Ten months
While screwing around on Facebook yesterday, I came across a group called I AM NOT ENGAGED, PREGNANT, OR BUYING A CONDO.
Oh hahahaha! I thought. That's so witty! I must join immediately!
Except: I'm married, have a kid, and own a condo.
Now, if I quibble (what a LOVELY verb!) over semantics, I'm still eligible for membership, right? Technically, I'm not engaged, pregnant, nor buying a condo. Those phrases all indicate being on the verge of such thresholds, thresholds I've already and quite happily walked across. So why, praytell, do I want to join the damn thing?
It may have something to do with the fact that, last night in class, I referred to The Smiths, and no one knew what I was talking about. Or a few weeks ago, I said, “Nobody puts Baby in a corner,” and got a blank look in return. And this morning, on the train, I read this really disturbing article in the Atlantic about how people don’t read books anymore because of the quick-fix that is the internet, and it’s become difficult to digest more involved narratives because we’re so trained in google soundbites, status updates, and Twitter Tweets, and I know I’ve been Twittering lately instead of blogging because I just don’t have the time to sit down and write something longer, or maybe it’s that I don’t have the patience, and also, I have gray hair. I do. And a mortgage, mortgage with a capitol MORGE, I mean, “escrow” is an oft-used word in my current vocabulary. The world is changing, people; I’m changing—I used to be the girl who could join an I’M NOT ENGAGED, PREGNANT OR BUYING A CONDO FACEBOOK GROUP and now, now, now I’m an adult, one who is, like, shocked when someone doesn’t know The Smiths, one who is watching her 401K capsize, one who begins sentences with BACK IN MY DAY, who reads books, who will buy the good wine over the cheap wine ‘cause I’m not drinking to get drunk, I’m drinking ‘cause it tastes good, and I’m relaxing, it’s the end of the day in my home that I own with my husband that I married and our kid is asleep in the next room and still, still, still I check my Facebook account. Regularly. Because—and I’m not afraid to admit this—I LIKE STALKING.
(quick sidenote: We have two fan-f'ing-tastic interns for 2nd Story, and they went to this fancy professional-y audience development conference for us [Amanda and I couldn’t go]. Halfway through, I started getting texts from both of them about how the whole conference was old white men talking about these new-fangled computery thingiemabobs, have you heard of them? Facebook? Myspace? Twitter? And my interns [so awesome, these girls. Give them jobs. Pay them excessively] were like, D'uh, Old White Men! and then came back to the office and wrote a very detailed report which said, essentially, D'uh, Old White Men! except in very formal language. My point: Facebook as an effective networking/audience development tool cannot be argued, and while I'm enjoying 2nd Story's surge in attendance since we started Facebooking and eBlasting and Twittering our shows, I also regularly enjoy the excuse of Facebook as a networking tool when what I really want to do is poke around in people's lives, find out all sorts of juicy gossip and read witty status updates [many of which say things like SO AND SO IS UNCOMFORTABLE WITH HIS/HER ADDICTION TO FACEBOOK or SO AND SO IS TRYING TO FIGURE OUT FACEBOOK or SO AND SO DOESN'T CHECK THEIR FACEBOOK OFTEN (lies!) because to draw attention to your discomfort with Facebook allows you to hold on to your last shred of street cred. Except, Facebook is the new street cred. Like how thirty is the new twenty and beige is the new black. According to that Vogue I read in the doctor's office. 'Cause, of course, I don't subscribe to Vogue. Only Harper's, Atlantic Monthly and The New Yorker (and Cookie, my new favorite parenting magazine, which I'm stating here in parenthesis because it doesn't go with the sarcasm I'm trying to create, that whole "I'm so totally smart, I flick my nose at thee, Facebook,” flick! flick!)] [Aren’t I on top of my parenthetical-within-the-parenthetical! Usually I have to go back to the top to remember if I was in them or out of them] [good morning! My kid woke up at five! I've had so much coffee!] so whatever, I have a Facebook account).
Maybe, what I’m trying to say here is: I'm getting old.
And maybe, what I’m trying to say is, FINALLY.
But who knows, ‘cause I really don’t have time to think about all that what with everything that’s been going on, like, my kid can STAND ALL BY HIMSELF FOR SIX WHOLE SECONDS. And my students just turned in their rewrites, they’ve been working so hard and I’m really proud. And 2nd Story is throwing a ginormous New Years Eve party! You should come! And I'm working on this book, and I'm having FUN: no deadline, no pressure, just that slow, delicious process of figuring out the characters and the story, and I've sort of forgotten what that feels like. And other stuff, not that there needs to be more, 'cause the above is plenty, but there's always more, stuff that jumps out of the woodwork, it's life, it moves, run run run so you don't get left behind, and I've been so busy keeping up with everything that I haven't sat still to really consider this whole new reality I've recently entered, one that wouldn’t be welcome in an I’M NOT ENGAGED, PREGNANT OR BUYING A CONDO Facebook group, not because I’m married, have a kid and own a condo, but rather because I’m lucky enough to have found things that really matter to me, and I don’t have the time or inclination to be all witty and ironic and concerned with societal norms and unrecognized social conditioning and what, what, what does it all mean?
The girl I used to be spent a LOT of time worrying about that stuff.
The girl I am, man, she’s too busy. She just poured herself a really fancy glass of wine and curled up on the couch with Anna Karenina.
In early February, 2005, Christopher and I adopted Mojo from a local shelter called Precious Pets Almost Home. They estimated him to be about ten weeks old, which means his birthday is now-ish.
Our grand master plan was to get a puppy in the summertime, when I’d be home more often for training and walking and pooping. But then we were poking around on petfinder.com near the end of January, and saw this:
I knew it was my dog.
People have since asked how exactly I knew, the same way that, when you’re single, you bug your friends in relationships: “How did you, like, KNOW s/he was the one?” and the answer is always, “You just DO,” which (back in the day) really pissed me off ‘cause I needed there to be an equation, something with STEPS, because steps were accomplishable, but, of course, there aren’t any: no steps, no logic, no discernable formula to such things, just a screaming in your gut, a big invisible hand pointing down out of the clouds, a voice in the back of your head going THERE, YOU DUMBASS, LOOK! HE’S RIGHT THERE! IN FRONT OF YOUR VERY EYES!
It was the same with Mojo. We knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was supposed to be ours.
Over the past four years, this dog has saved my life about a thousand times, none as notable as the first few months after we brought Caleb home, when I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around my hormones, couldn’t quite take care of myself, couldn’t quite stop crying for any given length of time. I wasn’t Brooke Shields, Down Came the Rain, but I certainly wasn’t myself, and when Christopher would leave for work in the morning, and Caleb would cry, and I would cry—both of us sitting there crying, Calen ‘cause he was three weeks old and that’s what he was supposed to do and me ‘cause he was three weeks old and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do!—my dog would stand guard at my feet, ready to attack whatever unseen force was upsetting us. When Caleb would finally sleep and I would nap, Mojo would lay down next to my head, ears back and alert, or else sit frozen by the bassinet, as though he was watching the baby so I could sleep just a little more.
These days, the two of them are the best of friends, and both Christopher and I are a little jealous that our dog loves the kid more than either of us.
Today, we fed Mojo sausage in honor of his birthday.
Tomorrow, he’ll get sausage ‘cause I love him.
The day after that, he’ll get none, ‘cause I’ll have to retrain him not to beg.
(she also covers Toxic. Could this chick BE more badass?)
On the Lawrence bus, Westbound.
RANDOM GUY: Miss?
ME: Yes?
GUY: Jesus loves you and your baby.
ME: Thank you.
GUY: He loves you both.
ME: Yes. Thank you.
GUY: Really.
ME: Yes.
GUY: He really does.
ME: Yes.
GUY: Both of you.
ME:
GUY: He loves you both.
ME:
GUY: He loves you BOTH.
ME: I'm not quite sure what else to say, sir.
GUY: BOTH.
ME: Thank you.
GUY: You and that precious baby.
ME: Yes, thank you.
As I read the polls, I keep thinking about the 2004 Election.
Christopher and I lived in Prague, and voted by absentee ballot for Kerry. At the time, the possibility of Bush winning didn’t enter my head, not because I was naïve (although maybe that, too) but rather because both the international media and the international community were so anti-Bush that the idea seemed almost laughable. CNN and Newsweek International openly mocked him. Anti-American graffiti was everywhere. In discussions with our friends—both Czech and expatriates—it was totally far-fetched; silly, even; like, Yeah, RIGHT.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and because of that experiene, I have to admit that I’m holding my breath until Wednesday morning. Poll or no poll, I’m afraid of feeling as I did then.
From my journal; November 4, 2004.
Sitting in our living room in Prague, watching CNN International and taking notes because someday my children will ask, “Ma, what happened during the 2004 election?” and I want to be able to say something more intelligent than, Honey, it sucked, or Kiddo, it was awesome! The media we get here is so anti-Bush is doesn’t seem like the man has a chance in Hell; however, so far as we can tell, The United States is evenly divided. On television, they say the election is too close to call and predict that the decision will be made, yet again, in the courts.
8:30 pm: Karl Rove, who really might be the Devil.
9:00. An Iraqi woman is interviewed. “I hated Sadaam,” she says, “but now is worse than Sadaam.” An old man says, “Bush, Kerry, doesn’t matter, we’re hungry! They liberated us, fine, now leave us alone!” And another: “I hope the other one wins, for Bush has already destroyed our country.”
10:15. Larry King talks with a panel, evenly split Republican/Democrat. It’s frustrating to watch. They look at exactly the same facts and see them exactly the opposite. Like, say there’s a flower in the center of the table. King asks, “What color is this flower?”
The Republican says, “Red.”
The Democrat says, “Yellow.
12:00. Email from Jeff in Chicago: I may have to move back to Spain or actually get involved in politics if W. wins.
13:45. Lines of people waiting to vote. Looks like a total cluster-fuck.
17:12. Still lines of people waiting to vote. Newscaster confirms cluster-fuck.
21:00. Lines, lines, lines. An international correspondent reports that, “Bush has done more to alienate Europeans than any other American president.”
22:45. I go to bed. Nothing will happen till morning.
6:45. The coffee is already made; Christopher stayed up all night. He is furious, pacing our tiny living room. CNN reports the projected electoral vote: 249-188. Bush is winning.
7:26. Republicans win the House. Republicans win the Senate. I consider the damage they can do and am in awe: how is this even possible? On TV, a political analyst is saying, “Is this really the country we live in?”
8:00. How fast it changes! The numbers climbing for Kerry. He’s now at 242 electoral votes to Bush’s 249. Ohio, the state that’ll make or break, is too close to call. There’s discussion of uncounted ballots, the “Provisional” ballots. It’s like Florida in 2000.
8:29. Edwards addresses a crowd of cheering Democrats. He says, “We’ve waited four years. We can wait one more night,” and “John Kerry made a promise: every vote counts and every vote will be counted!”
8:40. They’re talking about the lawyers getting involved.
15:00. I put on my sneakers and go out. Here is my Czech street with its cobblestones. Here is the sky, gray and white like it wants to snow but won’t. Here is the potraviny. I buy bottled water and salted cashews. I stop at the post office to send mail. A letter to my mother and my credit card bill. I stop by the internet. I walk a little further to the courtyard in front of St. Ludmilla’s Church. It’s a wide-open space surrounded by benches. Grammas sit on them. Couples kissing. The tram and metro lines both stop here at Namesti Miru and there are people everywhere. Walking, coming, leaving, going, moving, living. And something in me is so sad—for what I’m going back to, the lack of hope. In me, now, the lack of hope: Bush will win.
I look around at all the Czech people, who endured so much at the hands of their occupiers. I am about to return home to a country that democratically elected George Bush, and I’m ashamed. It was easier to deal with when he’d stole the 2000 election. Now I question not the president, but the American people.
I couldn’t be more disillusioned.
18:00. Kerry has conceded the election. Thai food for dinner (Kafka: 2 August, 1914).
18:20. Marketa sends us a text message:
OH NO! IT IS VERY BAD! I WOULD LIKE PLEASE TO CRY! SHIT! I DO NOT UNDERSTAND PEOPLE WHO WANT TO HAVE SO BAD THIS PRESIDENT! DO NOT BE SAD PLEASE I WILL STILL BE YOUR FRIEND EVEN THOUGH YOU HAVE SUCH BAD PRESIDENT! I WISH YOU BETTER TIME MY DARLING.
Funny, looking back on this four years after the fact, that a twenty-two year old Czech girl could be so prophetic.
Funny as in Holy Shit funny. Not hahahahahaha.
I’ve received some lovely emails over the past couple months asking, essentially, if I am dead.
Nope (and here I knock on the desk, which is actually not wood but rather some high-end particle board, maybe? My dad [HI, DAD!] is right now wincing because, at some point, he taught me how to properly identify various building materials. And the different parts of a car engine. And how to shoot. And spit. And drive in the snow, keep your canoe upright when going over a waterfall, and train your dog to heel. Some of these lessons I’ve retained [shoot, spit, drive] and others, alas, have disappeared over time, probably to make room for all the other stuff I’ve had to stuff in my brain over the past decade. Right now, I’m picturing my brain like a large duffel bag, and I’m packing to visit my friend Dia in San Francisco, and can’t fit everything, so what stays and what goes? Do I need both pairs of high heels or can I lose one pair to fit the raincoat? Same thing with my brain—somewhere down the road I forgot about the car engine ‘cause there’s so much Kafka to cram up in there) (and if you say to me, your voice full of scorn, “Well, Megan, knowing your car engine is actually NECESSARY in this life, whereas the Kafka …” and you trail off, like you don’t even need to go on ‘cause your silence speaks volumes to which I’ll reply, with equal scorn: “I’ve got a Triple A card, bitch, and at least, when things get dark, I know that I, too, have my tools.") (Or, "my weapons.") (Depending on the translation).
Like everyone, I’ve been busy; classes and work and Caleb is crawling now, so my days are a crazy, lovely juggle and, amongst all of it, I’ve been carving out writing time, such a precious commodity these days, so when I get it, it goes to my book, not my blog, which you understand, you’re such a nice internet, I adore you, I really do.
But then, things happen that make you want to talk to the world again.
And by things, I mean, of course, the election.
I have voted in three presidential elections, always for the Democrat, not because I’ve been overwhelmed by the candidate but rather because A. the Democratic platform is in keeping with my values and B. the Republican platform … well, it isn’t.
This year, however, is different: I believe in the candidate.
It’s like, I never really got it, the idea of a political leader, someone who could excite and inspire, who could get me thinking in terms of political office as public service as opposed to self service; the system existing to help instead of hinder. I am thirty-three years old, and last week—when I early voted for Obama—was the first time in my life that I voted for someone I was excited about, as opposed to against someone I was afraid of.
There was a moment during the vice presidential debates where Biden was going after McCain about something and he stopped mid-sentence to talk, instead, about Obama. What Obama will do right, as opposed to what McCain will do wrong. I liked that. I liked the focus coming back to the good. The positive. The possible solutions for all this mess, instead of more negativity and bashing and blame.
Cause the truth is?
My belief in Obama is way the hell stronger than my fear of McCain.
That’s some kinda belief there, people.
‘Cause you know my fear of McCain could fill an entire ocean.
The fact of the matter is, I would have voted for the Democrat on policy alone, and I would have voted for the Democrat because the past eight years have been, inarguably—whatever side of the aisle you sit on—a total train wreck, and I would have voted for the Democrat because I find the Republican ticket alarming (my thoughts on this have been expressed with humor, eloquence and obviousness here and here and here and here and here, and here, and, frankly, if I get into this righthere/rightnow, I’ll undoubtedly end up sounding catty, overusing run-on sentences and the caps lock key, and I’m just. so. sick. of all the negativity—of the campaigns, sure, but also in myself; I’m sick of listening to the debates and feeling angry instead of hopeful; I’m sick of watching the news and wanting to throw my coffee mug at the television; I’m sick of the whole water-cooler discussions about the current political landscape and feeling the heat rise behind my skin, as though I’m one of those cartoon characters getting pissed off and slowly filling with red liquid before exploding through the top of my head and getting the ceiling all red and drippy, so instead I’m going to do like Biden and focus on the awesomeness that is Obama instead of the [insert adjective] that is McCain) (Sigh) (Actually, no, I’m not. I’m sorry, I really didn’t want to go there, I really wanted to be respectful, but the fact of the matter is, I don’t feel respected by the man, not in the least. And yes, I disagree with the entirety of his platform, especially concerning education, which has always been my primary voting issue [because A. I honestly believe it can change the world B. it’s my profession and, you know, having a job is a good thing these days and also C. I have a kid. I have a KID!] but even beyond that, the thing that really put the nail in the man’s coffin for me—and there were already a lot of nails, don’t get me wrong, the longest, most dangerous one being his choice in running mate—was his terrifying disdain concerning women’s health during the third debate. The discussion was abortion, a heated topic for everyone, yes, myself included, but in discussing the health of the mother, McCain used actual airquotes, implying that “the health of the mother,” not only mattered absolutely zilch but was also something ridiculous, something trifling. And here’s the thing: like many women, I laid on that hospital table bringing a child into this world, and the thought that, had something gone wrong, my doctor would have been LEGALLY BOUND TO LET ME DIE is appalling. Appalling. Culture of life, in-fucking-deed. And people, I had an easy delivery! I was lucky! I was at an excellent hospital, funded by my husband’s health insurance, with very good doctors whom I trusted, and thankfully, fortunately—God, I was fortunate!—there’d been no difficulties during the course of my pregnancy (which is not always the case. This broke my heart. And made me want to scratch McCain’s eyeballs out) but sitting in my living room with my healthy, happy baby asleep in the next room watching McCain put air quotes around my life was the most disrespectful and insulting moment of this entire campaign. How dare he. How fucking DARE he) BUT! Even with all of that! All my frustration with McCain, and Palin, and Bush, the past eight years, Republican agenda, basing teacher’s pay on test scores, our plummeting 401K, the current value of my home, illogical planning for health care reform ($5000 vouchers? What a joke) and a million other things—my vote for Obama was not just a vote against McCain.
I’ve watched the footage from the Kennedy assassinations. I’ve read about Dr. King. I’ve heard the outpouring of respect for quality, inspired political leadership, and I’ve seen tears when people a generation ahead of me have discussed their deaths. The things is, I never understood it.
At least, not until now.
