautiful children-- is better than any silly prize, don't you think? Don't you?
Or I can just tell them their attitude sucks ass.
My last post was in early April. I will spare you the phony self deprecating b.s. and say this: I worked my butt off on those darned revisions.
Which brings me to my point.
Swearing.
And how I have got to cut that mess out. I mean, over the weekend, a certain seven year old I know said to her sister, "That sucks ass." And while I do not condone blaming one's mother ad nauseum, I take full responsibility for my offspring's potty mouth. I get it. We reap what we sow. The apple and the whole tree thing. Monkey see, monkey blah blah blah.
Here is the problem. Swearing is so goshdarned necesary for a woman like me. First of all, it's ahem, making love funny. I think in part because the unexpected often is, and when a petite-mother of four-lady such as myself (stop laughing female dogs) sprinkles her discourse with a four letter word every now and then -- the result can be comical. And, well, let's just say, I'm a comedy lady of the evening. I will alter the truth (see best of craigslist) if it ups the funny factor. And, swearing often does just that.
But there's more.
Anger. Let's not forget that pesty emotion. Because, this little lady (insert evil laugh here) has a temper, and when a certain someone spills vitamin water (vitamin water, what the making love?)all over the couch where he/she is not allowed to consume anything other than saliva (his/her own) I have been known to let the expletives fly.
Plus, my husband and I, though we are a soft spoken people, we occasionaly irritate each other, and when that happens, I tend to clarify my perspective using emphatic language. Unfortunately, the emphatic language at my fingertips is often foul.
Moving on, let's not forget about the unexpected stubbed toe? Or fingers slammed in the bathroom door. When that happens over in my neck of the UES, those little making lovers come spewing out like a bowel movement storm.
Here's a thought. Perhaps it's genetic. Lots of bowel movement is. As I said earlier, I don't like to blame mothers; but perhaps a penchant for the profane is hereditary. I mean, have you met my mother? Though, truth be told, I've even got her beat. And my kids ... they're not far behind.
So the day is here. I must curtail my verbiage. And being one who likes to live in the solution, I have a plan.
On our month long trip down the west coast, I am going to give out nightly badges for the family member who swears the least that day. And since we Soodaks are slightly competitive, I am thinking this just might work. Though I do anticipate a problem; and it is this. Said legacies will want a prize (I mean other than the goshdarned badge) and I really don't want to go there. So I better brace myself for that discussion. Come up with a reasonable retort. Perhaps something like, I am concerned about our family's reliance on material possessions to make us feel whole. Often in life it is reward enough to know one has done a job to the best of her/his ability. Let's marvel in the progress we are making during this special family time that we are fortunate enough to be having. Because, when you think about it, family is so important. And how we speak not only reflects who we are as individuals but who we are as a collective whole. And I would rather communicate to the world a sense of gratitude and love. And that-- my beautiful children-- is better than any silly prize, don't you think? Don't you?
Or I can just tell them their attitude sucks ass.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Open Letter to an Author
March 25, 2010
Dear Amy Bloom,
Instead of working on revisions, I am writing you. I think you’d support me in this because last Thursday night when I asked about your writing life (just after the first guy asked about your use of four letter words) you said you start your day managing business correspondence, then, if so inclined, speak to your best friend, sister, children. You didn’t use that expression-- so inclined, but I imagine for the most part, you only speak to people if you’re compelled. And I mean this as a compliment.
My kids are young so I pretty much have to speak to them even if I’d rather not. Until I had children, I didn’t know how much alone time I needed. Some people confuse this sort of admission with maternal ambivalence. Isn’t that an awful expression? I think so.
When you mentioned your sister, I momentarily wondered what it would take to get to a better place with my sister; but then I pushed that out of my mind, because really, I wanted to listen to every morsel you had to say. Anyway, before I settle in today to make art, or fail to make art, or fail better to make art—I am writing you.
I was moved by your reading and inspired by your question and answer.
But first-the reading. I had already read The Old Impossible, in fact, I’m only half way through Where the God of Love Hangs Out, and declare this your best. Don’t get me wrong, I loved, Come to Me, Love Invents Us, Away, (haven’t read Normal- don’t know how I missed it. I will.) But William and Claire’s love affair is one of the most moving I’ve ever read. (If I have time, I hope to perfect that sentence. It serves my point, but is so mundane, you might miss it.)
As I listened to you, one thought I had was … I must slow down when I read. I am so anxious to find out what happens next, that some of your majesty gets lost. And by lost, I mean not fully appreciated, because I believe I ‘get’ every sentiment I’m meant to. (I know why your characters use four letter words.)
But more than my reading The Old Impossible quickly, I think I was so moved listening to you because I knew the ending. Perhaps this is an obvious law of literary fiction; if so, I never learned it. For example, hearing William say he’s not going to operate heavy machinery has quite a different meaning once I knew how they’d settle in to their loving, albeit Percocet induced, sleep. I get that. I get how necessary it is to minimize consequences when we’re lying to ourselves. Or maybe that’s just me.
While reading about the nuanced, imperfect Claire and William, I loved finding the clues as to what had happened since the last story. Because I knew how things resolved for them, (or her) listening to you was all the more emotional. If not for the fluorescent lights, I might have wept. I try never to weep under florescent lights. And also your fans; I prefer to weep alone, which is more diagnostic than I care to reveal. I mean, we barely know each other.
Now onto the question and answer part of your reading. To borrow from our shared clinical social work training, the Q and A was valuable in both process and content. When you didn’t say to the first gentleman questioner, clearly Sir, to ask such a thing tells me you have no (fucking) idea where I’m coming from, leads me to believe that I have some work to do before I attempt a public reading. Perhaps some publicity training would serve me well. And Welbutrin. (Forgive me. At times my boundaries are askew.)
I’ve recently attended four readings and have found there’s always at least one doozie of a question. When Sarah Blake read from The Postmistress, which takes place in 1940, one poor bastard asked what were the causes of World War II. Okay, in his defense, he was all of ten years old, but still. You know what happened? The audience laughed an oh-to-be-so-young laugh, and then all eyes landed on Ms. Blake and waited for her answer. Which she did well, by the way. Way better than I could’ve. Then again, my book is about an Upper East Side woman’s quest for her artist self, not the Blitz. And as toxic as the UES is; it’s not that.
When my debut novel comes out in 2011, I hope to read just as you did. Poised. Strong. Clear. When you finished reading, you didn’t try to save the audience from our silence as we garnered the courage to raise our hands. Okay, I’ll give the four letter word guy that; he went first. I waited, even though I’d known for a week what I wanted to ask: what did you require (and at what age) to take your writing seriously and what is your daily writing ritual.
Thank you for your answer.
I didn’t stay for the signing. To be honest, I don’t really get signings. I own all of your books, (except your essays, which I’ll remedy) however, for me, having your signature isn’t going to make them more valuable than they already are. Also, my son had called. Twice. He was having trouble completing his History homework (New York’s role during the Revolutionary War). Translation: it was time to go home. Which was mostly okay, because, as you can see, I had more to convey than a quick hello. Not to mention, I tend to get tongue tied when I speak; another notch for the get publicity training column.
Besides this wonderful delaying tactic, there is a purpose to my writing you; I wanted you to know that you are mentioned in my book. Two women- only one successful, are discussing what it takes to make art. A room and money have been noted. So has a Nanny. They will discuss the importance of possessing a willingness to fail as well as the impact of a satisfying affair.
And you come up.
She took a long slow sip of coffee. “And you know what else?” she asked, as if I wasn’t hanging on to every word.
“I read an interview with Amy Bloom. She started writing in her late thirties. She said that if she didn’t take her writing seriously, no one would. This completely inspired me. I started my novel that night.”
“Really?” It almost sounded too easy.
“You’d be amazed what can happen when you have a role model,” she said. “What about you? What do you need?”
Wish me luck Amy Bloom. More importantly, keep making art. And thank you. A deep down, hearty and earnest thank you. Because, at the risk of being redundant, you’d be amazed what can happen when you have a role model.
Best,
Rebecca Land Soodak
Dear Amy Bloom,
Instead of working on revisions, I am writing you. I think you’d support me in this because last Thursday night when I asked about your writing life (just after the first guy asked about your use of four letter words) you said you start your day managing business correspondence, then, if so inclined, speak to your best friend, sister, children. You didn’t use that expression-- so inclined, but I imagine for the most part, you only speak to people if you’re compelled. And I mean this as a compliment.
My kids are young so I pretty much have to speak to them even if I’d rather not. Until I had children, I didn’t know how much alone time I needed. Some people confuse this sort of admission with maternal ambivalence. Isn’t that an awful expression? I think so.
When you mentioned your sister, I momentarily wondered what it would take to get to a better place with my sister; but then I pushed that out of my mind, because really, I wanted to listen to every morsel you had to say. Anyway, before I settle in today to make art, or fail to make art, or fail better to make art—I am writing you.
I was moved by your reading and inspired by your question and answer.
But first-the reading. I had already read The Old Impossible, in fact, I’m only half way through Where the God of Love Hangs Out, and declare this your best. Don’t get me wrong, I loved, Come to Me, Love Invents Us, Away, (haven’t read Normal- don’t know how I missed it. I will.) But William and Claire’s love affair is one of the most moving I’ve ever read. (If I have time, I hope to perfect that sentence. It serves my point, but is so mundane, you might miss it.)
As I listened to you, one thought I had was … I must slow down when I read. I am so anxious to find out what happens next, that some of your majesty gets lost. And by lost, I mean not fully appreciated, because I believe I ‘get’ every sentiment I’m meant to. (I know why your characters use four letter words.)
But more than my reading The Old Impossible quickly, I think I was so moved listening to you because I knew the ending. Perhaps this is an obvious law of literary fiction; if so, I never learned it. For example, hearing William say he’s not going to operate heavy machinery has quite a different meaning once I knew how they’d settle in to their loving, albeit Percocet induced, sleep. I get that. I get how necessary it is to minimize consequences when we’re lying to ourselves. Or maybe that’s just me.
While reading about the nuanced, imperfect Claire and William, I loved finding the clues as to what had happened since the last story. Because I knew how things resolved for them, (or her) listening to you was all the more emotional. If not for the fluorescent lights, I might have wept. I try never to weep under florescent lights. And also your fans; I prefer to weep alone, which is more diagnostic than I care to reveal. I mean, we barely know each other.
Now onto the question and answer part of your reading. To borrow from our shared clinical social work training, the Q and A was valuable in both process and content. When you didn’t say to the first gentleman questioner, clearly Sir, to ask such a thing tells me you have no (fucking) idea where I’m coming from, leads me to believe that I have some work to do before I attempt a public reading. Perhaps some publicity training would serve me well. And Welbutrin. (Forgive me. At times my boundaries are askew.)
I’ve recently attended four readings and have found there’s always at least one doozie of a question. When Sarah Blake read from The Postmistress, which takes place in 1940, one poor bastard asked what were the causes of World War II. Okay, in his defense, he was all of ten years old, but still. You know what happened? The audience laughed an oh-to-be-so-young laugh, and then all eyes landed on Ms. Blake and waited for her answer. Which she did well, by the way. Way better than I could’ve. Then again, my book is about an Upper East Side woman’s quest for her artist self, not the Blitz. And as toxic as the UES is; it’s not that.
When my debut novel comes out in 2011, I hope to read just as you did. Poised. Strong. Clear. When you finished reading, you didn’t try to save the audience from our silence as we garnered the courage to raise our hands. Okay, I’ll give the four letter word guy that; he went first. I waited, even though I’d known for a week what I wanted to ask: what did you require (and at what age) to take your writing seriously and what is your daily writing ritual.
Thank you for your answer.
I didn’t stay for the signing. To be honest, I don’t really get signings. I own all of your books, (except your essays, which I’ll remedy) however, for me, having your signature isn’t going to make them more valuable than they already are. Also, my son had called. Twice. He was having trouble completing his History homework (New York’s role during the Revolutionary War). Translation: it was time to go home. Which was mostly okay, because, as you can see, I had more to convey than a quick hello. Not to mention, I tend to get tongue tied when I speak; another notch for the get publicity training column.
Besides this wonderful delaying tactic, there is a purpose to my writing you; I wanted you to know that you are mentioned in my book. Two women- only one successful, are discussing what it takes to make art. A room and money have been noted. So has a Nanny. They will discuss the importance of possessing a willingness to fail as well as the impact of a satisfying affair.
And you come up.
She took a long slow sip of coffee. “And you know what else?” she asked, as if I wasn’t hanging on to every word.
“I read an interview with Amy Bloom. She started writing in her late thirties. She said that if she didn’t take her writing seriously, no one would. This completely inspired me. I started my novel that night.”
“Really?” It almost sounded too easy.
“You’d be amazed what can happen when you have a role model,” she said. “What about you? What do you need?”
Wish me luck Amy Bloom. More importantly, keep making art. And thank you. A deep down, hearty and earnest thank you. Because, at the risk of being redundant, you’d be amazed what can happen when you have a role model.
Best,
Rebecca Land Soodak
Friday, April 9, 2010
Author Bio: Rough Draft
Rebecca Land Soodak lives in New York City with her husband and children. This is her first novel. She has no PhD.in literature, nor has she read War and Peace or Pride and Prejudice. In fact, she is not certain she has used the word NOR correctly in the prior sentence. (Or would previous sentence sound better? Moving on.)
She worries she uses parenthesis too often, but is fairly confident she has mastered the semicolon conundrum; that is, she likes a good semicolon. (Always has.)
What the author is trying to say is: this whole writing every day for the past 19 months (save a day or two) has really been ... a crazy fluke. Kind of like John Travolta's character in Phenomenon. The one where this guy can suddenly do all this cool shit, only to find out it's because he has a brain tumor! That's right; (spoiler alert)he's dying. DYING. Yikes. (come to think of it, my hip has been killing me lately. If it continues for another three years, I just might see a Dr., maybe.)
In closing, the author would like to remind everyone that she couldn't possibly be a writer of any significance because she married someone who makes a lot of money. Must I spell everything out, people? Wealthy women (who have procreated) and live on Manhattan's upper east side are NOT literary forces to be reckoned with; especially if they overuse parenthesis, semicolons and/or write about women, children, sex and art. Sorry. I don't make the rules.
She worries she uses parenthesis too often, but is fairly confident she has mastered the semicolon conundrum; that is, she likes a good semicolon. (Always has.)
What the author is trying to say is: this whole writing every day for the past 19 months (save a day or two) has really been ... a crazy fluke. Kind of like John Travolta's character in Phenomenon. The one where this guy can suddenly do all this cool shit, only to find out it's because he has a brain tumor! That's right; (spoiler alert)he's dying. DYING. Yikes. (come to think of it, my hip has been killing me lately. If it continues for another three years, I just might see a Dr., maybe.)
In closing, the author would like to remind everyone that she couldn't possibly be a writer of any significance because she married someone who makes a lot of money. Must I spell everything out, people? Wealthy women (who have procreated) and live on Manhattan's upper east side are NOT literary forces to be reckoned with; especially if they overuse parenthesis, semicolons and/or write about women, children, sex and art. Sorry. I don't make the rules.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Not Your Story To Tell
Whose story is it anyway? As a writer, the world is my oyster. As a wife and mother, not so much. What I say impacts the people I love. Even if it's not about them per se.
I heard Amy Bloom, perhaps my favorite author, read last week. She said when she sits to write, she pretends no one else exists in the world. (The World!)And I think you can tell. She writes nervy, nuanced pieces about seemingly real, often sexual, always emotional-- people. Perhaps that is why she writes mostly fiction. So she has the freedom to honor the depths of her imagination. However, as any fiction writer can tell you; people always assume the story has kernels of the truth. Whether that is true or not (I'm going with not) to explore the layers of unconventional humanity takes courage.
Let's dig deeper.
Hypothetical situation. You're a woman. You have a lot of interests. You love your husband. Your kids. Art. The city where you live. People watching. The drama and sentimentality of an imperfect healthcare bill. Hip hop. Romantic comedies.
You were never the kind of mother who fretted over a tumble at the playground. Sometimes you don't get your kids flu shots-- not out of calculation, but apathy and disorganization.
You're a go with the flow mom.
You don't know when the geometry test is, or exactly what day spring break ends.
But you do know your kid's best friends, favorite character on their favorite show, the last time they cried and why. You know their quirks. What will piss them off. Or make them laugh. Or both. You are involved, but respect their independence. Their privacy. The value of them being bored. Even, of lying.
And then one day, your first born is mugged.
He calls you right after it happens. He's made it to his destination (You didn't really want him to go, but you didn't want him to miss out either, so you said yes.) He tells you he just got his phone taken. He's with his friends now. There were two guys. Bigger than him. One asked the time, the other grabbed him from behind. He's fine now, but you can tell, if his friends weren't around, he would cry. He doesn't want you to over react. Or scream. Or cry, which is exactly what you want to do. But he wants you to make him feel safe again. He doesn't say this; but you know.
You remember many things at once. You remember about pushing him into this world. How hard it was. How your very kind midwife, doula, best friend, husband, all looked at you and said, you can do it. He's coming. I see him. One more time. And you loved their voices. You needed their voices to help you help this baby be born. Until the moment he was. And they got him to you and you held him, still bloody and you said, shhhhhhh, because you knew more than you had ever known anything, that this baby needed silence. Shhhh, you said it again. And then you moved in to say something to him, but really, you just felt his cheek on yours. You didn't speak aloud, but you told him, he was okay. You were there. And he was.
You remember the time he was pushed at the playground. A bigger two year old didn't follow the routine: wait on line, climb up the ladder, slide down the slide. This deviant pushed his way up and past him, and your boy looked at you in utter confusion. What is going on, your boy seemed to ask. He knew the routine was Wait on line, climb ladder, slide down; so why this chaos? Using little words for your big boy-- you explained the world to him. But the damage was done. There is disorder.
Your boy is on the phone, waiting for you to tell him what to do. You hear his friends being silly in the background. You want to kill them. How can they have happiness in their voices when you know that your boy has just been scared.
Go to your friend's house you tell him. Call me from there.
You call your husband. You are prepared to tell the woman who answered the phone that it is an emergency, but you don't need to, he picks up right away.
XXX has been mugged you say. You answer his questions. You tell your scared/logical husband where your son is. You formulate a plan. Then you sob, my baby's been mugged.
I'm coming home your husband says. You are glad.
Parents whose children have died come to mind. Children with cancer, abducted children, victims of car crashes, overdoses, pedophilia war-- all swim in your mind. You feel for the first time in a very real way: that love hurts too much. It's unbearable, you think: this not being able to protect your baby.
Your husband makes it home in record time. While driving to get your boy, he cancels phones, fights with companies about policies. He does what he does--tries to fix things. You both know; very little can be fixed.
You thank God. You really, really thank God, the whole time not wanting to bring too much attention to how fucking lucky you are. You beg God not to let cancer, abduction, car crashes, overdoses, pedophilia and war come anywhere near your litter.
You even pray for the boys who mugged your baby. If they had hurt him; you would not have done this. But you are grateful. Things could have been so much worse.
You knock on the door. You want your kid. You are surprised his friends are not all talking about what has happened. In fact, they are watching TV. Eating pizza. Boys are not like girls, you think.
In the elevator, he doesn't want to talk. You think this is because he doesn't want to cry.
You can tell he is frightened, still. This makes you want to hurt someone. He is as tall as you, but you want to envelope him. Make him hold on. Make him not let go.
You do stupid things. You buy him a new phone. You should take him to the police; but you don't until the next day.
You balance your need to swoop in and process, with his need to watch Japanese animation and separate.
You notice he doesn't eat much for dinner.
You fail to notice, neither do you.
The night takes care of itself. You talk to your mother. You take a bath. Your husband and you keep looking at each other; feeling lucky and nauseous at the same time.
Your son keeps coming in to make contact. Talk a little. Then not talk anymore.
You want to tell everyone you know. In time, you do.
You notice some people speak about the economy. Others, self defense. You feel foolish that your kid has an expensive phone. Annoyed when someone mentions an old study about criminals all picking the same photos of an easy mark. You hope no one tells your kid about this.
You don't want him to take side streets. Or go out alone. Or go out at all.
But you know this would not be good for him, so you make him meet his friends. You make him go out without you.
You know, as you've never really known before: you are powerless.
Because you are an artist, a writer, an extrovert; you want to share your experience.
Because you are a mother; you know this is not your story to tell.
I heard Amy Bloom, perhaps my favorite author, read last week. She said when she sits to write, she pretends no one else exists in the world. (The World!)And I think you can tell. She writes nervy, nuanced pieces about seemingly real, often sexual, always emotional-- people. Perhaps that is why she writes mostly fiction. So she has the freedom to honor the depths of her imagination. However, as any fiction writer can tell you; people always assume the story has kernels of the truth. Whether that is true or not (I'm going with not) to explore the layers of unconventional humanity takes courage.
Let's dig deeper.
Hypothetical situation. You're a woman. You have a lot of interests. You love your husband. Your kids. Art. The city where you live. People watching. The drama and sentimentality of an imperfect healthcare bill. Hip hop. Romantic comedies.
You were never the kind of mother who fretted over a tumble at the playground. Sometimes you don't get your kids flu shots-- not out of calculation, but apathy and disorganization.
You're a go with the flow mom.
You don't know when the geometry test is, or exactly what day spring break ends.
But you do know your kid's best friends, favorite character on their favorite show, the last time they cried and why. You know their quirks. What will piss them off. Or make them laugh. Or both. You are involved, but respect their independence. Their privacy. The value of them being bored. Even, of lying.
And then one day, your first born is mugged.
He calls you right after it happens. He's made it to his destination (You didn't really want him to go, but you didn't want him to miss out either, so you said yes.) He tells you he just got his phone taken. He's with his friends now. There were two guys. Bigger than him. One asked the time, the other grabbed him from behind. He's fine now, but you can tell, if his friends weren't around, he would cry. He doesn't want you to over react. Or scream. Or cry, which is exactly what you want to do. But he wants you to make him feel safe again. He doesn't say this; but you know.
You remember many things at once. You remember about pushing him into this world. How hard it was. How your very kind midwife, doula, best friend, husband, all looked at you and said, you can do it. He's coming. I see him. One more time. And you loved their voices. You needed their voices to help you help this baby be born. Until the moment he was. And they got him to you and you held him, still bloody and you said, shhhhhhh, because you knew more than you had ever known anything, that this baby needed silence. Shhhh, you said it again. And then you moved in to say something to him, but really, you just felt his cheek on yours. You didn't speak aloud, but you told him, he was okay. You were there. And he was.
You remember the time he was pushed at the playground. A bigger two year old didn't follow the routine: wait on line, climb up the ladder, slide down the slide. This deviant pushed his way up and past him, and your boy looked at you in utter confusion. What is going on, your boy seemed to ask. He knew the routine was Wait on line, climb ladder, slide down; so why this chaos? Using little words for your big boy-- you explained the world to him. But the damage was done. There is disorder.
Your boy is on the phone, waiting for you to tell him what to do. You hear his friends being silly in the background. You want to kill them. How can they have happiness in their voices when you know that your boy has just been scared.
Go to your friend's house you tell him. Call me from there.
You call your husband. You are prepared to tell the woman who answered the phone that it is an emergency, but you don't need to, he picks up right away.
XXX has been mugged you say. You answer his questions. You tell your scared/logical husband where your son is. You formulate a plan. Then you sob, my baby's been mugged.
I'm coming home your husband says. You are glad.
Parents whose children have died come to mind. Children with cancer, abducted children, victims of car crashes, overdoses, pedophilia war-- all swim in your mind. You feel for the first time in a very real way: that love hurts too much. It's unbearable, you think: this not being able to protect your baby.
Your husband makes it home in record time. While driving to get your boy, he cancels phones, fights with companies about policies. He does what he does--tries to fix things. You both know; very little can be fixed.
You thank God. You really, really thank God, the whole time not wanting to bring too much attention to how fucking lucky you are. You beg God not to let cancer, abduction, car crashes, overdoses, pedophilia and war come anywhere near your litter.
You even pray for the boys who mugged your baby. If they had hurt him; you would not have done this. But you are grateful. Things could have been so much worse.
You knock on the door. You want your kid. You are surprised his friends are not all talking about what has happened. In fact, they are watching TV. Eating pizza. Boys are not like girls, you think.
In the elevator, he doesn't want to talk. You think this is because he doesn't want to cry.
You can tell he is frightened, still. This makes you want to hurt someone. He is as tall as you, but you want to envelope him. Make him hold on. Make him not let go.
You do stupid things. You buy him a new phone. You should take him to the police; but you don't until the next day.
You balance your need to swoop in and process, with his need to watch Japanese animation and separate.
You notice he doesn't eat much for dinner.
You fail to notice, neither do you.
The night takes care of itself. You talk to your mother. You take a bath. Your husband and you keep looking at each other; feeling lucky and nauseous at the same time.
Your son keeps coming in to make contact. Talk a little. Then not talk anymore.
You want to tell everyone you know. In time, you do.
You notice some people speak about the economy. Others, self defense. You feel foolish that your kid has an expensive phone. Annoyed when someone mentions an old study about criminals all picking the same photos of an easy mark. You hope no one tells your kid about this.
You don't want him to take side streets. Or go out alone. Or go out at all.
But you know this would not be good for him, so you make him meet his friends. You make him go out without you.
You know, as you've never really known before: you are powerless.
Because you are an artist, a writer, an extrovert; you want to share your experience.
Because you are a mother; you know this is not your story to tell.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Playing With the Big Boys
This post first appeared in the comments section of Lisa Belkin's New York Times parenting blog- Motherlode.
Thanks Lisa for continuing this conversation. I, like some have already said, was surprised to hear that you didn't think the article disparaged women, though your point that the Conference Organizers calling themselves--Bloggy Bootcamp didn't cultivate an aura of legitimacy—is well taken. (My sister-in-law raised this on my blog, as well.)(Sorry Cinnabar) ( … though I will forgo the link.)
I would like to speak to the topic of the Women’s Movement.
A million years ago, I was a Women's Studies major. I began to view our culture through a lens that considered access to power, and noticed time and again, that which is associated with women is devalued. One lesson learned from that time was this: what goes on in one woman's home, office, courtroom and vagina is not only her private experience, but one that could (and should) be spoken about in order to transform, i.e the personal is political.
Sadly, what is associated with women, in this case, mothers who blog (about many things, including mothering) is chided and trivialized. “Heed the speaker’s advice, and you, too, might get 28,549 views of your tutu-making tutorial!” I suspect most young women, if given the choice between being associated with the successful blogger Mendelsohn refers to, or the NY Times reporter who mocks the tuto scholar, I’m guessing many would go with Mendelsohn.
I think the blogosphere is our modern day consciousness raising opportunity. And as more women have success in this dot com (if you will) then perhaps one day, we’ll make it to the business section; which is no better or more important than the style section. Except, you know, it’s where the big boys play.
Thanks Lisa for continuing this conversation. I, like some have already said, was surprised to hear that you didn't think the article disparaged women, though your point that the Conference Organizers calling themselves--Bloggy Bootcamp didn't cultivate an aura of legitimacy—is well taken. (My sister-in-law raised this on my blog, as well.)(Sorry Cinnabar) ( … though I will forgo the link.)
I would like to speak to the topic of the Women’s Movement.
A million years ago, I was a Women's Studies major. I began to view our culture through a lens that considered access to power, and noticed time and again, that which is associated with women is devalued. One lesson learned from that time was this: what goes on in one woman's home, office, courtroom and vagina is not only her private experience, but one that could (and should) be spoken about in order to transform, i.e the personal is political.
Sadly, what is associated with women, in this case, mothers who blog (about many things, including mothering) is chided and trivialized. “Heed the speaker’s advice, and you, too, might get 28,549 views of your tutu-making tutorial!” I suspect most young women, if given the choice between being associated with the successful blogger Mendelsohn refers to, or the NY Times reporter who mocks the tuto scholar, I’m guessing many would go with Mendelsohn.
I think the blogosphere is our modern day consciousness raising opportunity. And as more women have success in this dot com (if you will) then perhaps one day, we’ll make it to the business section; which is no better or more important than the style section. Except, you know, it’s where the big boys play.
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