« March 2008 | Main | May 2008 »
ME: So what are you going to do this year?
CHRISTOPHER: ???
ME: When you were twenty-six, you started your own business and had a kid.
ME: When you were twenty-five, you got married and bought a house.
ME: When you were twenty-four, you got a dog and a grown-up job.
ME: When you were twenty-three, you finished college and spent the year in Prague.
ME: What are you going to do this year, now that you’re twenty-seven?
CHRISTOPHER: (thinks) I’m going to relax.
So on May 10th I’m doing this story at 2nd Story about faking it, specifically some of the different personalities I’ve gone through over the years—hippie, Goth, Sandra Dee, academic, rocker girlfriend—and were any of them the true me? and is it even possible to tackle that question without sounding totally pretentious? Probably not. But I’m going to try. And will make fun of myself with much viciousness, I assure you, because you can’t talk about how self-important you were at eighteen without being self-deprecating.
Anyhow, we’re using music to get at some of these personalities—the Indigo Girls phase, the NIN phase, the techno phase, the Modest Mouse phase, etc.—and so yesterday I get this email from my director, Sara Kerastas (this girl kicks ass, FYI), saying that she and my sound designer (Tamara Roberts, who also kicks ass) were talking about the music for my story and were thinking that, what with all these songs that represented different personalities I faked my way through, what was a song that represented my actual, true, authentic self that we could use for outro music?
My first thought was, Excellent idea!
My second: How on Earth do I pick ONE SONG?
Nick Hornby wrote an entire novel on this question, so I won’t go on too long here; suffice it to say I’ve spent the past three days thinking about this question, going through my music library, reliving my past, looking up lyrics on the internet, thinking, Is THIS my authentic self? Or was this my self at twenty-five? Or did this just help me get over somebody, or through something, and is this one really me or do I just like to dance to it, or maybe it isn’t me at all, it just, like ROCKS.
Here were some contenders:
Just for Now (live in Toronto), Imogen Heap. Modern Girl, Sleater-Kinney. Heartbeats (live), The Knife. Legend of a Cowgirl, Imani Coppola. Draw Down the Stars, Tom McRae. Sweet Dreams (Made of This), Eurythmics. Pills, Gary Jules. Nostalgie Amoureuse, Zap Mama. Maps (live), Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Tsunami, Res. Ambulance, TV on the Radio. Hit Me with Your Best Shot, Pat Benetar.
Here’s the winner:
(that said, Sara and Tamara will have final say on what works with the story. I’m glad to be in their hands).
So we’ve got this routine going, Caleb and I, where after breakfast he sits in his bouncy chair—
I’m going to pause for a moment to sing the praises of this bouncy chair, not because I’m all consumer-product-placement, but because however much you might WANT to, you can NOT hold a baby all day long nonstop. It’s just. not. possible. There are basic necessities that need attending (re: eating and peeing and pumping). There are basic elements of sanity that require a bare minimum of time (re: napping and writing and thinking quietly, listening to yourself breathe and remembering that such breathing is necessary to properly care for your child. A lot of moms forget that, I think. I know I did for a while). This is where the bouncy chair comes in. Caleb loves it. He’s safe in it. I can put it on the bathroom floor and take a shower, the kitchen floor and do dishes, underneath my desk and write. I can have TWO WHOLE HANDS. Seriously, I’ve never had as much appreciation for my two hands as I have these past few months, when Caleb required AT LEAST one of them AT ALL TIMES, but now he chills in this seat and I get BOTH OF THEM TO MYSELF (sometimes only for a few minutes, but you’d be surprised at what a few minutes can get you). All of you reading this right now? Look at your hands. I’d wager you’re on a computer: put your hands on the keyboard and appreciate the two of them, the ease and speed and fluidity of typing with both. For the first couple months of Caleb’s life, I did everything—writing, blogging, emailing, emailing, emailing—with ONE HAND. Now, for the most part, I have both again. BECAUSE OF THE BOUNCY CHAIR. LOVE THE BOUNCY CHAIR, PEOPLE. SACRIFICE A F’ING GOAT.
(also, it’s pretty. And most baby stuff is not).
—so. Our routine: Caleb’s in the bouncy chair, I do laundry or dishes or whatever needs to be done around our house to keep everyone sane, and we rock out to Regina Spektor’s Begin to Hope.
This is not to say that Caleb is a Regina Spektor fan, per say. I’m not sure what kind of music he likes at this point, although we listen to it all the time and try new stuff every day to see what he reacts to. So far—nothing. Not music, anyway: he jumps when Mojo barks, flails his head around when he hears my voice and, yesterday, when Christopher was putting away groceries, he started bouncing and laughing. Via process of elimination, we realized that it was the plastic grocery bags eliciting this response. Christopher leaned over him with the bag and crinkled it, and Caleb thought that was just the shit (made me think of that scene in American Beauty where the guy’s talking about the beauty in a plastic bag). SO: my kid’s favorite music at this point is a plastic bag (maybe he’ll be into Califone? That band that incorporates ripping duct tape and shuffled playing cards into their tunes?).
ANYHOW, what Caleb DOES like, if not Regina Spektor, is watching me rock out to Regina Spektor. I fold laundry, wave T-shirts in the air, dance all around, jump on the bed, and Caleb thinks I’m the coolest thing in the Universe.
(Dear Caleb: when you wake up one day totally humiliated by everything your dad and I do, know that it’s entirely your fault that we’ve both become idiots. Me dancing with bath towels to Regina Spektor? Me sticking carrots up my nose? Me chewing on the dog’s ears? I do these things because they make you laugh, make you wave your fat little arms, smile big gummy smiles—the stupider I act, the more awesome I am in your eyes. For now. When you’re three months old. And the thing is, kiddo, I’m not sure when that all stops—when I’m suddenly supposed to act cool again, when I’m supposed to stay out of your way so you can read Camus and be agnsty, when I’m supposed to “act normal.” So, just tell me, okay? You don’t want me acting like a dork? –tell me to stop, ‘cause the second most important thing in my life is for you to think I’m the most awesome thing ever, and right now that includes carrots and dancing and crinkling plastic bags.
The first most important thing, in case you’re wondering, is to be a good parent, and often that has little to do with you thinking I’m awesome).
So we’ve been listening to Begin to Hope every morning and one of the songs is called That Time. Of course, if you listen to a song day after day it can’t help but permeate your very skull—music AND lyrics—and the lyrics of this thing have been rattling around in my head. Pretty much every line starts out HEY REMEMBER THAT TIME, and she’s singing to one specific person about all these things they’ve been through together. It’s like a little window (for the good and the bad) into their relationship. Plus, I think, it’s a great way to get at stories: to just sit and HEY REMEMBER THAT TIME with someone.
Hey remember that time when we took out your screen, stuck our feet out the window and watched the lightning storm?
Hey remember that time when we saw the Czech hookers in the rain?
Hey remember that time when you told me condo developers were more likely to sell to a married couple?
Hey remember that time when you threw the coconut out the window?
Hey remember that time the baby puked on your head?
Hey remember that time the puppy puked on your head?
Hey remember that time, after you proposed, and we went to Meijer’s to get champagne and strawberries and were so giddy and stupid we left them at the check-out?
Hey remember that time you smuggled Maker’s Mark back from London?
Hey remember that time with the hookah at the teahouse?
Hey remember that time we got our EKG read for tattoos?
Hey remember that time we tried to watch only war movies and by the time we got to Platoon I cried in the bathroom?
Hey remember that time we went to the beer tasting and you drank mine and yours and then tried translating Czech for all those guys even though you didn’t speak it?
Hey remember that night before we left—you’d cleared out the entire apartment except the mattress and the next day we put it in the dumpster before we caught our plane?
Hey remember that time I only ate cottage cheese?
Hey remember that time we didn’t have an oven for two years?
Hey remember that time we missed three flights in a row out of Paris ‘cause we kept forgetting to leave?
Hey remember that time my Uncle Mike gave you a cross bow?
Hey remember that time we followed John Malkovich around the flea market?
Hey remember that time in the secret lake behind my dad’s house?
I do this exercise sometimes—in classes or in my journal—with Joe Brainard’s I Remember. It’s the same thing, really, except with That Time you’re getting to know a relationship and with I Remember you’re getting to know yourself.
And you can’t dance for your baby to a book as well as you can to a song.
Although, to be fair, I haven’t tried it yet, and now would certainly be the time. If I make an ass of myself, this kid’ll love me all the more.
There are dates—I see them as little dots across my lifeline—that changed everything, that sent me spinning in another direction, that make me look back on the girl I was prior to that day and think, Who the Hell were YOU?
February 2nd is one of those dates: Caleb was born, and even though it was just three months ago, the whole of my life has changed.
August 4th is another: I got married.
December 1st: I became a homeowner (or, I no longer had any life savings. Or, for the first time in my life, I was IN DEBT. Good debt, yes, but DEBT).
January 2nd: I stopped waiting tables after a decade.
August 15th: I moved to Chicago.
August 11th for two reasons: my birthday, mostly, but also the day I stood on Petrin Hill overlooking Prague and decided I would move there.
April 21st: Christopher and I were friends, first. And there’s that fear, when you finally own up to the fact that you’re attracted to a friend, that taking it to a different level will hurt the friendship. That wasn’t the case with us, though. We just fell into it: no worrying, no fear. It was the easiest decision I’ve ever made; actually, it didn’t even feel like a decision. There was no Should I or shouldn’t I? There was only Well, of course. And Now it begins. And What did I do to deserve this so I can repeat that action five thousand times?
Four years ago today my friend kissed me for the first time—on a pier, at night, in the rain—and everything changed. Two weeks later I moved in with him—his studio apartment in Roger’s Park—and a month after that we moved to Prague—a fourth-floor walk-up on a cobblestone street—and a year after that we moved back to Chicago and started building a life together here.
Two years ago today he proposed—on a dock, just before night, just before a thunderstorm—and four months later we got married—on a beach, just before sunset—and a month after that we bought our home—across from the Aragon, serenaded by drunks at two a.m. when the shows let out.
Today, as I write this, our kid is asleep in the next room, and who was I before that kiss on the pier?
Who cares.
So, Caleb hates pants.
When you put pants on him, he cries; take them off, he stops.
This is not a huge deal now, but I'm concerned that in a year or so, when he's able to take them off by himself, we'll have all sorts of inappropriate situations: naked in the grocery store, naked in the museum, naked in school. Can you imagine the phone call from his teacher?
HER: Hello, Mrs. Jobson? It's about Caleb. There's an issue with his ... pants.
ME: What kind of issue?
HER: He threw them out the window.
ME: Which ones?
HER: Pardon?
ME: Which pants did he throw out the window?
HER: Uhm ... they were green.
ME: Oh, that's fine. The green ones were from Target. Now if he'd thrown the denim, that would have been a problem. His Uncle Dave had those special-made in Belgium.
HER: ????????????????
ME: We feel it's important that a child learns priorities.
Last summer, I was lucky enough to read at the Fixx Reading Series curated by one Amy Guth, who, besides being super-cool in that If I can't BE her, then maybe I can be her best friend sort of way, is also the brain and manpower behind the Pilcrow Lit Festival.
On May 22nd through the 25th, the Pilcrow Literary Festival will bring together writers, poets, librarians, booksellers and publishers from around the country together in support of small presses and independent media through small workshops, panel discussions, lectures and author readings. These events are free and open to the public (donations always rock!).
I'm so excited about this I can't even handle it. First of all, it's about f'ing time! A wider discussion on independent media is loooong overdue, and I love learning about (and giving my money to [hi, Christopher! Caleb doesn't need more diapers, right?]) small publishing houses: those that love their writers; that produce edgy, thoughtful work; that care about design, and risks, and publicity, and new talent, and talent. Second, I get to meet all sorts of kick ass people doing kick ass things who will hopefully kick my ass and get me back to work. Third, I'll be sitting on a couple of panels discussing issues I can really sink my teeth into: What makes a good live reading and The multi-format writing process (I'm not totally sure what that means, FYI, but figuring it out sounds like a good challenge).
The full calendar of events is here. If you'd like to hear me babble and possibly stumble across something intelligent, you can do so here:
Saturday, May 24th from 2:00 to 2:45 / Breaking Form: Multi-format writing processes.
Saturday, May 24th from 3:00 to 3:45 / Giving Good Read: Reading curators and hosts discuss what makes a reading great.
There's also a little interview with me here.