Megan Stielstra's Blog

Recently I was asked if this blog was now a baby blog. Because, apparently, all I blog about anymore is babies.

My first response: “This is my blog, I’ll blog what I want to blog, if you don’t want to read it then don’t, there are eleventy-thousand other blogs to read besides this one, don’t dictate my content, go suck it.”

My second: “Me writing a baby blog? I don’t know anything about babies, I can’t write a baby blog, you have to know about a thing in order to blog a thing, like all those design blogs are written by designers, all I know about babies is that I have one. And he’s kicking me right now.”

Third: When Christopher and I first brought Mojo home, all we did was talk about the dog. We talked to each other, to all our friends, I told Mojo stories to my students: Mojo fetches! Mojo ate a light bulb! Mojo glued himself to the floor with the sticky stuff from sticky mouse traps! One night, after we’d had him about three months, we went to this dinner party and told Mojo story after Mojo story until finally, when Christopher was talking, I looked up.

Everyone was bored out of their minds.

They were looking at their plates. Some glanced at each other with the “You change the subject, no YOU change the subject!” look, and on the way home that night I told Christopher I couldn’t talk about the puppy anymore. “I mean, I’m an intelligent person, right? I can talk about things besides the dog! I have other concerns, other interests, other subjects that occupy my mental space!”

Such as:

I think about my husband. How I totally lucked out.

I think about Sydney Bristow and will she ever bring down SD-6 (I’m only halfway through Alias season one—DON’T tell me what happens!).

I think about the chorizo-stuffed dates at Avec (drool drool).

I think about how my friend Jeff just finished the final rewrite of his novel for Simon Schuster and how very proud I am of him.

I think about Amanda closing this week on her house, and how I felt last year closing on mine, and what does it mean to be an adult exactly, and Shit, I don’t know.

I think a lot—an awful lot—about telling stories. About telling good stories, and what does the word "good" mean in that context, and what does that mean insofar as construction vrs. content vrs. delivery, and what's the difference (if any?) between oral and written storytelling, and also how can storytelling change the world which I know is a tall order but man, that's how I've learned anything worth learning in my life: to listen, to consider, to see beyond my perhaps narrow perceptions into someone else's point of view, and while I'm on point-of-view, I think about it not just as an abstract concept but also a tool, like how in Diaz's new novel the first part is told in first person but since I'm not sure who that first person is yet (I'm only part-way through the book, FYI) it feels a lot like a close third vantage-point on Oscar, and then there's that whole 2nd person-italics section where you're really his sister Lola, and then you're in Lola's first person, so maybe part one is Lola, too, 'cept I don't think so 'cause the voice is different and also Lola wasn't there for lots of the stuff that happened to Oscar and, OH! Also there's the more technical first person voice in the introduction who I just imagined was Diaz himself but maybe it's more complicated than that and what does that all do for the STORY? I don't KNOW yet, I'm not DONE with the book, but it certainly makes it more FUN to listen to all these different voices. To see the story from all these different ways. Like how you and your girlfriend have different stories about how you broke up. Maybe you get a fuller story if you get more of a story ... it depends story to story, I guess, and I think all that's FASCINATING. ALIAS is fascinating in how they cut the backstory of Sydney's life with a forward moving action story of her being a spy (in a really hot wig, always. With good martial arts and smokey hidden Japanese warehouses). And also, I just heard Ric Walker’s new 2nd Story story, about the roller derby, and it was so goddamn good that now I have to get to work so he doesn't show me up. And that happens a lot with my students, too: we'll have these conversations that get me all fired up so I have to rush home and start typing. My job lights a continual fire under my ass, people, it's WONDERFUL.

Which brings me to—thinking about my students.

Which brings me to—the current costs of higher education.

Which brings me to—education in general. Not long ago I was in a conversation about property taxes (‘cause I have to, like, pay them) and this woman was saying how it sucks that such a large percentage goes to fund local education. “And I don’t have any kids!” she said. “So MY money is going to pay for somebody ELSE’S kids!” and on one hand I’m like, Are you completely INSANE? How children are taught now is the single greatest factor effecting all of our futures (not to be trite, but—cue Whitney Houston) and I, personally, am thrilled that such a fat chunk of my horrifically expensive property taxes are going to schools (though I have thoughts on how that money could be better spent for better overall results starting with sending that $$%$%!!!!ing No Child Left Behind nonsense back under the rock it was drafted under) ON THE OTHER HAND, I understand the sentiment of NOT wanting one’s tax dollars to be spent on things one whole-heartedly disagrees with (though how this woman could disagree with EDUCATION is still beyond my realm of understanding. I had to take a few deep breaths in that moment, people. Had to walk away. Just turn around and walk away before my brain shot right out my ears). For example, I’d rather my tax dollars not be spent on the war in Iraq. But I don’t get any say in that.

Except for, of course—voting.

Which brings me to—the upcoming primary elections.

Shortly after Christopher and I bought our place in Uptown, we went to a debate between the two Aldermanic candidates for our Ward. I knew nothing about local politics—had never paid much attention as a renter, specifically as a twenty-something college student renter who moved neighborhoods every year. Suddenly, though, I was a home-owner, and my vote for Alderman represented the safety of my neighborhood, the value of my home (re: my entire life savings), the economy of my community, my voice in decisions made about my block, my sidewalk, my very immediate surroundings. It was the first time politics became immediate—not these abstract, far-off questions of values but the nuts-and-bolts activity of walking to the el everyday.

So we got interested—fast—and started to research, to ask questions, and found ourselves a few weeks before the elections in the gymnasium of the local Disney Magnet School with some fifteen hundred of our new neighbors, listening to the two candidates express very different ideas.

This is the thing: they were both Democrats.

I realized, sitting there, how closed-minded I’d been during the past six years. At some point, the word “Democrat” had become “Not Bush,” and it didn’t matter who that Democrat was. They were all the same. They were “Not Him.” Listening to those Aldermanic candidates speak, I realized how wrong, how simple-minded I’d been. However jaded American politics had become for me (influenced, no doubt, by living overseas during the ’04 elections and experiencing an international point-of-view, which was—ahem—not particularly favorable of our current administration), that was no excuse for me not to care. Not to listen to the differences between these people who wanted my vote, so they could represent me, and influence my future, and spend my money.

(for the record, the guy I voted for lost. So I’m also thinking about things I can do in the future so the guy/woman I want will WIN)

I mention this because I’ve been thinking a great deal about the upcoming National primaries. Reading up on some folks. Reading their books, etc. I’d like to be well-informed, instead of just wanting the “Not Him,” and since you can’t study a potential political candidate without looking at political issues, my mind has been working overdrive like a line of Dominoes, starting with education and knocking into health care, equal rights and freedom to marry, funding for the arts, global warming, Iraq, Iran, Darfur, foreign policy in general, medical research, family values, federal funding for National Emergencies (specifically Katrina rebuilding efforts, and now the California wildfires, and will California get all sorts of cash while the South still sits without attention, how does all of that work, and what does it all mean?).

You spend a lot of time turning this stuff over in your brain and two things happen: 1. You get overwhelmed VERY Fast and 2. You realize it’s not just local politics that can touch you. All of it can.

FYI: I’m not trying to make a definitive statement about any of this stuff. Each to their own, right? I’m just saying, for me, that it’s suddenly become very important to know who’s for what, and why.

Here’s what’s funny: I sat down to my computer with the specific intention of NOT writing about my kid, like I needed to prove that my mind still wraps around other things, but the fact is, all this stuff affects him. All this stuff gets bigger and brighter because of him, and not just in an abstract “This is the world I am leaving my son” sort of way. To whit: he will breathe, like, AIR, so I’m kinda concerned about this global warming business. He will, you know, go to school, so this No Child Left Wherever the Hell thing is a big deal. He will, I’m told, absorb stimuli and shit, so there’ll be SIGNIFICANTLY less Sydney Bristow in my living room in the very near future (hence why I’m cramming like an Olympian right now). His whole Universe will be made of stories, and I want them to be good ones—ones that’ll teach him a thing or two. Or make him laugh. Or connect him with bigger things than his little condo here in Uptown AND! you think college is expensive NOW? My kid’ll be in college in TWENTY-TWENTY-FIVE, which means, at the current rate of inflation, four years of undergrad will cost us—carry the five—NINE HUNDRED BILLION DOLLARS.

Sidebar—last month Christopher set up a meeting with our financial advisor to discuss college savings options and it just blew my mind that he’s thinking that far ahead ‘cause I’m all, “In the next five minutes I will need a bagel sandwich,” and that’s about as forward-thinking as I’ve been over the past six months. I guess that’s why we’re a good team, right? I cover the kid’s next five minutes and Christopher plans the next eighteen years? (a question for mothers out there: that’ll change, right? I’ll start thinking long-term again at some point? ‘cause right now I seriously can’t picture anything past this kid’s arrival and I’m just not USED to that, you know? I’m a five-year-plan kinda girl).

—most importantly, though:

I’ve been thinking about how lucky this little guy is. Because his dad is really wonderful.

His dad keeps his mom really calm, and reminds her that thinking about a thing and worrying about a thing are entirely different. One is for panic, and the other is for information.

Here in our house, we’re going to go with the latter.

Oh. And as to whether or not this is now a baby blog?

(please imagine the following in a super-happy-lady voiceover, like the chick who sells toothpaste. Or tampons)

"After all the problems I've had finding the right pants, I can now WHOLE-HEARTEDLY reccommend the Waist-Tab Activewear Pants from Gap Maternity! They are SO COMFORTABLE! And also SASSY!"

Posted by Megan at 9:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)

Posted by Megan at 5:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I was recently asked in an email: “If you had a file folder (or box of some kind), that was labeled "Things to Keep Forever," what would be in it?”

This is a question I can really sink my teeth into, mostly because it involves lists, which is how my brain usually operates (probably because I think/speak/type so fast that I’m only halfway through my first point by the time I’m moving on to my third (which has resulted in all sorts of poorly thought-out decisions on my part over the years) and sub-texting helps me slow down because I can make the list of all my points and then go back to think them through more thoroughly, which is ALWAYS a good idea. See my thirty-year-old self yelling that back in time to my twenty-year-old self: “THINK ALL REASONING THROUGH BEFORE ACTING.” Another way of saying this is, quite simply, SLOW DOWN, which is great universal advice for everything. My teachers always told me to slow down insofar as my writing, but it’s really important for everything: speaking, thinking, relationships, planning, voting, driving, drinking, storytelling, friendship, arguments, discussions, going down the stairs, walking the dog, making decisions, etc.).

SO. Things to keep forever.

1. Journals
I could probably end it right here. I’ve kept journals sporadically since I was fifteen, and seriously (as in writing every day) since I was twenty-five. For a long time I used Watson-Guptill sketchbooks because I wasn’t just writing in them, I was also glue-sticking in letters or concert tickets or movie stubs, story ideas written on the backs of coasters or bar checks. Now, I’m more interested in getting down scenes than saving a ticket, so I use the smaller, more manageable Moleskin (graph-paper if possible, but I’ll use whatever) or, preferably, my laptop, since I’m far enough from grad school to no longer associate “writing in the computer” with “homework.” Also, since I do write every day, storage is just easier in the computer. I don’t have a lot of SPACE—all my old journals are stored in my mom’s attic in Michigan.

That said, nothing can beat a pen and a blank page and a cup of coffee and some uninterrupted time. I’d rather do it longhand, if possible.

2. The first ultrasound photo of our kid.

3. About a million photos from the year Christopher and I lived in Prague. It was the beginning of our relationship, and we traveled and wrote and got to know each other (sometimes I wonder if that’s the reason why we work as well as we do: when we were just staring out, we had no one to talk to except each other. I couldn’t go drink with margaritas with my girlfriends and say, “He said blah blah what does that MEAN?” Instead I had to ask him: “You said blah blah what does that MEAN?” We were talking to each other from the get-go, instead of about each other). This one (July 2004, Rome, Trevi Fountain) is my favorite:

4. A pink telephone message slip, left in my faculty mailbox at Columbia: a student of mine from eight years ago called school to talk with me the week before he shipped out to Iraq. I called him back that night and had one of those conversations that just rocks you back to reality … that reminds you how all these things you spend so much time worrying about?—just. not. important.

As a side note: I’ve always been a worrier (we could also call this an overactive imagination) (we could also call this paranoia); HOWEVER, as soon as I found out I was pregnant, it stopped. Maybe that was because I knew that whatever emotional insanity I put myself through would also be experienced by my kid, but also, moreover, because I realized that nothing was as big of a deal anymore. He was the biggest of deals. There was no point in getting all crazy about a broken traffic light, or a late paper, or a misunderstood conversation when this little human being would be hanging out with me for the rest of my life. It was really freeing, actually, a huge relief because I’ve read that women often start worrying MORE during pregnancy and I felt really lucky to have such an overwhelming sense of calm, of “Nothing else matters, it’s just me and Christopher and our kid, we live in a bubble.”

But the thing is, we don’t live in a bubble. I felt that in a big way last week, with both the tragic loss of a much-loved grad student in my department and Jeanette Sliwinski finally going to trial (more info here).

There is no bubble. There is only living the Hell out of this life, which makes the arrival of this kid all the more amazing and I am lucky, lucky, lucky.

5. A 2003 literary journal from Oakton Community College, also left in my faculty mailbox by a former student. I wrote a story about that journal here.

6. So I’ve read all of Anais Nin’s journals. They fascinate me—the woman wrote every day, multiple times a day, for FIFTY YEARS, and then she REWROTE everything she wrote to put scene on top of the reflection, and also she did things (many of them stupid, but whatever) so she’d have something interesting to write about. The writer’s journal is a major interest of mine: how they’re used, how true they are, etc. PLUS, when I’m reading journals consistently I tend to journal pretty consistently (your reading always influences your writing). PLUS she was really bitchy and catty and had sex with everybody including all her shrinks and her father and all sorts of famous people, et all, and sometimes you just have to laugh, to say, “Anais, are you SERIOUS?”

So anyhow, on our second Christmas together, Christopher gave me a first-edition hand-printed numbered copy of one of Nin’s journals. So that would for sure go into the Things I’d Keep Forever box. So long as the Things I’d Keep Forever Box was housed in a fire-proof bank vault with all the other items whose financial value may someday put my kid through college.

7. Kafka’s journals with all my notes over the years.

8. A copy of Tom Twyker’s The Princess and the Warrior, my favorite movie.

9. A copy of Walden. From my dad.

10. A flier from my show at the Neo-Futurarium a few years ago.

11. This photo of my dog:

12. A glass jar of sand, scooped up from the beach where we got married.

13. A list of all my different account numbers. So I don’t, like, eat cat food when I’m old.

14. The letters R. sent me when I lived In Prague, reminding me to live life like crazy, and including this poem by Hafiz which I've since read about a thousand times:

A Suspended Blue Ocean

The sky
Is a suspended blue ocean.
The stars are the fish
That swim.
The planets are the white whales
I sometimes hitch a ride on,

And the sun and all light
Have forever fused themselves
Into my heart and upon
My skin.

There is only one rule
On this Wild Playground,

For every sign Hafiz has ever seen
Reads the same.

They all say,

"Have fun, my dear; my dear, have fun,
In the Beloved's Divine
Game,

O, in the Beloved's
Wonderful
Game."

15. When I was twenty-one, Jeff made this list of everything I said I wanted someday at my wedding (note: I was unable, at the time, to make my own list, because I was drunk. People: DRINKING AND WRITING IS BAD. You miss all the good stuff!). There were sixteen items on this list, including a beach, and being given away by Jeff, and an empty wine glass with an amplification system for me to pound on whenever I wanted to kiss my husband.

Jeff gave me this list, torn from his ten-years-ago journal, at my bachelorette party in August, 2006. I didn’t even remember its existence, but was happy to see that out of the sixteen things I'd drunkenly wanted back then, my grown-up self had unconsciously planned for twelve of them. It was this great feeling—that I WAS having the wedding I’d always dreamed of (even if it didn’t consist of fancy dresses and giant cakes and expected traditions) and I was blown way that Jeff would keep this thing for an entire decade. Sort of a testament to the awesomeness that is our friendship.

ANYHOW: the day after my bachelorette party, Jeff and I had lunch and I made a list for what he wants HIS wedding to be. That will, for sure, go into my box of Things To Keep Forever, so I can give it to him at his bachelor party.

Or, more appropriately, he can find it lodged between the stripper’s muscled butt cheeks Oh My Gosh did I just say that aloud?

16. A mini-flask of Maker’s Mark. In case of emergency.

Note: I reserve the right to add to this list.

Posted by Megan at 1:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

My dad is here visiting. I’ve written about him here and here and here but the short version is this: he lives on Kodiak Island in the middle of the Gulf of Alaska. He spent two years building a boat in a garage and “whacks” salmon all summer long. He and my Uncle Chuck spend an inordinate amount of time at “Moose Camp.” I have many photographs of him wearing camouflage on mountaintops with dead things. He brought three things with him on this particular trip to “The Lower Forty-Eight”:

1. His bow, for a month of deer hunting in Michigan.
2. One hundred pounds (!!!!!!!!) of red salmon for my refrigerator.
3. His dog, Sadie, an English Setter and impeccably-trained bird hunter. For example: yesterday, as she and Mojo and I walked down Lawrence Avenue, she pointed every pigeon (Mojo stopped and looked at her like, What the Hell are you doing?)

He is VERY excited about being a grandfather, and—this is so awesome—has saved many of the things he made for me in his woodshop back when I was a kid. The giant box of blocks, the dollhouse, the rocking llama (the man BUILT me a LIFE-SIZED ROCKING LLAMA. Why, you ask? Because, “Everybody’s got a horse.” Can we TALK BOUT HOW AWESOME THAT IS?). For years, he’s hung on to all this stuff for his someday-grandchild (never saying so, of course, ‘cause if he’d TOLD me he’d driven the llama from Michigan to Alaska, schlepped it on the ferry boat across the ocean, stored it in his basement for fifteen years until the much-anticipated day when I’d email him an ultrasound photo and he could drive that llama BACK across Canada and deliver it to his grandson—well, that’d be waaaay too much pressure for a girl like me, people).

Anyhow, in case I haven’t mentioned it, we have some serious space challenges at our place. It’s perfect for two, and, I think, can handle three quite well assuming we keep organized—but there’s this issue of STUFF.

People keep telling me this kid’s going to need STUFF. NEED, they say (and I’m like, Really? NEED? Bugaboo is basic necessity of life?), and when they say STUFF the word comes out in all caps. For the record, I don’t do well with STUFF, baby or otherwise. I’ve got a lot of books, sure, but for the most part, Christopher and I are pretty minimal. Before we moved to Prague, we sold most everything on Craig’s List (Dear Craig’s List, I love you) and then, before we bought this place in Uptown, we sold most everything else and now live comfortably and simply in our beautiful home. There’s no clutter—no random boxes of “What the Hell is in this random box?” There are books and art and balconies and a great kitchen and huge windows and high ceilings and I love, love, love it. Recently, though, someone told me, “You’re going to have to move. There’s no way you can bring up a child in this small a space.” I thought, Yeah, it’ll be tight, but it’s still a two bedroom. It’s still 1000 square feet. Plenty of people in the world bring kids into the world in small spaces without a magic singing Elmo baby swing that hangs from doorframes, dammit, I can, too!

HOWEVER: I AM sad that we can’t currently house the rocking llama because A. it’s supercool and B. my dad BUILT IT. Realistically, though, by the time my son can sit on his own (and understand the fairly complex concepts of “grandpa” and “llama” and “built it for your mother in 1977”), we’ll be living somewhere big enough for the rocking llama. Somewhere with a rocking llama STABLE. Like a huge mansion with servants quarters and a Scarlet O’Hara staircase. Or one of those minimalist super-designy modernizations of a welder’s loft. With built-ins. Like in Dwell Magazine. Dear Dwell Magazine I love you give me a house and also, Dwell Magazine, you should TOTALLY do a feature on us. With our rocking llama. As soon as we have space for it. Which, right now, we don’t.

This is what I told my dad.

“You hang on to the llama for now,” I told him. “And the blocks. But for sure I want them in a couple years.”

Because I really DO want them. They’re AWESOME. My dad is AWESOME. Not ONLY because he built a boat. Not ONLY because he hikes mountains everyday. Not ONLY because he’s fun, and has a woodshop, and made me a llama instead of a horse, and takes Christopher bow hunting, and comes to Chicago to hang out with me when I’m pregnant, and saves stuff in his basement for fifteen years, but also because he said this:

“What about the dollhouse?”

“What do you mean, What about the dollhouse?” I said.

“Don’t you want the dollhouse?”

“Well, we’ll see if our next kid is a girl,” I said. “If so, you bet I want the dollhouse—“ it’s SUPERCOOL, that dollhouse. Two stories with a shingled attic and working lights and a huge staircase. When I was a kid I made furniture for it out of Legos— “If I end up with another boy, maybe we see if Mary or Jen—” my sisters-in-law— “ever have girls and then we can—”

My dad cut me off. We were sitting in the Golden House diner, him drinking coffee and me eating toast. After breakfast, he’d be leaving for Michigan to hunt with his brothers, and he was already wearing a camouflage jacket and boots—a mountain man. He trails elk. He drives an argo into rock lands. He’s as tough as they get, my dad, and he looked at me—his supposedly liberal, progressive, citified daughter; the one who should’ve been saying, “My child will be free of gender stereotypes, free, I tell you, FREE!”—and he said, “I think it’d be great if my grandson had a dollhouse.”

My dad rocks.

Posted by Megan at 6:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

There’s a new Chicago literary magazine—

A quick tangent:

I love that sentence. “A new Chicago literary magazine.” I also love “new Chicago reading series,” and “new Chicago storytelling venue,” and “new website for Chicago writers,” and anything that adds to the rapidly growing Chicago literary scene. The loss of Punk Planet was a major kick in the teeth for me—I cheered for everything about that team, the work they put out and what they did for Chicago writers (not to mention musicians, filmmakers, (anti) marketing, media-junkies, etc.)—but it’s wonderful to see that even WITH that setback, the Chicago scene is alive and well. The best part is, I’m sure I don’t know the HALF of what's out there which means there's always something new to discover. Hold your index finger an inch away from your thumb—that’s what’s on my radar insofar as writing in this city, and I flatter myself to think I might know more than the next guy.

Who DOES know a lot—dare I say ALL—are Gretchen Kalwinski and Eugenia Williamson at Literago, an indispensible resource for local writers and readers, and people who want to publish local writers and readers, or love writers and readers, or are sleeping with writers and readers, or WANT to sleep with writers and readers (of which I KNOW there are many because I used to be one of them, until I met/slept with/married another one of them, Yaaaay Happy endings!).

Anyhow: Literago. You should go there. You should also give them money. Or presents. You should make them a nice casserole dish and leave it on their front porch, because those girls attend like every lit event in this entire city of which there are many many many, so who has time to cook?

End Tangent.

—called The Bruiser Review. The magazine dubs itself “Stories for the Morning After,” which A. is awesome and B. gave me pause when Simon, Brusier’s editor-in-chief, invited me to read for their launch party. Usually, when I’m asked to read somewhere, I say yes, and do a little happy-dance, and try to find something that’s appropriate for the venue/audience/publication ('cause a lot of times readers don't do that and it really bugs me, and isn't there some Socratic formula about That Which Pisses One Off Should Not Be Then Done By One?) but this time I imagined myself, standing in front of a Brusier Review crowd, so big now that when I look down I can’t see my toes over my stomach, and no one would be paying attention to my story-for-the-morning-after because my physical apperance is a story-for-the-morning-after in and of itself.

But maybe not the one that Simon was going for.

Then, I remembered Gina Frangello (who I love love love), eight months pregnant on her book tour for My Sister’s Continent, reading from wild S&M sex scenes with her smile and her stomach and her stiletto high-heeled boots—that, my friends, is the definition of BADASS—and I realized that if I DIDN’T read for something as tough-sounding as The Brusier Review when I was six months pregnant then I was a big fat wuss.

I’m a lot of things, but a wuss is not one of them.

I don’t even like that WORD.

So anyhow, I’m super-excited to read tomorrow night for the new Chicago literary magazine, The Brusier Review, along with Billy Lombardo and Brian Costello (both of whom are favorites of mine). Familiar faces in the crowd are always appreciated, plus WHO KNOWS? You may end up with a story for the morning after.

Although, if it results in pregnancy I’d suggest a bit of pre-planning.

Either way, it’d be a good story: “Well, Junior, I was at a launch party for The Brusier Review and I met this, like, writer, and this was back in the day when I was really into sleeping with writers. And sometimes readers … "

More information is here.

Posted by Megan at 6:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

This week I'll be presenting for Columbia College's Creative Nonfiction Week which, outside from being an enormous honor, is also making me drool a little because of all the amazing writers and artists in the line-up including Art Spiegelman (!!!!!!!!!!!!!) and Alex Kotlowitz (!!!!!!!!!!!!!), both of whom are heroes of mine.

I'll be a part of a panel discussing the telling of stories through sound and image, speaking specifically to the personal narrative storytelling and music collaboration we do with 2nd Story (this does not mean, for the record, that I'm going to speak all scholarly about the fundamentals of storytelling. It means I'm going to tell a story with a DJ about sex and music. Like how I lost my virginity to Purple Rain. And how now, in my thirties, I'm worried that maybe losing one's virginity to Purple Rain is a cliche. And also I got dumped one time to Soft Cell's Tainted Love, which is just sad. Very sad. There was also an unfortunate incident with Peter Gabriel's In Your Eyes, but you'll just have to come, people; I can't give away ALL my secrets on the internet! Some of them have to be given away during a scholarly presentation concerning the fundamentals of collaborative storytelling!). Also on the panel are Chicago Tribune photographer Antonio Perez, Chicago Public Radio senior content developer Justin Kaufmann, Chicago Public Radio reporter Natalie Moore and documenter Ted Hardin.

If any of you are free that afternoon, it should be a good time (and ART F'ING SPIEGELMAN reads afterwards, which is maybe the most exciting thing in the UNIVERSE!), and I'd love to see some familiar faces in the crowd.

Thursday, October 18th
3 pm, Film Row Cinema, 1104 S. Wabash, 8th floor
FREE!

There's more information (including the entire week's schedule) here.

Posted by Megan at 10:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Posted by Megan at 7:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Lately, we’ve been throwing out all the random stuff that's collected in our closets and cabinets and drawers: the Christmas decorations and summer clothes and old files and boxes (you’re never exactly sure what’s IN those boxes, only that you NEED them). I'm always amazed by the sheer volume, as well as the fact that I have no idea where the majority of it all CAME from.

ME: Is this your plastic penguin?
CHRISTOPHER: What do I need with a plastic penguin?
ME: You think I need a plastic penguin?
CHRISTOPHER: (wisely remains silent)

Some of the stuff, however, is gold: Christopher was going through an old box from when he was a kid, so I sat on the floor with him, looking at all sorts of old photos and letters and journals, and remembered that he had this whole existence entirely separate from our current life together. I like those moments: they remind you that there's always more to discover.

For example, Christopher had to write a Personality Sketch in the seventh grade, and his dad thought that was such a cool assignment that he did it for him.

My father-in-law is AWESOME.

Posted by Megan at 1:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Today I called the Alamo shoe store with an inquiry.

ME: Hi, I was wondering if you carried the Keen Stockholm boot?
SALESLADY: Let me check.
(pause)
SALESLADY: We expect them with our next delivery.
ME: Great! When do you expect your next delivery?
SALESLADY: Oh, I’m sorry, I must have forgotten to bring my crystal ball to work with me today!
(hangs up)

I sat there for long time with the phone to my ear, as though this hadn’t really happened. As though I was still on hold, and she’d be back in a moment to explain that they really have no set schedule for delivery and she’s very sorry, she doesn’t know. Or even—and I know I’m going out on a limb here—can she take down my number and call me when they arrive? But that didn’t happen. What happened was I sat there on a dead phone, imagining myself putting on my shoes, going to my car and driving over to Uncle Fun on Belmont. There, I purchase a crystal ball, and then I drive back North to the Alamo shoe store where I walk in, find that saleslady and hand her the crystal ball. Then I stand there waiting. And when she looks at me in surprise, I ask, very politely, “Could you please tell me now when you expect the delivery of Keen Stockholm boots? So I don’t make a trip over here for nothing? If you’re unsure of the exact day of said delivery, it’s no problem, I can telephone you tomorrow, and the next day as well, or I can just go down the street to Hanig’s where the salespeople are really nice and don’t mouth off to pregnant customers who just want to buy a pair of decent fleece-lined boots for the upcoming winter without having to run all over the city when their back hurts from the extra load. So. If you could just look into that there ball and tell me what you see, I’d be most appreciative! Thank you! I’ll WAIT!”

Posted by Megan at 11:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Nick says I have to list five things that some people may consider "lame," but I, despite the possible stigma, am totally proud of.

For the record, I consider myself pretty lame in general and how can I limit the list to just five? But here goes:

ONE
I talk to my dog as though he were a human. Also, I narrate his inner monologue aloud. Also, Christopher and I sometimes communicate through him (“Mojo, tell your mother to turn down the television”) and also I think he has superpowers. Dog people reading this will understand what I’m talking about, non-dog people will probably think I’m crazy, and everyone will think I’m crazy when I admit that over the past few months, I’ve compared raising my child to raising my puppy.

(I’m still not sure if I should be admitting that last part because I’m sure to get all sorts of “friendly explanations” in the comments about how children and dogs are different. Thank you, but it’s really not necessary. I understand that my child will be different from my dog. For example, I saw my child on the ultrasound last week and he has only TWO legs, and—get this!—I read in anatomy books that he’ll walk UPRIGHT).

TWO
I watch really bad movies. I watch good ones, too, but for the most part it’s high-action exploding ninja vampires with genetic disasters trying to explode Los Angeles. Last week, Jeff and I watched Resident Evil and Resident Evil II in the afternoon and then went to the theater for Resident Evil III (I wondered, at one point, if my kid, deep in utero, could hear the six straight hours of zombie movie soundtrack, like those parents who play their unborn children Beethoven so it’ll be smarter, which, of course, I’ll end up doing. Beethoven, and also classic rock and good electronica and probably hip-hop since both his dad and I are (ahem) rhythmically challenged so any heads-up we can give him would be much appreciated). If you go into my netflix account you’ll see Underworld I and II, Die Hard I through IV and Seasons four, five and six of 24 back-to-back. This disturbs my husband to no end, and he’s retaliating with Out of Africa, Babel, and The English Patient, all of which are award-winners and far superior in script, scope, artistry and cinematography to anything I bring into the house; in short, they are awesome. My husband is awesome. He has kick-ass taste. What I have are stacks and stacks of writing to read, for my students and 2nd Story, plus books and books and books, and sometimes I have to just shut down my brain and watch some schlock. Some high-action schlock. With vampires. And nuclear explosions set to go off in four minutes if Jack Bauer doesn't get there in time.

THREE
ME: What’s something lame about me?
CHRISTOPHER: Is this a trick question?
ME: Nick tagged me with a q-and-a thing.
CHRISTOPHER: Oh. In that case, you hate the Bears.
ME: I hate bears?
CHRISTOPHER: THE Bears. The bears the football team the Bears? And you call yourself a Chicagoan.
ME: I didn’t know I hate the Bears.
CHRISTOPHER: You do.
ME: Do I hate the Bears or am I ambivalent to the Bears?
CHRISTOPHER: I DO NOT WANT TO GET INTO A DISCUSSION ABOUT THIS YOU ASKED ME FOR SOMETHING LAME HATING THE BEARS IS LAME.

(two hours later)

ME: I don’ think I have feelings either way about Bears.
CHRISTOPHER: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
ME: OKAY! I’M DROPPING IT!

FOUR
I have this pair of sweatpants. They're four years old and splattered with paint and full of holes, including holes in the butt, and Christopher keeps nicely suggesting that maybe I get some new ones and I just can't 'cause they're the most comfortable thing in the Universe. And then I start thinking about stereotypical gender roles and how I'm the one who should be making him get rid of schkeevy old clothes but really, he doesn't have any, he's always very well put together even when he's slumming around, and then I want to go shopping, and get a pedicure, and new shoes and a coat and blue pashmina wrap.

But not new sweatpants.

FIVE
I’ve drank nearly two gallons of Gatorade in the past four days.

Posted by Megan at 10:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

The comment section is now working! Christopher went into the interweb and fought with something very vicious and now everything is fine. He also recovered some fifty comments made over the past several months that I never saw, so ... HI! Hi everyone who's been commenting! Y'all are super-great! And you should keep commenting 'cause now I can read them!

Unless you are spam. Then I don't want your stinkin' comments (or your Viagra or Turkish women or whatever you're trying to sell me).

Posted by Megan at 9:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Do you think my son will be mad that I put pictures of his penis on the internet?

Did you just see how I said that?

MY SON.

my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son my son

Posted by Megan at 9:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Have I told you about my friend Dia?

We met twelve years ago at Innertown Pub, which—if you’ve never been—was (maybe still is?) your typical hipster dive with the cheap drinks, the line at the pool table, and the potential for hook-ups but not nearly as pretentious as Rainbo around the corner. Not that I knew that at the time; this was my first night in Chicago. My first fake ID. I was TERRIFIED. I was IN A BAR. What did you, like, DO in one of those? I was supposed to, like, ORDER SOMETHING. That was probably NOT a Zima. Essentially, I was about as big of a dork as one could possibly be, and why I wasn’t kicked out of there I’ve no idea.

What made Innertown so great (aside from the fact that you could drink there underage) was the jukebox, which was STELLAR. Old R&B and metal and classic rock and retro pop and tons of indie. Every time a song came on at least ten people would throw their arms in the air and yell, NO WAY! as though they didn’t know it was possible for someone other than themselves to dig that song. On the night I met Dia, the song was Chaka Khan’s Tell Me Something Good, and she was dancing. FYI: Innertown is not a place for dancing. It’s for drinking and smoking and pool and watching the door for someone cute and/or dangerous and more drinking and shots and sometimes fights and sometimes puking in the bathroom and sometimes drunken-spectacle dancing, but that’s not what Dia was doing. She was just dancing. She does that—hears a song and starts dancing. In the car, the kitchen, fancy restaurants, conference rooms, classrooms, backyards, doesn’t matter where. She doesn’t do it to see if other people are watching her like most people (“Is he watching me shake my ass? Does he think he can GET a piece of this ass?”), she does it ‘cause she likes it, and also it’s how she burns off steam. As I learned over the years that followed—as we became friends, roommates, better friends, colleagues, and even better friends—she’d start dancing ‘cause it was better than yelling, or crying, or pacing, or freaking out or any number of things we do to deal with stress (and Dia works in non-profit arts education, which means stress-without-end).

A few years ago, she moved away to San Fransisco. Sometimes I hate San Fransisco. Because it gets her when I don’t. When I need my best girlfriend to take me out dancing so I won’t scream. Or maybe martinis. Or to help me find the right pants, or cry with, or talk catty with about other people (specifically other women and their outfits), or watch some stupid Sandra Bullock movie with (and she’ll never tell anyone I actually like such trash (even though I DO, I DO!). I’ll deal with her so far away, though, because we still talk every week, and I can fly to California for dancing and sushi and coffee and shopping and house parties, and because I know how happy she is there in the sunshine, so close to the ocean, and mostly because her girlfriend Jessica is there and they’re insanely in love. Not just in love but in GOOD love. Healthy love. Love that’s going to last. Love that stays wild and new even after years of making it through serious and heavy. Love without the sap—with all the fantasies of what we all want our relationships to be—and seeing your best friend feel that way is about the greatest thing in the Universe.

That’s what Dia said to me at my wedding, seeing Christopher and I like that. And that’s what I plan on saying to her at her wedding.

Writing this for Dia and Jessica counts up there among "Most Important Things I've Ever Done."

Maybe somewhere in the great soup of it all we can make some sort of difference.

Dia and Jess at my wedding, August 2006

Posted by Megan at 8:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)