When it comes to deciding upon a get-away destination, Winona, Minnesota might not be at the top of your list.
Which is okay. It wasn't at the top of mine, either. Aside from being words that are fun to bounce off the tongue, Winona, Minnesota didn't mean anything to me.
Then I went there to do a reading. Are you allowed to have as much fun at a reading as I had that night in Winona?
To be fair, I've had fun at all of the places I've been including that reading where hardly anyone showed up and no one thought I was even mildly entertaining, and there was an old guy sleeping in the back row. My brother Mitchell and his wife Lucy traveled great distances to be at that reading, and after it was over, I told them they should not drive any more great distances, they should instead come sleep at my hotel. There are two beds in my room, I said. Come stay with me. So they did. And after we settled in, me in my bed, and Mitchell and Lucy in theirs, Mitchell took control of the remote control. He flipped through the channels and stopped when he stumbled upon some porn.
Only it wasn't porn, exactly. Except that it was porn, sort of. It wasn't dwarf porn or donkey porn or even plain old ordinary cable-guy-comes-a-callin' porn. It was more like Instructional Porn. It was strange because there were naked people, and they were doing it, but what they were doing was being narrated by an objective third party. The third party narrator was also naked, but she was mostly there to explain in a flat, clinical voice what it was they were doing. It was boring porn, like the kind the DMV might produce if the DMV produced porn.
"What is this?" I said.
My brother said he thought it might be HBO.
"Where are they?" I said. I couldn't get a handle on the setting.
My brother said he thought it was a basement. He pointed out there weren't any windows.
"They must have a very minimal operating budget," I said.
My brother agreed, pointing out the cheap paneling.
"What are they doing?" I said because there seemed to be some hunkering, and that's when Lucy sat up. "That's enough!" she said. "I can't believe two you are watching that! I think it's weird," she said. "It's weird that you two are watching porn together."
We were in the same room and porn was on and though we hadn't watched it for more than a few minutes, I guess my brother and I were watching porn together. We were not, however, watching porn together. But that's semantics. When your brother's wife tells you to quit watching porn with your brother, you listen. The next thing Mitchell found to watch was a documentary about the history of corn. I know it sounds like a joke--we went from porn to corn--but I assure you this is no joke. I learned that the plant corn has been so domesticated it will longer grow without human intervention.
ANYWAY.
Last week I got to read at The Book Shelf in Winona. This is a fantastic bookstore: not only does it share space with a cafe called The Blue Heron (you want to eat at The Blue Heron, believe me), it's also warm and friendly and Lisa Gray who works there has the best laugh and Chris Livingston who owns the place is a guy who knows books. We swapped titles and Chris sent me home with Allison Bechdal's Fun Home, and I am so in love with it I am going to teach it this fall. And the people who came to the reading did not fall asleep. In fact, they were quite the opposite: these people were very much awake. The conversation was lively and smart and funny.
Because that's what you want in a bookstore. You want it to be a place where people who don't know each other come to know each other. A place of community.
You can't get that on Amazon. But you can in Winona. Seriously, I am going back just to hang out in Chris' store.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Book Clubs!
I did a phone-chat with a book club in southern California over the weekend. (Hi Laura! Hi Teresa!) I thought it was a lot of fun, and since writing is such a solitary job, it's great to hear what readers have to say and learn what readers are curious about.
So if your book club is reading I'm Sorry You Feel That Way, and you're interested in me talking to you, drop me an email at
imsorryyoufeelthatway at live dot com
If you're within a reasonable driving distance from southern Minnesota, I can be there in person; if not, I am a chatty Cathy on the telephone.
So if your book club is reading I'm Sorry You Feel That Way, and you're interested in me talking to you, drop me an email at
imsorryyoufeelthatway at live dot com
If you're within a reasonable driving distance from southern Minnesota, I can be there in person; if not, I am a chatty Cathy on the telephone.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Tomato, Tomahto
A woman in Montreal says my book is terrible. A preacher in North Carolina says my book is his favorite. There's a reader who says I have no redeeming qualities. There's a reader who says I am funny and smart and full of life and love. One reader says I'm glib about being a terrible mother while another says the love I have for my son is clear.
The conclusion I've come to is this: some readers like my book but some readers don't.
I think this is where 15 years of teaching at the college level comes in handy. I'm used to being reviewed. Fifteen years is thirty semesters, and at the end of each of those semesters, students in my classes fill out anonymous class evaluations. Thousands of students have rated, critiqued, evaluated the job I did--did they learn anything; was the course well organized; did I seem interested in teaching the class; was I enthusiastic, did I seem like I knew what I was talking about, and so on. My students never give me high marks in organization (and they're right, though I always try to be organized, I really do try! and fail) but the majority of them rate me well in everything else.
Except for one person. There's always one person every semester who's not happy with me, one person who gives me zeros in all categories.
And sometimes that person writes in a comment, too, to further express his or her dissatisfaction.
My favorite of these was this: "Every time Diana says good morning it makes me want to vomit."
I'd only been teaching a year or two when I got that comment, and I remember it made me feel 1) amused; and 2) sort of bad. I talked to the guy who was my department chair about it, and he said, "Well, it looks like you pissed someone off. That's not necessarily a bad thing. It means you've done your job. It's not good if everyone hates you but it's also not good if everyone loves you. If you haven't pissed at least one person off, then you haven't done your job."
I think that's true for writers, too.
The conclusion I've come to is this: some readers like my book but some readers don't.
I think this is where 15 years of teaching at the college level comes in handy. I'm used to being reviewed. Fifteen years is thirty semesters, and at the end of each of those semesters, students in my classes fill out anonymous class evaluations. Thousands of students have rated, critiqued, evaluated the job I did--did they learn anything; was the course well organized; did I seem interested in teaching the class; was I enthusiastic, did I seem like I knew what I was talking about, and so on. My students never give me high marks in organization (and they're right, though I always try to be organized, I really do try! and fail) but the majority of them rate me well in everything else.
Except for one person. There's always one person every semester who's not happy with me, one person who gives me zeros in all categories.
And sometimes that person writes in a comment, too, to further express his or her dissatisfaction.
My favorite of these was this: "Every time Diana says good morning it makes me want to vomit."
I'd only been teaching a year or two when I got that comment, and I remember it made me feel 1) amused; and 2) sort of bad. I talked to the guy who was my department chair about it, and he said, "Well, it looks like you pissed someone off. That's not necessarily a bad thing. It means you've done your job. It's not good if everyone hates you but it's also not good if everyone loves you. If you haven't pissed at least one person off, then you haven't done your job."
I think that's true for writers, too.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
When I clear away all of my thoughts, push away all the noise and chaos of my thoughts, there's always a song playing underneath it all--like I've got a 24 hour dee jay on duty in my head spinning records at all times. Sometimes the song stays with me for days, but other times, the dee jay will lift the needle mid-lyric and put on something else. Something random. Right now, inexplicably, that song is "Angry Young Man" by Styx, but when I woke up this morning, it was Gloria Estefan's "Words Get in the Way."
I don't know what this is all about. It's not like I even those songs. I don't remember hearing them recently, though I can imagine that maybe "Words Get in the Way" was playing at the grocery store while I was shopping for kitty litter and cheese ravioli and it evilly worked its way into my subconscious.
It's not like I am fanatic about music, either. It's good to dance to, and it's necessary for road trips, and when I was a teenager, I listened to it a lot more than I do now. These days I like quiet. I need silence. There are times when even the sound of the cat purring can irritate me. Or the jingle-jangle of the pug's tags can drive me to distraction.
My students and I have talked about the idea of a soundtrack-in-your-head. Some of them know exactly what I'm talking about while others say they don't have one. I wonder why that is and what it's all about.
I don't know what this is all about. It's not like I even those songs. I don't remember hearing them recently, though I can imagine that maybe "Words Get in the Way" was playing at the grocery store while I was shopping for kitty litter and cheese ravioli and it evilly worked its way into my subconscious.
It's not like I am fanatic about music, either. It's good to dance to, and it's necessary for road trips, and when I was a teenager, I listened to it a lot more than I do now. These days I like quiet. I need silence. There are times when even the sound of the cat purring can irritate me. Or the jingle-jangle of the pug's tags can drive me to distraction.
My students and I have talked about the idea of a soundtrack-in-your-head. Some of them know exactly what I'm talking about while others say they don't have one. I wonder why that is and what it's all about.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
I hope his spelling/grammar have improved
I was going through some old Word Document files, and I came across this. I pilfered it from the About Me section of The Boy's MySpace page--back when people still used MySpace. I'm guessing it's from fall of 2006. The Boy would have about 14.
It's pretty self-explanatory, though the lines in red are me adding my two cents.
My name is THE BOY. i hate muffins. i hate pancakes. i hate hippies. i hate emo people. i pretty much hate breakfeast. i like doughnuts. i like bagels. im short. (That is due to his father's faulty DNA) i hate rich stuck-up people who think there better than everyone else. i also hate people who think their smarter than everyone else. i like my friends. i partys. i like soda. i like gum. i like mints. i like ramen. i like music, mainly system of a down. i was born in Pittsburg. my birthday is 420 (april 20th). i dont really have a favorite color. i hate gothic people. i hate people who smoke. i hate it when im bored. i used to play guitar. i used to play drums. i like pepsi and hate coke. i hate drugs (not pharmaceuticals but like cocanie and weed etc.) i frequantly download songs and movies off the internet (for free) if you have a problem with that go to hell. i hate wooden pencils. i hunt deer, again if you have a problem with that i dont f*cking care. i hate it when people exaturate everything. i hate it when people use sarcasim for every little thing. i hate it when people hate your mom, or your face. i hate inside jokes that people never explain. i like gambling. i moved here from colorado. i lived in syracuse, new york. my mom is an english prof. she taught donovan mcnabb (quarterback for the philadelphia eagles)when he went to syracuse. (It's true. He was in my Freshman Comp class at Syracuse when I was a TA. This may be the only thing about me that normal teenage boys think is slightly cool.) i like subway. i hate mc donalds and burger king. i go to west. i live like a block away from west. i hosted the first annual ramen feast on 9/19/06. i like ice cream. i hate the feel of news paper. i like money. but not enough to be greedy about it. i like traveling (on airplanes). i travel (on airplanes)alot. i like popcorn. i hate "movie theature" pop corn cause it tastes like paper. my family is messed up. (Well, THAT's certainly true. On his father's side) im a half-uncle. i hate crooked cops. i fall down my stairs alot. some might say im accident prone. i hate chain emails/bulletins. i hate it when its really hot out. i hate being sick. i like snow. i like rain. i like thunder/lightning storms. i like oceans/lakes/waterfalls/rivers/streams/creeks/ponds (What about puddles? Does he like puddles? I should ask him.). i like mountians. i like skiing. i like koolaid. i hate it when people are mad at me. i hate secrets. i hate people who f*ck things up (Me, too.)
It's pretty self-explanatory, though the lines in red are me adding my two cents.
My name is THE BOY. i hate muffins. i hate pancakes. i hate hippies. i hate emo people. i pretty much hate breakfeast. i like doughnuts. i like bagels. im short. (That is due to his father's faulty DNA) i hate rich stuck-up people who think there better than everyone else. i also hate people who think their smarter than everyone else. i like my friends. i partys. i like soda. i like gum. i like mints. i like ramen. i like music, mainly system of a down. i was born in Pittsburg. my birthday is 420 (april 20th). i dont really have a favorite color. i hate gothic people. i hate people who smoke. i hate it when im bored. i used to play guitar. i used to play drums. i like pepsi and hate coke. i hate drugs (not pharmaceuticals but like cocanie and weed etc.) i frequantly download songs and movies off the internet (for free) if you have a problem with that go to hell. i hate wooden pencils. i hunt deer, again if you have a problem with that i dont f*cking care. i hate it when people exaturate everything. i hate it when people use sarcasim for every little thing. i hate it when people hate your mom, or your face. i hate inside jokes that people never explain. i like gambling. i moved here from colorado. i lived in syracuse, new york. my mom is an english prof. she taught donovan mcnabb (quarterback for the philadelphia eagles)when he went to syracuse. (It's true. He was in my Freshman Comp class at Syracuse when I was a TA. This may be the only thing about me that normal teenage boys think is slightly cool.) i like subway. i hate mc donalds and burger king. i go to west. i live like a block away from west. i hosted the first annual ramen feast on 9/19/06. i like ice cream. i hate the feel of news paper. i like money. but not enough to be greedy about it. i like traveling (on airplanes). i travel (on airplanes)alot. i like popcorn. i hate "movie theature" pop corn cause it tastes like paper. my family is messed up. (Well, THAT's certainly true. On his father's side) im a half-uncle. i hate crooked cops. i fall down my stairs alot. some might say im accident prone. i hate chain emails/bulletins. i hate it when its really hot out. i hate being sick. i like snow. i like rain. i like thunder/lightning storms. i like oceans/lakes/waterfalls/rivers/streams/creeks/ponds (What about puddles? Does he like puddles? I should ask him.). i like mountians. i like skiing. i like koolaid. i hate it when people are mad at me. i hate secrets. i hate people who f*ck things up (Me, too.)
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
This picture makes me want to acquire every My Little Pony there is, even if it means whacking some little girl on her little head with a little broom then prying the Little Pony out of her sticky little hand.
And I don't even like My Little Ponies.
I just like acquiring. I like having one of every thing in a set. I collect snow globes; Barbie Dolls; husband and wife folk art figurines (I picked up a pair in West Virginia made out of coal.) I collect tiny carved Buddhas; pink Pyrex dishes. I seem to be acquiring more and more items that have skulls on them. It's a sickness, this need to gather dozens and dozens of like objects and arrange them just so, and I'm not the only one. People collect coins and stamp and Star Wars figurines, but what about the weirdos who collect those freebie disks AOL sends you in the mail? Or airsickness bags? What about arenophiles?--they haunt beaches scooping up sand and storing it forever in small, airtight containers.
And that's just collections that begin with the letter "A."
The Boy has it, too, the sickness. I got to realizing this when he cleaned his room and hauled boxes and boxes of stuff down to the basement. Beanie babies and Pokemon cards, Lego sets and Pogs. The things of his childhood, his fleeting passions contained in cardboard and sealed up with masking tape.
I wonder what this urge to collect is all about. I wonder if it has something to do with a longing for order, if it's a way to impose order on chaos. If you see the world as a chaotic place (and I do), then collecting lets you be the master of a tiny, more manageable world, one you can make less wild, one you can insist makes sense.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Starred Review in Library Journal
Elizabeth Brinkley - Library Journal
Despite the mouthful of a title, there isn't an excess word in this smart and tightly constructed debut. Fans of David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell will appreciate Joseph's portraits of the men in her life. From her young son's trench foot to her blue-collar father's attempt at a sex talk, these impeccably detailed stories are as heartfelt as they are trenchantly funny.
Despite the mouthful of a title, there isn't an excess word in this smart and tightly constructed debut. Fans of David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell will appreciate Joseph's portraits of the men in her life. From her young son's trench foot to her blue-collar father's attempt at a sex talk, these impeccably detailed stories are as heartfelt as they are trenchantly funny.
Review in Wisconsin State Journal
Writing teacher's memoir full of heart
Jeanne Kolker
State Journal
March 13, 2009
Diana Joseph's memoir carries this hefty subtitle: "The Astonishing But True Story of a Daughter, Sister, Slut, Wife, Mother, and Friend to Man & Dog." It's a collection of essays about the men in Joseph's life, but even more than that, it's a glimpse inside a complicated, hilarious, depressed, sometimes depraved and painfully honest mind.
Joseph's style is easily compared to that of David Sedaris or Sarah Vowell, as the latter discovered Joseph's work in a writing contest. Each chapter is written almost like a letter to an old friend, and each revolves around a particular male in her life, be it her father, ex-husband, son or dog. It's through these disjointed tales of men, boys and mongrels that a picture emerges of the woman writing these most personal of letters.
Joseph teaches creative writing at Minnesota State University in Mankato. In one story she comments on the superficiality of her friendships with colleagues at her job at an unnamed college, where part time she teaches composition to freshmen. She's invited to dinner parties with nature-loving cat people, and she feels as though she doesn't belong.
"When people weren't talking about their cats, they were repeating what they heard on NPR, or recounting what they saw on PBS, or reporting what they read in The New Yorker. I wanted to write my name in Cheez Whiz and dot the i with a heart. I wanted to tug down my neckline and hitch up my skirt and talk about something I'd learned on 'The 700 Club' or 'The Oprah Winfrey Show.'"
She insists in every entry that she's just your average woman who's fallen in love with the wrong man on a regular basis, who takes offense at the term "slut" because she fears it might describe her. Her take on relationships is sometimes funny, but most often an essay ends on a poignant, sad note. She's seen a lot of heartbreak in her life, yet the one constant and constantly entertaining figure in her life is her son, whom she only refers to as "the boy." He's a teen who embraces capitalism and the NRA and professes his hatred of Bob Dylan and hippies.
It's the boy who provides many of the laughs: he got trench foot from wearing the same pair of soggy socks day after day. Her father also provides some comedy, insisting on going shirtless at all times, even on Christmas and his daughter's graduation.
While the stories aren't necessarily heart-warming, there's a lot of heart in Joseph's book (Putnam, $24). She tells of mundane experiences, like watching her aging in-laws scream at each other from their matching recliners while a Lifetime Original Movie plays in the background. It's a scene many will recognize, yet Joseph paints the picture with beauty and sadness. She sets scenes that most anyone can identify with, but processes them in a way few would consider. For a book with such a wordy subtitle, the writing is sparse and direct, drawing a reader in and not letting go until the final, striking vignette.
Jeanne Kolker
State Journal
March 13, 2009
Diana Joseph's memoir carries this hefty subtitle: "The Astonishing But True Story of a Daughter, Sister, Slut, Wife, Mother, and Friend to Man & Dog." It's a collection of essays about the men in Joseph's life, but even more than that, it's a glimpse inside a complicated, hilarious, depressed, sometimes depraved and painfully honest mind.
Joseph's style is easily compared to that of David Sedaris or Sarah Vowell, as the latter discovered Joseph's work in a writing contest. Each chapter is written almost like a letter to an old friend, and each revolves around a particular male in her life, be it her father, ex-husband, son or dog. It's through these disjointed tales of men, boys and mongrels that a picture emerges of the woman writing these most personal of letters.
Joseph teaches creative writing at Minnesota State University in Mankato. In one story she comments on the superficiality of her friendships with colleagues at her job at an unnamed college, where part time she teaches composition to freshmen. She's invited to dinner parties with nature-loving cat people, and she feels as though she doesn't belong.
"When people weren't talking about their cats, they were repeating what they heard on NPR, or recounting what they saw on PBS, or reporting what they read in The New Yorker. I wanted to write my name in Cheez Whiz and dot the i with a heart. I wanted to tug down my neckline and hitch up my skirt and talk about something I'd learned on 'The 700 Club' or 'The Oprah Winfrey Show.'"
She insists in every entry that she's just your average woman who's fallen in love with the wrong man on a regular basis, who takes offense at the term "slut" because she fears it might describe her. Her take on relationships is sometimes funny, but most often an essay ends on a poignant, sad note. She's seen a lot of heartbreak in her life, yet the one constant and constantly entertaining figure in her life is her son, whom she only refers to as "the boy." He's a teen who embraces capitalism and the NRA and professes his hatred of Bob Dylan and hippies.
It's the boy who provides many of the laughs: he got trench foot from wearing the same pair of soggy socks day after day. Her father also provides some comedy, insisting on going shirtless at all times, even on Christmas and his daughter's graduation.
While the stories aren't necessarily heart-warming, there's a lot of heart in Joseph's book (Putnam, $24). She tells of mundane experiences, like watching her aging in-laws scream at each other from their matching recliners while a Lifetime Original Movie plays in the background. It's a scene many will recognize, yet Joseph paints the picture with beauty and sadness. She sets scenes that most anyone can identify with, but processes them in a way few would consider. For a book with such a wordy subtitle, the writing is sparse and direct, drawing a reader in and not letting go until the final, striking vignette.
Review in Philadelphia City Paper
I'm Sorry You Feel That Way: The Astonishing but True Story of a Daughter, Sister, Slut, Wife, Mother and Friend to Man and Dog
By Diana Joseph > Putnam
224 pp. > $23.95
Once in a lifetime, if you're lucky, you fall in love with a man who's big and strong and never wrong. Whatever his failings — and they are many — he is yours and you are his. You never quite get over your father, but you move on to other men — men who don't measure up, or hurt you in the same way Daddy did, or find tricks you never imagined you'd fall for. Diana Joseph didn't set out to write a memoir that revolves around the men in her life, but after she sensed a pattern to her essays — first one about her son, then his father, then her own — she kept going. Each chapter of I'm Sorry You Feel That Way reveals something about its author by studying one of her intimates, but because life is the way it is, the monkeys don't wait patiently in their cages for their names to be called or exit on cue. Old resentments against her ex resurface in her relationship with her kid, just as childhood memories of church influence her feelings about the friendly Satanist who lives in her building. It's those complications that make these guys so relatable, so realistic. We all have a good friend who needs a kick in the balls sometimes; we all have a boss who makes us feel special or like shit, depending on his mood. And if we didn't already know these guys so well, Joseph's wry observations would make us feel like we did.
-M.J. Fine
By Diana Joseph > Putnam
224 pp. > $23.95
Once in a lifetime, if you're lucky, you fall in love with a man who's big and strong and never wrong. Whatever his failings — and they are many — he is yours and you are his. You never quite get over your father, but you move on to other men — men who don't measure up, or hurt you in the same way Daddy did, or find tricks you never imagined you'd fall for. Diana Joseph didn't set out to write a memoir that revolves around the men in her life, but after she sensed a pattern to her essays — first one about her son, then his father, then her own — she kept going. Each chapter of I'm Sorry You Feel That Way reveals something about its author by studying one of her intimates, but because life is the way it is, the monkeys don't wait patiently in their cages for their names to be called or exit on cue. Old resentments against her ex resurface in her relationship with her kid, just as childhood memories of church influence her feelings about the friendly Satanist who lives in her building. It's those complications that make these guys so relatable, so realistic. We all have a good friend who needs a kick in the balls sometimes; we all have a boss who makes us feel special or like shit, depending on his mood. And if we didn't already know these guys so well, Joseph's wry observations would make us feel like we did.
-M.J. Fine
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Karl Bennett vs. The Fireman Merman
Last September, my first husband, my that-was-then husband, the Boy's father, was coming through Minnesota on his way back to his home in central New York. He'd been in Colorado. He goes to Colorado every fall to hunt mule deer and/or elk. A few times, the Boy has gone with him, and during one of those hunting trips, the Boy bagged a mule deer, which he then dressed--which actually means the opposite: it means gutting and skinning--and he brought home a cooler packed full of meat, which we slow-cooked in stews or sliced into slivers then fried in butter. I don't love deer meat but I've eaten enough of it that I like it okay.
I don't think the Boy loves venison all that much, either, but he knows the rule: you kill it, you eat it.
His father follows that rule, too, and he has another: you kill it, you hang its head on the wall. (If you've read "What's (Not) Simple," the essay in the book about this man, you know his aesthetics include deer heads, lots of deer heads.)
I don't much like that rule. So imagine how unthrilled I was to find the skull-and-antlers hanging in my pretty blue dining room. The Boy's father put it there when he came through Minnesota last fall. I'd left the house for the day so the two of them could spend some time together and when I came home, my framed watercolor of flowers was propped against a chair and Bambi's mom was hanging on the wall. My former husband knew I would turn up my nose at this decorative choice, he knew I wouldn't like it, he knew I'd raise a fuss. In fact, he was counting on it. I know he thought hanging it there was pretty hilarious. He was hoping to get my goat.
Which is exactly why I left it there. And every time the Boy snickered then asked me how I felt about the death skull, I said I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't want to give either of them the reaction they wanted, a satisfying reaction, one where I squawked or fussed.
My friend Jess gave me this for Christmas last year.
It's a fireman merman Christmas ornament! Isn't it awesome? I loved it so much that when Christmas was over, I didn't want to pack it up. I wanted to be able to see it all the time. So I found the perfect place for it.
I think I might be the only person in the world who has this. I like that. A lot. And I cannot wait for the next time my ex visits Minnesota.
I don't think the Boy loves venison all that much, either, but he knows the rule: you kill it, you eat it.
His father follows that rule, too, and he has another: you kill it, you hang its head on the wall. (If you've read "What's (Not) Simple," the essay in the book about this man, you know his aesthetics include deer heads, lots of deer heads.)
I don't much like that rule. So imagine how unthrilled I was to find the skull-and-antlers hanging in my pretty blue dining room. The Boy's father put it there when he came through Minnesota last fall. I'd left the house for the day so the two of them could spend some time together and when I came home, my framed watercolor of flowers was propped against a chair and Bambi's mom was hanging on the wall. My former husband knew I would turn up my nose at this decorative choice, he knew I wouldn't like it, he knew I'd raise a fuss. In fact, he was counting on it. I know he thought hanging it there was pretty hilarious. He was hoping to get my goat.
Which is exactly why I left it there. And every time the Boy snickered then asked me how I felt about the death skull, I said I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't want to give either of them the reaction they wanted, a satisfying reaction, one where I squawked or fussed.
My friend Jess gave me this for Christmas last year.
It's a fireman merman Christmas ornament! Isn't it awesome? I loved it so much that when Christmas was over, I didn't want to pack it up. I wanted to be able to see it all the time. So I found the perfect place for it.
I think I might be the only person in the world who has this. I like that. A lot. And I cannot wait for the next time my ex visits Minnesota.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Does anyone know if they even still make Twix Java?
Dan is my kind of guy, and by this I mean he is a guy with opinions about candy bars, very smart opinions, as evidenced in the following email:
Diana,
I'm not sure if you're all about freezing candy; it happens to be a practice I engage in frequently. The Twix Java happens to be a fantastic candy bar to freeze. The method does some freaky-good things to the caramel. If you're opposed to freezing candy due to dental limitations or personal preferences, please disregard this e-mail; otherwise, I recommend you try it.
Dan
Regarding this practice, I say yes, Dan, oh yes. I am most assuredly all about freezing candy, and freezing the Twix Java is the smartest suggestion I've heard in days. But, friend, while I can imagine--I can almost know--the chewy pull freezing would grant the caramel, I am also here to tell you, I'll never know it. Because the Twix Java wouldn't last in my freezer long enough to reach a frozen state.
Jon and I got to drooling over the Twix Java especially when I pitched forth the idea that it be chopped up and mixed into cheesecake then the cheesecake be drizzled with chocolate. A vanilla wafer crust, said Jon to which I said that's right, and I told him of candybar-inspired cheesecakes from my past: Heath Bar; Yorks Peppermint Patty; Snickers.
Which got me to thinking about Eric who always bought Snickers bars from the campus vending machine because they weigh more than other candy bars, and Regis who thought heaven was melting a Snickers in the microwave then eating it over ice cream, and how in 1998, when I was twenty-seven years old, broke and separated from my first husband, I was trying to scrape together enough cash to make my car payment, pay for day care and rent, but mostly I wanted money to pay a lawyer to file the papers that would get me a divorce.
I adjuncted for fifteen hundred bucks a class, but I also landed this weird little side job. I found myself ghosting writing a novel that was Bildungsroman/love triangle/thriller/murder mystery; it had subplots involving corrupt cops and a bank heist, a puppy mill, and a kind-hearted nun running a nearly bankrupt orphanage. The imagination behind this very complicated narrative was an old fart, a retired rancher named Pat Rich. People called the English Department all the time looking for help writing their books, but Pat Rich was the first one who didn't flinch when I said it would cost him $25 an hour. (I bet he would have paid even more.) Pat Rich wore a baseball cap set back real high on his head, and sometimes the Boy-- he was what? four or five years old at this time, sometimes he would set his own baseball cap back high on his head and cry look at me! I'm Pat Rich!
Pat and I met that spring once or twice a week in the coffee shop across the street from campus, and I would try to talk to him about how writing is a series of choices and every choice the writer makes has an effect. I was even more earnest then, only two years out of grad school, but Pat Rich didn't give a shit about choices or effects or my MFA or that my teachers had been Tobias Wolff and Michael Martone and Melanie Rae Thon. Mostly Pat wanted me to remind him of where the story left off the week before, and then he wanted me to shut up and write down what he wanted to have happen next.
I guess I wasn't even really a ghost writer. I was more like the person who took dictation and then I was the person who typed it up. A secretary like from the 1950's, I guess, is what I was. Pat Rich paid me cash. He carried the cash in a briefcase, a briefcase full of cash like what the family hands over to the kidnappers, and I'd take that cash -- it was never less than $250 bucks; I always told him at least ten hours as the time I put into his book for a week and at first, when I was still trying to help him write a good story, that was true -- I'd take that money to the bank, but not before stopping at the Conaco station for a scratch-off lottery ticket and a Snickers.
I've been trying to remember the last time I ate Snickers, and I don't think I've eaten one since those days dealing with Pat Rich. I didn't see his book the whole way through; summer school started, and I was teaching three sections in one session, and I couldn't keep on top of all the reading and still get his typing done, and he got pissy about it. The Boy and I would see him a few months later at Red Lobster, and he looked right past me, like I'd never spent hours and hours listening to him tell me his crazily complicated story about the sweet nun who was in love with the Mexican-American whose father was an illegal alien who picked peaches in the orchards in Palisade, Colorado.
I think Pat Rich was the closest I've ever come to having a sugar daddy.
Anyway, I bought myself box of Twix Java back in fall of 2007--there were 36 in the box--and I gave that box to a friend (who shall remain nameless as this person claims not to have a sweet tooth, which I think means he/she doesn't deserve a name) and I said do not ever give these to me. Not even if I demand them. Not even if I make threats. Not even if I cry. Instead, I want you to dole them out one at a time whenever you think of it. Surprise me with one every now and then. Because I can't think of anything better than something sweet when sweetness isn't expected.
But it's been seventeen months. There's only one Twix Java left. And I haven't seen Twix Java in a grocery store or a gas station or a vending machine for a very long time. The last one in the box could be the last one I ever have. I can't help wondering if I will, when the time comes, joyfully savor the experience or if I'll just gnaw on that candy bar knowing this is it, this is the end, there's no more where that came from. If I'll turn sweetness into bitterness in no time flat. I bet I will.
Diana,
I'm not sure if you're all about freezing candy; it happens to be a practice I engage in frequently. The Twix Java happens to be a fantastic candy bar to freeze. The method does some freaky-good things to the caramel. If you're opposed to freezing candy due to dental limitations or personal preferences, please disregard this e-mail; otherwise, I recommend you try it.
Dan
Regarding this practice, I say yes, Dan, oh yes. I am most assuredly all about freezing candy, and freezing the Twix Java is the smartest suggestion I've heard in days. But, friend, while I can imagine--I can almost know--the chewy pull freezing would grant the caramel, I am also here to tell you, I'll never know it. Because the Twix Java wouldn't last in my freezer long enough to reach a frozen state.
Jon and I got to drooling over the Twix Java especially when I pitched forth the idea that it be chopped up and mixed into cheesecake then the cheesecake be drizzled with chocolate. A vanilla wafer crust, said Jon to which I said that's right, and I told him of candybar-inspired cheesecakes from my past: Heath Bar; Yorks Peppermint Patty; Snickers.
Which got me to thinking about Eric who always bought Snickers bars from the campus vending machine because they weigh more than other candy bars, and Regis who thought heaven was melting a Snickers in the microwave then eating it over ice cream, and how in 1998, when I was twenty-seven years old, broke and separated from my first husband, I was trying to scrape together enough cash to make my car payment, pay for day care and rent, but mostly I wanted money to pay a lawyer to file the papers that would get me a divorce.
I adjuncted for fifteen hundred bucks a class, but I also landed this weird little side job. I found myself ghosting writing a novel that was Bildungsroman/love triangle/thriller/murder mystery; it had subplots involving corrupt cops and a bank heist, a puppy mill, and a kind-hearted nun running a nearly bankrupt orphanage. The imagination behind this very complicated narrative was an old fart, a retired rancher named Pat Rich. People called the English Department all the time looking for help writing their books, but Pat Rich was the first one who didn't flinch when I said it would cost him $25 an hour. (I bet he would have paid even more.) Pat Rich wore a baseball cap set back real high on his head, and sometimes the Boy-- he was what? four or five years old at this time, sometimes he would set his own baseball cap back high on his head and cry look at me! I'm Pat Rich!
Pat and I met that spring once or twice a week in the coffee shop across the street from campus, and I would try to talk to him about how writing is a series of choices and every choice the writer makes has an effect. I was even more earnest then, only two years out of grad school, but Pat Rich didn't give a shit about choices or effects or my MFA or that my teachers had been Tobias Wolff and Michael Martone and Melanie Rae Thon. Mostly Pat wanted me to remind him of where the story left off the week before, and then he wanted me to shut up and write down what he wanted to have happen next.
I guess I wasn't even really a ghost writer. I was more like the person who took dictation and then I was the person who typed it up. A secretary like from the 1950's, I guess, is what I was. Pat Rich paid me cash. He carried the cash in a briefcase, a briefcase full of cash like what the family hands over to the kidnappers, and I'd take that cash -- it was never less than $250 bucks; I always told him at least ten hours as the time I put into his book for a week and at first, when I was still trying to help him write a good story, that was true -- I'd take that money to the bank, but not before stopping at the Conaco station for a scratch-off lottery ticket and a Snickers.
I've been trying to remember the last time I ate Snickers, and I don't think I've eaten one since those days dealing with Pat Rich. I didn't see his book the whole way through; summer school started, and I was teaching three sections in one session, and I couldn't keep on top of all the reading and still get his typing done, and he got pissy about it. The Boy and I would see him a few months later at Red Lobster, and he looked right past me, like I'd never spent hours and hours listening to him tell me his crazily complicated story about the sweet nun who was in love with the Mexican-American whose father was an illegal alien who picked peaches in the orchards in Palisade, Colorado.
I think Pat Rich was the closest I've ever come to having a sugar daddy.
Anyway, I bought myself box of Twix Java back in fall of 2007--there were 36 in the box--and I gave that box to a friend (who shall remain nameless as this person claims not to have a sweet tooth, which I think means he/she doesn't deserve a name) and I said do not ever give these to me. Not even if I demand them. Not even if I make threats. Not even if I cry. Instead, I want you to dole them out one at a time whenever you think of it. Surprise me with one every now and then. Because I can't think of anything better than something sweet when sweetness isn't expected.
But it's been seventeen months. There's only one Twix Java left. And I haven't seen Twix Java in a grocery store or a gas station or a vending machine for a very long time. The last one in the box could be the last one I ever have. I can't help wondering if I will, when the time comes, joyfully savor the experience or if I'll just gnaw on that candy bar knowing this is it, this is the end, there's no more where that came from. If I'll turn sweetness into bitterness in no time flat. I bet I will.
Monday, March 16, 2009
People who've read the book sometimes want to know about the Boy
People who've read the book sometimes want to know about the Boy, how does the Boy feel about the book, what does he think about it.
I think of the book as a photo album, and the essays are like photographs, pictures I took at a specific moment in time. In the book the Boy is little--five, ten, eleven, thirteen--and now he's almost 17. The Boy is handsomer than ever, but trench foot is no longer a problem. Politcally, he's become more Libertarian than Republican. He doesn't hold my hand in public any more, but the other day when I picked him up at the airport, he waited patiently while I slobbered kisses on him.
When I was working on the book, I told The Boy I was writing about him and my life and our life--"You can read it if you want," I said, "but you should know there's stuff about my sex life in it"--he said he wasn't interested. Then the review in Entertainment Weekly came out. That's when he got interested. He said he wanted to read the book.
"That's good," I told him. "I want you to. But you should know that when you read this book you're going to find out things about who I am as a person, and usually people don't know who their parents are as people until they're a lot older than you. Some people never know. And once you know something, you can't not-know it."
He said that was fine, and he took the book to bed with him that night.
In the morning, he came downstairs and said he'd read the book.
"What'd you think of it?" I asked him. I was anxious about his reaction. More than anyone else in the world, I care what he thinks.
The Boy shrugged. "There were things about your sex life I didn't need to know," he said. Then he brought up those gold bars his father bought during Y2K. The Boy said he remembered those gold bars. He wondered if his dad still had them.
That was it. That was all he had to say. Though just yesterday he bought me a fondue pot and said it was my good-job-for-writing-a-book present.
What's interesting to me is how we respond to a book read at a certain age, and how that response can be so different later. Like Catcher in the Rye. The first time I read Catcher in the Rye, I was fifteen, and I fell madly in love with Holden Caulfield. I wanted to know how come I didn't know any boys like Holden Caulfield. I thought he was intense and passionate and angsty and so alienated. Then I reread it at age thirty, and I thought this kid is bipolar, this kid has A.D.D., if he was a kid today, they'd have him on Riddlin and Prozac.
I also loved Flowers in the Attic at age fifteen. I loved that book a lot and read it over and over. I haven't read it since 1985, but I remember its story vividly, I remember being scandalized by it but also completely caught up in it. Sometimes I think about rereading it now, but I'm afraid to. I'm worried that the Adult Me will roll her eyes at the Teenage Me and ruin Flowers in the Attic forever. Adult Me ruined my reread of Kerouac's On the Road in the first ten pages.
So I expect the Boy's reaction will shift and change as he gets older. Maybe someday he'll reread my book and have questions for me. Maybe someday he'll reread it and get angry with me or say he's so ashamed or ask how could I do this to him. Or maybe he'll understand something about his mother he didn't understand before. Maybe someday, he'll have a child of his own--a daughter, I always imagine him with a daughter--and that will change his reading of it yet again.
I think of the book as a photo album, and the essays are like photographs, pictures I took at a specific moment in time. In the book the Boy is little--five, ten, eleven, thirteen--and now he's almost 17. The Boy is handsomer than ever, but trench foot is no longer a problem. Politcally, he's become more Libertarian than Republican. He doesn't hold my hand in public any more, but the other day when I picked him up at the airport, he waited patiently while I slobbered kisses on him.
When I was working on the book, I told The Boy I was writing about him and my life and our life--"You can read it if you want," I said, "but you should know there's stuff about my sex life in it"--he said he wasn't interested. Then the review in Entertainment Weekly came out. That's when he got interested. He said he wanted to read the book.
"That's good," I told him. "I want you to. But you should know that when you read this book you're going to find out things about who I am as a person, and usually people don't know who their parents are as people until they're a lot older than you. Some people never know. And once you know something, you can't not-know it."
He said that was fine, and he took the book to bed with him that night.
In the morning, he came downstairs and said he'd read the book.
"What'd you think of it?" I asked him. I was anxious about his reaction. More than anyone else in the world, I care what he thinks.
The Boy shrugged. "There were things about your sex life I didn't need to know," he said. Then he brought up those gold bars his father bought during Y2K. The Boy said he remembered those gold bars. He wondered if his dad still had them.
That was it. That was all he had to say. Though just yesterday he bought me a fondue pot and said it was my good-job-for-writing-a-book present.
What's interesting to me is how we respond to a book read at a certain age, and how that response can be so different later. Like Catcher in the Rye. The first time I read Catcher in the Rye, I was fifteen, and I fell madly in love with Holden Caulfield. I wanted to know how come I didn't know any boys like Holden Caulfield. I thought he was intense and passionate and angsty and so alienated. Then I reread it at age thirty, and I thought this kid is bipolar, this kid has A.D.D., if he was a kid today, they'd have him on Riddlin and Prozac.
I also loved Flowers in the Attic at age fifteen. I loved that book a lot and read it over and over. I haven't read it since 1985, but I remember its story vividly, I remember being scandalized by it but also completely caught up in it. Sometimes I think about rereading it now, but I'm afraid to. I'm worried that the Adult Me will roll her eyes at the Teenage Me and ruin Flowers in the Attic forever. Adult Me ruined my reread of Kerouac's On the Road in the first ten pages.
So I expect the Boy's reaction will shift and change as he gets older. Maybe someday he'll reread my book and have questions for me. Maybe someday he'll reread it and get angry with me or say he's so ashamed or ask how could I do this to him. Or maybe he'll understand something about his mother he didn't understand before. Maybe someday, he'll have a child of his own--a daughter, I always imagine him with a daughter--and that will change his reading of it yet again.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
I'm a real nice lady
I think up thoughts for the pug, and then I say out loud what I think he's thinking. When I rub his ears and his belly or when I give him a section of my orange or a hunk of cheese, I say, oh, that's nice, lady, you're a real nice lady.
I was in Nice-Lady mode yesterday at the juice bar (which I have been told is not a juice bar, a juice bar is a strip club, and I was in the place up by campus that sells smoothies, but not this kind) and heaven help me, I just started yucking it up with the college girl behind the counter, asking her did she have a nice spring break (she said yes), and did she go anywhere (she said yes), and where did she go (Florida), and how was that (good), and was she happy to be back in Minnesota (not really), and was she ready to go back to classes on Monday (no), and did she have a lot of homework to do over break (not too much), and my students have papers due on Tuesday, they must really be mad at me (that will be $4.47.) I felt bad for her because she was only answering my questions to be polite, and I felt bad for me because I could not stop asking them.
Then, this morning, the phone rang. It was Wells Fargo.
Me: On a Sunday morning???
Wells Fargo woman: Yes, we work on Sundays.
Me: Well, that is ridiculous! I am so sorry you have to work on a Sunday!
Wells Fargo woman: Yes, well, I'm calling because someone was trying to use a debit card belonging to you in a vending machine that doesn't accept our debit cards.
Me: Did this happen in central New York?
Wells Fargo woman: I don't know. The vending machine offices are in Pennsylvania.
Me: It must have happened in central New York. My son was in central New York last week. He was visiting his father. Whereabout in Pennsylvania?
Wells Fargo woman: I don't know.
Me: I bet it was that kid of mine! I bet when he was in central New York, he tried to use that debit card and when it didn't work the first time, he tried it again and again, over and over.
Wells Fargo woman: I don't know.
Me: Do you know Albert Einstein's definition of insanity?
Wells Fargo woman: No.
Me: Albert Einstein defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Isn't that the best definition of insanity you've ever heard?
Wells Fargo woman: Well, we just wanted to let you know.
Me: Thank you! What kind of vending machine was it?
Wells Fargo woman: I don't know.
Me: He probably wanted some mints!
Wells Fargo woman: Thank you for banking with Wells Fargo and please let us know if there's anything else we can help you with.
Me: Oh, you've helped me plenty already today! I really am sorry you have to work on a Sunday morning!
Wells Fargo woman: Thank you and have a nice day.
Me: Bye-bye now!
When did I start ending so many sentences with exclamation points? When did I start hassling people who are just trying to do their jobs? How did I become so aggressively nice? Is it because of Minnesota? Have I become a midwesterner? I noticed that when I was in Seattle, I ate like a vegetarian; I'm not a vegetarian. When I was in the south, I started slurring my speech like I had a southern accent; I was in the south for less than twenty-four hours. Now I've got this pathological friendliness going on. I bet I would adapt to life in prison no problem.
There was a time when I thought the midwest was the strangest place I'd ever been. I moved to Minnesota from western Colorado, and when the realtor was showing us houses here I felt freaked out because none of the houses had privacy fences around the yard. In western Colorado, everyone's house has a privacy fence. There are clear boundaries there. Your neighbors can't see what you're up to. When I first moved in my Minnesota house (which now has a partial privacy fence) the neighbor next door left a basket of blueberry muffins on my front porch. I immediately threw them out because I questioned her motives. I couldn't figure out what she was up to. (These days neighbors here don't talk to me much but that could be because of a number of things including the couch on my front porch and the four dead Christmas trees in the back yard.)
I was in Nice-Lady mode yesterday at the juice bar (which I have been told is not a juice bar, a juice bar is a strip club, and I was in the place up by campus that sells smoothies, but not this kind) and heaven help me, I just started yucking it up with the college girl behind the counter, asking her did she have a nice spring break (she said yes), and did she go anywhere (she said yes), and where did she go (Florida), and how was that (good), and was she happy to be back in Minnesota (not really), and was she ready to go back to classes on Monday (no), and did she have a lot of homework to do over break (not too much), and my students have papers due on Tuesday, they must really be mad at me (that will be $4.47.) I felt bad for her because she was only answering my questions to be polite, and I felt bad for me because I could not stop asking them.
Then, this morning, the phone rang. It was Wells Fargo.
Me: On a Sunday morning???
Wells Fargo woman: Yes, we work on Sundays.
Me: Well, that is ridiculous! I am so sorry you have to work on a Sunday!
Wells Fargo woman: Yes, well, I'm calling because someone was trying to use a debit card belonging to you in a vending machine that doesn't accept our debit cards.
Me: Did this happen in central New York?
Wells Fargo woman: I don't know. The vending machine offices are in Pennsylvania.
Me: It must have happened in central New York. My son was in central New York last week. He was visiting his father. Whereabout in Pennsylvania?
Wells Fargo woman: I don't know.
Me: I bet it was that kid of mine! I bet when he was in central New York, he tried to use that debit card and when it didn't work the first time, he tried it again and again, over and over.
Wells Fargo woman: I don't know.
Me: Do you know Albert Einstein's definition of insanity?
Wells Fargo woman: No.
Me: Albert Einstein defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Isn't that the best definition of insanity you've ever heard?
Wells Fargo woman: Well, we just wanted to let you know.
Me: Thank you! What kind of vending machine was it?
Wells Fargo woman: I don't know.
Me: He probably wanted some mints!
Wells Fargo woman: Thank you for banking with Wells Fargo and please let us know if there's anything else we can help you with.
Me: Oh, you've helped me plenty already today! I really am sorry you have to work on a Sunday morning!
Wells Fargo woman: Thank you and have a nice day.
Me: Bye-bye now!
When did I start ending so many sentences with exclamation points? When did I start hassling people who are just trying to do their jobs? How did I become so aggressively nice? Is it because of Minnesota? Have I become a midwesterner? I noticed that when I was in Seattle, I ate like a vegetarian; I'm not a vegetarian. When I was in the south, I started slurring my speech like I had a southern accent; I was in the south for less than twenty-four hours. Now I've got this pathological friendliness going on. I bet I would adapt to life in prison no problem.
There was a time when I thought the midwest was the strangest place I'd ever been. I moved to Minnesota from western Colorado, and when the realtor was showing us houses here I felt freaked out because none of the houses had privacy fences around the yard. In western Colorado, everyone's house has a privacy fence. There are clear boundaries there. Your neighbors can't see what you're up to. When I first moved in my Minnesota house (which now has a partial privacy fence) the neighbor next door left a basket of blueberry muffins on my front porch. I immediately threw them out because I questioned her motives. I couldn't figure out what she was up to. (These days neighbors here don't talk to me much but that could be because of a number of things including the couch on my front porch and the four dead Christmas trees in the back yard.)
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Book tour stuff
I'm home! I'm home! I'm home! I had a fantastic time out and about, but I am ecstatic to be home. The pug greeted me with enthusiastic grunts and yips and howling and the kitten ignored me, squawking when I picked her up and held her tight, her tail flicking like a whip or a snake about to strike. But still, she followed me around, and when she sprawled out across the steps I was walking down--I always think she's hoping I'll trip over her and break my neck or end up unconscious so she and the pug can picnic on my remains--I knew she was secretly happy to see me.
This has been an amazing week, fun and happy and overwhelming and exhausting. I had all these big plans to take pictures of everything, and even brought my camera--I even brought batteries for my camera--but of course I hardly took any pictures at all. As soon as I find my camera (I am operating on the optimistic hope I didn't leave it in a hotel room somewhere) I'll post what pictures I did take.
I also had all these big ideas about posting blogs while on the road. Which didn't happen. I could say I didn't have time, but that's not entirely true. Because I don't think I slept last week. Which would mean I had plenty of time. I just spent that middle-of-the-night-time pacing and thinking thinking thinking in a Pure O-Obsessive kind of way about everything.
A couple of people asked me if I felt nervous to read or nervous during Q&A or nervous about interviews, and I have to say I did, but not until after they were over. I felt fine beforehand and fine during, but afterward--when it was too late to do anything about it--I was a nervous wreck, rehashing what I said and what I wore and wondering if I remembered to suck in my gut, wondering if my breath was bad, wondering if I said anything stupid and assuming I did, for sure I did, of course I did.
Remember the Chris Farley Show on SNL? Where he interviews people (I love the one with Paul McCartney) and he asks an awesomely bizarre question then curses and berates himself afterward? I felt like that.
Anyway, here are some highlights:
Thursday, March 5
This was the reading at the Mankato Barnes and Noble. LaRae Bisel was my host (she was supremely awesome) and a bunch of students, current and former, showed up, and a bunch of friends and colleagues and even people I didn't know, and afterward, I went home and was so wound up and super-charged that I couldn't even settle down to watch Sober House. That should tell you something: I was too excited to be soothed by Dr. Drew Pinsky.
Friday, March 6
This was the book release party at the What's Up Lounge. My friends Dawna and Nate flew in from Pennsylvnia; my friends Luke and Val drove up from Kansas City, and Aaron Hubbard, Noble Lord of the What's Up Lounge, let us be real wild--"real wild" a subjective term when it's applied to nerdy English major types dancing to Madonna and the Backstreet Boys--and when Aaron turned on the fog machine, lower-case "real wild" became upper-case "Real Wild."
Saturday, March 7
I read at Magers and Quinn on Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis--this is a beautiful bookstore. My host Aaron Rosenberg could not have been nicer--he let me have the big I'm Sorry You Feel That Way poster AND he told me he was late to work because he was reading the book. The crowd could not have been friendlier, either.
Sunday, March 8
I flew to Seattle where my old friend Nate Liederbach and his wife Michelle picked me up then took me to Olympia (remember that song by Hole called "Olympia"? I kept hearing it in my head.) I have to say I love love love Olympia: I love that their city buses are pink and purple; I love that everyone looks so fit and hip and hippie; I love the bowl of seafood chowder I ate and could have eaten more of. I did not love that no one smoked except for me and a homeless guy hanging out outside Starbucks.
Monday, March 9
First, I read at South Puget Sound Community College, where Nate teaches, though a student named Jessica who is mother to Robert, the world's most laid-back baby, organized my reading. Jessica was nice enough to let me hug Robert and tickle his feet and sniff his head; Robert was nice enough to put up with it.
Then, that night, Sam Ligon and I read at Swing, a wine bar overlooking Capital Lake. Sam is the editor of Willow Springs, the literary magazine that first published "The Devil I Know is the Man Upstairs, one of the essays in the book. You want Sam to edit your work--he and I must have passed that essay back and forth at least five times, trying to get the ending right--and you want to read Sam's books, Drift and Swerve and Safe in Heaven Dead.
I also love Sam Ligon because he smoked cigarettes with me.
You also want to eat at Swing. Trust me, you want to eat at Swing. And you want to do a reading there: everyone is friendly and fun. I like doing a reading at a place where people can get liquored up while you are reading: they think everything you say is so interesting and also hilarious and then they buy your book.
Tuesday, March 10
I have known Nate Liederbach for years--when I was teaching at Mesa State in Grand Junction, Colorado, he was teaching at Western State in Gunnison--and though we haven't had a lot of face-to-face time, we've racked up hours over the phone. In fact, when my telephone rings at some ungodly hour, I always answer it because it is Nate, who is the wind beneath my wings and the voice telling me that I remind him of Emily Dickinson if she'd spent some time in a tanning booth.
Nate drove me to Elliot Bay Book Company in Seattle, where Tiffany Sabatini hosted my reading. I loved Tiffany: I loved her glasses, I loved her hat, and I especially loved that she loved her I'm Sorry You Feel That Way tote bag.
The Elliot Bay reading was special, too, because of the people who showed up for it: an old boyfriend from my freshman year of college was there; one of Andrew Boyle's friends from high school was there; Midge Raymond, author of Forgetting English was there; and Allison, one of my students at Minnesota State was there. It was spring break, and Allison and one of her friends were doing the college-kids-get-on-a-train-and-go-places spring break trip, and they landed in Seattle on what just happened to be the day of my reading. It was so unexpected to see her in a place so far from home, a place that wasn't Armstrong Hall--I couldn't get over it.
Also, can I just say something about the hotel in Seattle where I stayed? I stayed at the Inn at the Market, the most beautiful hotel I have ever stepped foot in. When I went to check-in, I was informed that the manager, David Watkins, upgraded my room, and that I'd be sleeping in the room where Paul Newman once slept. Do you think I made sure to sit in every available seat in that room? That I made sure to touch foot in every inch of that room? That I laid in bed and hung out in the bathroom thinking Paul Newman stared at this ceiling, Paul Newman did his thing in this bathroom.
David Watkins also left me with a coffee cup full of Seattle Chocolates, which were delicious enough that I ate six, and between the sugar rush, feeling wound up by the reading, and trying to see what Paul Newman saw while also invoking his ghost, I was too excited to sleep.
Wednesday, March 11
Denver, Colorado. My friends Danielle and Brenidy picked me up at the airport, and took me back to Brenidy's house where we talked about how although I packed a suitcase full of different outfits, many changes of clothes, I wore pretty much the same thing for every reading, and how though I packed three pairs of shoes and three pairs of jeans and at least five black tee-shirts, I somehow didn't think to pack socks or underwear.
I read at the Tattered Cover Bookstore on Colfax where Pat Walsh was my host. I loved Pat because she was warm and gracious and because she made me giggle when she suggested Julia Louis-Dreyfus, aka Elaine from Seinfeld, could play me in the ISYFTW movie.
Just like in Minneapolis, and just like in Seattle, people turned out for the reading, and a lot of those people were friends of friends. I owe my friends Dawna and Nate, Sarah, Sharon, and Tom bottles of Jameson Irish Whiskey for the arm-twisting they must've done to put their friends in my audience.
Thursday, March 12
I read in Oxford, Mississippi. I flew in to Memphis where I was picked up at the airport by Ron Shapiro. You know how you can meet someone for the first time and tell in the first three seconds that you're going to get along fabulously, that you're going to be friends immediately? I felt that way about Ron. When we crossed the state line between Tennessee and Mississippi, he honked the horn.
The reading was hosted by Lyn Roberts of Square Books, and this was no ordinary reading: I got to be a guest on Thacker Mountain, their radio show, I got to be the writer sandwiched between musicians, I got to read in front of a live audience of two hundred people. I got to envy the citizens of Oxford, Mississippi which is a city that welcomes and supports writers and musicians and artists. I didn't want to leave.
Especially after hanging out with Lyn--who I adore--and Richard and Lisa Howorth, who own Square Books and I want them to let me live in the bookstore, and Gary Short, a poet who teaches in the MFA program at Ole Miss (I am currently reading his collection 10 Moons and 13 Horses, and even if poetry is not usually your thing, I promise you will love these poems) and Lee Durkee, whose novel Rides of the Midway is another reason I can't sleep--I am loving this strange and lyrical story. I had such species recognition with this group of people. I had these conversations where I was nodding and laughing and listening to stories and thinking you are my kind.
I did not want to leave.
Friday, March 13
I left. I flew back home and when I opened the door to my house, the pug greeted me with enthusastic grunts and yips and howling. It was nice to sleep in my own bed (and not feel haunted by Paul Newman.) The Boy is still at his dad's house in central NY--he's been there all week--and he comes home tomorrow. I'm anxious to see him so I can ask him did he have a good time at dad's, and he can say he guesses so. I can ask what did you do at dad's, and he can say he doesn't know, nothing, he didn't do anything at dad's. I can tell him I missed him, and he can ask if it's okay if he hangs out with his friends, he hasn't seen his friends in a week, he misses his friends.
I want to move to Minneapolis, I want to move to Olympia, I want to live in Seattle, in Denver, in Oxford, Mississippi, and if I can't take up residency in those places, I at least want to return to them; but it's also so good to be home.
This has been an amazing week, fun and happy and overwhelming and exhausting. I had all these big plans to take pictures of everything, and even brought my camera--I even brought batteries for my camera--but of course I hardly took any pictures at all. As soon as I find my camera (I am operating on the optimistic hope I didn't leave it in a hotel room somewhere) I'll post what pictures I did take.
I also had all these big ideas about posting blogs while on the road. Which didn't happen. I could say I didn't have time, but that's not entirely true. Because I don't think I slept last week. Which would mean I had plenty of time. I just spent that middle-of-the-night-time pacing and thinking thinking thinking in a Pure O-Obsessive kind of way about everything.
A couple of people asked me if I felt nervous to read or nervous during Q&A or nervous about interviews, and I have to say I did, but not until after they were over. I felt fine beforehand and fine during, but afterward--when it was too late to do anything about it--I was a nervous wreck, rehashing what I said and what I wore and wondering if I remembered to suck in my gut, wondering if my breath was bad, wondering if I said anything stupid and assuming I did, for sure I did, of course I did.
Remember the Chris Farley Show on SNL? Where he interviews people (I love the one with Paul McCartney) and he asks an awesomely bizarre question then curses and berates himself afterward? I felt like that.
Anyway, here are some highlights:
Thursday, March 5
This was the reading at the Mankato Barnes and Noble. LaRae Bisel was my host (she was supremely awesome) and a bunch of students, current and former, showed up, and a bunch of friends and colleagues and even people I didn't know, and afterward, I went home and was so wound up and super-charged that I couldn't even settle down to watch Sober House. That should tell you something: I was too excited to be soothed by Dr. Drew Pinsky.
Friday, March 6
This was the book release party at the What's Up Lounge. My friends Dawna and Nate flew in from Pennsylvnia; my friends Luke and Val drove up from Kansas City, and Aaron Hubbard, Noble Lord of the What's Up Lounge, let us be real wild--"real wild" a subjective term when it's applied to nerdy English major types dancing to Madonna and the Backstreet Boys--and when Aaron turned on the fog machine, lower-case "real wild" became upper-case "Real Wild."
Saturday, March 7
I read at Magers and Quinn on Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis--this is a beautiful bookstore. My host Aaron Rosenberg could not have been nicer--he let me have the big I'm Sorry You Feel That Way poster AND he told me he was late to work because he was reading the book. The crowd could not have been friendlier, either.
Sunday, March 8
I flew to Seattle where my old friend Nate Liederbach and his wife Michelle picked me up then took me to Olympia (remember that song by Hole called "Olympia"? I kept hearing it in my head.) I have to say I love love love Olympia: I love that their city buses are pink and purple; I love that everyone looks so fit and hip and hippie; I love the bowl of seafood chowder I ate and could have eaten more of. I did not love that no one smoked except for me and a homeless guy hanging out outside Starbucks.
Monday, March 9
First, I read at South Puget Sound Community College, where Nate teaches, though a student named Jessica who is mother to Robert, the world's most laid-back baby, organized my reading. Jessica was nice enough to let me hug Robert and tickle his feet and sniff his head; Robert was nice enough to put up with it.
Then, that night, Sam Ligon and I read at Swing, a wine bar overlooking Capital Lake. Sam is the editor of Willow Springs, the literary magazine that first published "The Devil I Know is the Man Upstairs, one of the essays in the book. You want Sam to edit your work--he and I must have passed that essay back and forth at least five times, trying to get the ending right--and you want to read Sam's books, Drift and Swerve and Safe in Heaven Dead.
I also love Sam Ligon because he smoked cigarettes with me.
You also want to eat at Swing. Trust me, you want to eat at Swing. And you want to do a reading there: everyone is friendly and fun. I like doing a reading at a place where people can get liquored up while you are reading: they think everything you say is so interesting and also hilarious and then they buy your book.
Tuesday, March 10
I have known Nate Liederbach for years--when I was teaching at Mesa State in Grand Junction, Colorado, he was teaching at Western State in Gunnison--and though we haven't had a lot of face-to-face time, we've racked up hours over the phone. In fact, when my telephone rings at some ungodly hour, I always answer it because it is Nate, who is the wind beneath my wings and the voice telling me that I remind him of Emily Dickinson if she'd spent some time in a tanning booth.
Nate drove me to Elliot Bay Book Company in Seattle, where Tiffany Sabatini hosted my reading. I loved Tiffany: I loved her glasses, I loved her hat, and I especially loved that she loved her I'm Sorry You Feel That Way tote bag.
The Elliot Bay reading was special, too, because of the people who showed up for it: an old boyfriend from my freshman year of college was there; one of Andrew Boyle's friends from high school was there; Midge Raymond, author of Forgetting English was there; and Allison, one of my students at Minnesota State was there. It was spring break, and Allison and one of her friends were doing the college-kids-get-on-a-train-and-go-places spring break trip, and they landed in Seattle on what just happened to be the day of my reading. It was so unexpected to see her in a place so far from home, a place that wasn't Armstrong Hall--I couldn't get over it.
Also, can I just say something about the hotel in Seattle where I stayed? I stayed at the Inn at the Market, the most beautiful hotel I have ever stepped foot in. When I went to check-in, I was informed that the manager, David Watkins, upgraded my room, and that I'd be sleeping in the room where Paul Newman once slept. Do you think I made sure to sit in every available seat in that room? That I made sure to touch foot in every inch of that room? That I laid in bed and hung out in the bathroom thinking Paul Newman stared at this ceiling, Paul Newman did his thing in this bathroom.
David Watkins also left me with a coffee cup full of Seattle Chocolates, which were delicious enough that I ate six, and between the sugar rush, feeling wound up by the reading, and trying to see what Paul Newman saw while also invoking his ghost, I was too excited to sleep.
Wednesday, March 11
Denver, Colorado. My friends Danielle and Brenidy picked me up at the airport, and took me back to Brenidy's house where we talked about how although I packed a suitcase full of different outfits, many changes of clothes, I wore pretty much the same thing for every reading, and how though I packed three pairs of shoes and three pairs of jeans and at least five black tee-shirts, I somehow didn't think to pack socks or underwear.
I read at the Tattered Cover Bookstore on Colfax where Pat Walsh was my host. I loved Pat because she was warm and gracious and because she made me giggle when she suggested Julia Louis-Dreyfus, aka Elaine from Seinfeld, could play me in the ISYFTW movie.
Just like in Minneapolis, and just like in Seattle, people turned out for the reading, and a lot of those people were friends of friends. I owe my friends Dawna and Nate, Sarah, Sharon, and Tom bottles of Jameson Irish Whiskey for the arm-twisting they must've done to put their friends in my audience.
Thursday, March 12
I read in Oxford, Mississippi. I flew in to Memphis where I was picked up at the airport by Ron Shapiro. You know how you can meet someone for the first time and tell in the first three seconds that you're going to get along fabulously, that you're going to be friends immediately? I felt that way about Ron. When we crossed the state line between Tennessee and Mississippi, he honked the horn.
The reading was hosted by Lyn Roberts of Square Books, and this was no ordinary reading: I got to be a guest on Thacker Mountain, their radio show, I got to be the writer sandwiched between musicians, I got to read in front of a live audience of two hundred people. I got to envy the citizens of Oxford, Mississippi which is a city that welcomes and supports writers and musicians and artists. I didn't want to leave.
Especially after hanging out with Lyn--who I adore--and Richard and Lisa Howorth, who own Square Books and I want them to let me live in the bookstore, and Gary Short, a poet who teaches in the MFA program at Ole Miss (I am currently reading his collection 10 Moons and 13 Horses, and even if poetry is not usually your thing, I promise you will love these poems) and Lee Durkee, whose novel Rides of the Midway is another reason I can't sleep--I am loving this strange and lyrical story. I had such species recognition with this group of people. I had these conversations where I was nodding and laughing and listening to stories and thinking you are my kind.
I did not want to leave.
Friday, March 13
I left. I flew back home and when I opened the door to my house, the pug greeted me with enthusastic grunts and yips and howling. It was nice to sleep in my own bed (and not feel haunted by Paul Newman.) The Boy is still at his dad's house in central NY--he's been there all week--and he comes home tomorrow. I'm anxious to see him so I can ask him did he have a good time at dad's, and he can say he guesses so. I can ask what did you do at dad's, and he can say he doesn't know, nothing, he didn't do anything at dad's. I can tell him I missed him, and he can ask if it's okay if he hangs out with his friends, he hasn't seen his friends in a week, he misses his friends.
I want to move to Minneapolis, I want to move to Olympia, I want to live in Seattle, in Denver, in Oxford, Mississippi, and if I can't take up residency in those places, I at least want to return to them; but it's also so good to be home.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Review in City Pages
by
Jessica Armbruster
A chain-smoking dad who rarely wears a shirt. A college professor who tells lame jokes and loves Hawaiian shirts. A teenage boy who plays video games until 4 a.m. and loves the NRA. These are but a few of the men in Diana Joseph's life. In her memoir, I'm Sorry You Feel That Way (Amy Einhorn Books/Putnam), she tells the hilarious, endearing, and enlightening tale of her life through a series of essays that focus on the men in her life, including her father, her son, an ex-husband, her boyfriend, and others. Joseph reveals truths about the world she comes from with a wink, candor, and an affectionate nod to the flawed people in her life, including herself. Though she has published a variety of fiction and other works, it was her short essay, "The Boy," that caught the attention of Sarah Vowell, leading her to win the Kentucky Women Writers Prize for Creative Nonfiction. She currently teaches in the MFA program at Minnesota State University, Mankato.Review in Entertainment Weekly
Book Review
I'm Sorry You Feel That Way: The Astonishing But True Story of a Daughter, Sister, Slut, Wife, Mother, and Friend to Man & Dog (2009)
Diana Joseph
Writer: Diana Joseph; Genres: Autobiography, Nonfiction; Publisher: Putnam
A- By Tina Jordan
The book's title, I'm Sorry You Feel That Way: The Astonishing But True Story of a Daughter, Sister, Slut, Wife, Mother, and Friend to Man & Dog, might make you wonder if Diana Joseph defines herself by men, but the answer is, resoundingly, No. She's just been surrounded by scads of them her entire life. And so the stories of her childhood, her adolescence, and her adult years emerge not as a straight narrative, but through chapters dedicated to her relationships with the opposite sex — with a couple of dogs and cats thrown in for good measure.
Chapter 1 goes to her dad, an auto-body shop owner who never wears a shirt and smokes two packs a day. Then there's Vincent, the bad boy of her 19th year, who drank, shoplifted, and emblazoned her name on his demolition-derby car. Her first husband. Her son, a right-wing Republican, who informed her at a tender age that he hated NPR and Bob Dylan. Her Satanist neighbor. And so on.
As Joseph describes these boys and men, it's she herself who emerges most clearly. I'm Sorry is full of quirky details and remembered snippets of conversation, most of it revealing in its everyday ordinariness. It turns out you can learn an awful lot about a person by what her dad chooses to confide in her, or what her brothers tease her about. I'm Sorry might sound like a sideways swipe at a memoir, but nothing could be further from the truth — it manages to be nostalgic, sad, and pee-in-your-pants funny. A–
I'm Sorry You Feel That Way: The Astonishing But True Story of a Daughter, Sister, Slut, Wife, Mother, and Friend to Man & Dog (2009)
Diana Joseph
Writer: Diana Joseph; Genres: Autobiography, Nonfiction; Publisher: Putnam
A- By Tina Jordan
The book's title, I'm Sorry You Feel That Way: The Astonishing But True Story of a Daughter, Sister, Slut, Wife, Mother, and Friend to Man & Dog, might make you wonder if Diana Joseph defines herself by men, but the answer is, resoundingly, No. She's just been surrounded by scads of them her entire life. And so the stories of her childhood, her adolescence, and her adult years emerge not as a straight narrative, but through chapters dedicated to her relationships with the opposite sex — with a couple of dogs and cats thrown in for good measure.
Chapter 1 goes to her dad, an auto-body shop owner who never wears a shirt and smokes two packs a day. Then there's Vincent, the bad boy of her 19th year, who drank, shoplifted, and emblazoned her name on his demolition-derby car. Her first husband. Her son, a right-wing Republican, who informed her at a tender age that he hated NPR and Bob Dylan. Her Satanist neighbor. And so on.
As Joseph describes these boys and men, it's she herself who emerges most clearly. I'm Sorry is full of quirky details and remembered snippets of conversation, most of it revealing in its everyday ordinariness. It turns out you can learn an awful lot about a person by what her dad chooses to confide in her, or what her brothers tease her about. I'm Sorry might sound like a sideways swipe at a memoir, but nothing could be further from the truth — it manages to be nostalgic, sad, and pee-in-your-pants funny. A–
Review in Daily Candy, Philadelphia
No Apologies
“I’m Sorry You Feel That Way,” by Diana Joseph
With memoirs, there’s a fine line between wading through memories and doing a cannonball into the pool of self-indulgence.
But in Diana Joseph’s new book, I’m Sorry You Feel That Way: the Astonishing but True Story of a Daughter, Sister, Slut, Wife, Mother, and Friend to Man and Dog, there’s no trip to the mental hospital/spiritual guru/homeless shelter. She’s just a regular chick who chronicles her life and loves in prose that gets to the point.
Joseph’s fears of being labeled loose by her father and son, anxiety about her divorce, and identification with her stuffed dinosaur-humping puppy may have you thinking, Hey, that could be me. She makes no apologies and explains how her relationships — rather than confining her — made her an intelligent (and sometimes terrible) woman with a wicked sense of humor.
It’s a great example of the ordinary being related extraordinarily.
Without going off the deep end.
“I’m Sorry You Feel That Way,” by Diana Joseph
With memoirs, there’s a fine line between wading through memories and doing a cannonball into the pool of self-indulgence.
But in Diana Joseph’s new book, I’m Sorry You Feel That Way: the Astonishing but True Story of a Daughter, Sister, Slut, Wife, Mother, and Friend to Man and Dog, there’s no trip to the mental hospital/spiritual guru/homeless shelter. She’s just a regular chick who chronicles her life and loves in prose that gets to the point.
Joseph’s fears of being labeled loose by her father and son, anxiety about her divorce, and identification with her stuffed dinosaur-humping puppy may have you thinking, Hey, that could be me. She makes no apologies and explains how her relationships — rather than confining her — made her an intelligent (and sometimes terrible) woman with a wicked sense of humor.
It’s a great example of the ordinary being related extraordinarily.
Without going off the deep end.
Review from the L.A. Times
http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/la-ca-diana-joseph1-2009mar01,0,4765901.story
From the Los Angeles Times
BOOK REVIEW
'I'm Sorry You Feel That Way,' by Diana Joseph
Candid, insulting, hilarious: a collection of essays sure to offend the faint of heart.
By Steve Almond
March 1, 2009
I'm Sorry You Feel That Way:
The Astonishing but True Story of a Daughter, Sister, Slut, Wife, Mother and Friend to Man & Dog
Diana Joseph
Putnam/Amy Einhorn Books:
208 pp., $23.95
Here's a quick way to determine if you're going to enjoy Diana Joseph's essay collection, "I'm Sorry You Feel That Way." Read the following:
"Yesterday my son was turning the pages in his eighth-grade yearbook so we could play a game I came up with called Guess Which Kids Are Retarded. The boy thought the game was terrible, so cruel and so mean that I should have to pay a fine, I should have to pay him ten bucks every time I was wrong."
If you find that paragraph offensive, you will hate this book.
If you know you should find this paragraph offensive but secretly find it hilarious, you should buy this book. Immediately.
Joseph is compulsively honest in the face of potential embarrassment. The dozen short, sharp essays here offer an overview of her eventful life, with particular emphasis on her fraught relations with men. She recalls her upbringing in a working-class Pennsylvania family dominated by a father who emphasized that it was her highest calling to maintain her virtue. We all know what that means.
"I was nineteen years old," she writes of one ill-fated relationship, "just arriving at that place some women go to invent complex inner lives for a certain kind of man, one too emotionally vulnerable to manage this kind of work on his own. I would be a savior, a fixer, a social worker, because Vincent Petrone needed me."
Joseph eventually disentangles herself from the aforementioned Mr. Petrone, but winds up getting pregnant on her 21st birthday and marrying the father. The union doesn't last long, although the son it yields becomes the leading man in her restless and improvised life.
Among the many pleasures of Joseph's writing is her refusal to traffic in the gushy bromides of motherhood. She is openly baffled by her child, disgusted by his atrocious personal hygiene, offended at his indolence yet at the same time needy for his love and approval.
She is also brutally candid about her deficiencies as a parent. She struggles to make ends meet. She worries that she neglects her son during periods of depression. But she never allows these doubts to curdle into self-pity. For a girl who grew up "with a talent for histrionics," her prose is stripped bare of sentiment. Instead, she employs a plain-spoken, often terse style that relies for its effect on the precision of her insights.
In one essay, she introduces us to her younger brother, a cop who brags relentlessly about his sexual escapades. "When I tell him, 'Travis, you are disgusting,' " she writes, "he sings in a high-pitched voice, 'Kinky sex freaks,' then in his regular voice he says he wishes he knew a nice girl, he asks me do I know any nice girls, do I know any nice girls I could introduce him to, any nice girls he could meet?" It's a moment of exquisite tenderness, as the mask of male vanity slips to reveal an aching loneliness.
Joseph has the ability both to discern and to forgive our darkest motives. When she complains about her common-law husband's neurotic housecleaning to his aging stepmother, "Kathleen patted my hand. 'Oh, honey,' she said. 'It will only get worse!' She lit up a Virginia Slim 100. With smoke swirling around her face, she looked wise. She also looked pleased, like she was glad to be delivering the bad news. It meant she wasn't alone."
Joseph tells us that her "main issue was, or to some extent still is, a kind of eternal hiccup of the crowded mind." The sense we get by the end of the book, though, is that her anxieties have a great deal to do with class.
Joseph is not showy about this. She barely acknowledges her transformation from wage slave to professor. But it's clear that the struggle has saddled her with the guilt of an impostor. Recalling a recent party, she writes, "They didn't know I didn't belong at any gathering where people took tidy sips of wine, then remarked upon its bouquet or nibbled on stuffed mushrooms or spread a thin layer of hummus across pita bread. When people weren't talking about their cats, they were repeating what they heard on NPR, or recounting what they saw on PBS, or reporting what they read in The New Yorker. I wanted to write my name in Cheez Whiz and dot the I with a heart."
This is as close as Joseph comes to anger. Like the best storytellers -- fictional or otherwise -- she treats her people with compassion. She manages to be very funny. But she refuses to reduce her family to a comedy routine. Her stories are often sad, but she never lionizes suffering. Instead, she sifts through the ruins of her romantic and emotional entanglements, with an eye on the absurdities we endure in the name of love.
"I'm Sorry You Feel That Way" is sure to offend the faint of heart, but it's hard to recall another collection of essays, or a memoir, with more natural charm.
Almond is the author, most recently, of the essay collection "(Not that You Asked)."
From the Los Angeles Times
BOOK REVIEW
'I'm Sorry You Feel That Way,' by Diana Joseph
Candid, insulting, hilarious: a collection of essays sure to offend the faint of heart.
By Steve Almond
March 1, 2009
I'm Sorry You Feel That Way:
The Astonishing but True Story of a Daughter, Sister, Slut, Wife, Mother and Friend to Man & Dog
Diana Joseph
Putnam/Amy Einhorn Books:
208 pp., $23.95
Here's a quick way to determine if you're going to enjoy Diana Joseph's essay collection, "I'm Sorry You Feel That Way." Read the following:
"Yesterday my son was turning the pages in his eighth-grade yearbook so we could play a game I came up with called Guess Which Kids Are Retarded. The boy thought the game was terrible, so cruel and so mean that I should have to pay a fine, I should have to pay him ten bucks every time I was wrong."
If you find that paragraph offensive, you will hate this book.
If you know you should find this paragraph offensive but secretly find it hilarious, you should buy this book. Immediately.
Joseph is compulsively honest in the face of potential embarrassment. The dozen short, sharp essays here offer an overview of her eventful life, with particular emphasis on her fraught relations with men. She recalls her upbringing in a working-class Pennsylvania family dominated by a father who emphasized that it was her highest calling to maintain her virtue. We all know what that means.
"I was nineteen years old," she writes of one ill-fated relationship, "just arriving at that place some women go to invent complex inner lives for a certain kind of man, one too emotionally vulnerable to manage this kind of work on his own. I would be a savior, a fixer, a social worker, because Vincent Petrone needed me."
Joseph eventually disentangles herself from the aforementioned Mr. Petrone, but winds up getting pregnant on her 21st birthday and marrying the father. The union doesn't last long, although the son it yields becomes the leading man in her restless and improvised life.
Among the many pleasures of Joseph's writing is her refusal to traffic in the gushy bromides of motherhood. She is openly baffled by her child, disgusted by his atrocious personal hygiene, offended at his indolence yet at the same time needy for his love and approval.
She is also brutally candid about her deficiencies as a parent. She struggles to make ends meet. She worries that she neglects her son during periods of depression. But she never allows these doubts to curdle into self-pity. For a girl who grew up "with a talent for histrionics," her prose is stripped bare of sentiment. Instead, she employs a plain-spoken, often terse style that relies for its effect on the precision of her insights.
In one essay, she introduces us to her younger brother, a cop who brags relentlessly about his sexual escapades. "When I tell him, 'Travis, you are disgusting,' " she writes, "he sings in a high-pitched voice, 'Kinky sex freaks,' then in his regular voice he says he wishes he knew a nice girl, he asks me do I know any nice girls, do I know any nice girls I could introduce him to, any nice girls he could meet?" It's a moment of exquisite tenderness, as the mask of male vanity slips to reveal an aching loneliness.
Joseph has the ability both to discern and to forgive our darkest motives. When she complains about her common-law husband's neurotic housecleaning to his aging stepmother, "Kathleen patted my hand. 'Oh, honey,' she said. 'It will only get worse!' She lit up a Virginia Slim 100. With smoke swirling around her face, she looked wise. She also looked pleased, like she was glad to be delivering the bad news. It meant she wasn't alone."
Joseph tells us that her "main issue was, or to some extent still is, a kind of eternal hiccup of the crowded mind." The sense we get by the end of the book, though, is that her anxieties have a great deal to do with class.
Joseph is not showy about this. She barely acknowledges her transformation from wage slave to professor. But it's clear that the struggle has saddled her with the guilt of an impostor. Recalling a recent party, she writes, "They didn't know I didn't belong at any gathering where people took tidy sips of wine, then remarked upon its bouquet or nibbled on stuffed mushrooms or spread a thin layer of hummus across pita bread. When people weren't talking about their cats, they were repeating what they heard on NPR, or recounting what they saw on PBS, or reporting what they read in The New Yorker. I wanted to write my name in Cheez Whiz and dot the I with a heart."
This is as close as Joseph comes to anger. Like the best storytellers -- fictional or otherwise -- she treats her people with compassion. She manages to be very funny. But she refuses to reduce her family to a comedy routine. Her stories are often sad, but she never lionizes suffering. Instead, she sifts through the ruins of her romantic and emotional entanglements, with an eye on the absurdities we endure in the name of love.
"I'm Sorry You Feel That Way" is sure to offend the faint of heart, but it's hard to recall another collection of essays, or a memoir, with more natural charm.
Almond is the author, most recently, of the essay collection "(Not that You Asked)."
Friday, March 6, 2009
Mankato folks who are 21+:
We're having a book release party at the What's Up Lounge tonight at 7:00. There will be pool-playing. There will be dancing. There will be cupcakes. But mostly, there will be fun to be had by all. Come out if you can!
We're having a book release party at the What's Up Lounge tonight at 7:00. There will be pool-playing. There will be dancing. There will be cupcakes. But mostly, there will be fun to be had by all. Come out if you can!
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
I am the quiest I've ever been
I am the quietest I've ever been. I put my shoes on quietly, so as not to alert the pug that I'm going somewhere awesome, like Kwik Trip, without him. After slipping into my coat (this enormous bulky Columbia jacket I picked up at the thrift store for fifteen bucks; it still has Mount Kato ski lift tags, from March 6, 2004, attached to the zipper), I hang out on the couch, silently flipping through the channels, hoping the pug is fooled enough to fall back asleep. He's a sly one when it comes to eating what's in the litter box, and while he knows shoes mean I'm leaving, he hasn't put two and two together yet when it comes to me hanging out in my coat. Getting past him is hard only because it's time consuming.
Getting past The Boy is easy. I can scuttle to Kwik Trip, buy a pack of smokes, and scuttle back without him ever noticing I'm gone. With The Boy, the problem comes when I want to smoke a cigarette. Indoors is out of the question (though for the week over Christmas when he was at his father's, I smoked in the house nonstop: while watching Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew Pinksky; while soaking in the tub; while reading in bed; while frying eggs like I was a short order cook in a dingy diner.) Smoking on the front porch is an option, except for when his friends are coming and going. Smoking on the back deck is best, though not comfortable--it's cold, it's cold, there's no place to sit, it's cold.
I have become hyper-aware of other small inconveniences and a few larger-sized ones: the cats' nightly spat; how every morning the kitten tips over her water bowl; that my pants are tighter than I like but cookies are more delicious than ever; how falling asleep at night comes regular, but staying asleep through a night is rare. I wake up and everything is quiet (not counting the pug, whose breathing is heavy like an obscene phone call.)
Everything is quiet except for the boom boom boom of my panicky heart and the noise in my head. I lay awake and think, I am having a heart attack, I am having a panic attack, I am losing my mind.
I think about this: the last time I hung out with a baby, I held his rattle near his mouth, then jerked it away. Then again: I held his rattle near his mouth, then jerked it away. I repeated this action several more times--I got nowhere; the kid would not latch on--until I realized I was trying to play with him the way I play with my dog.
In April, The Boy turns seventeen. It's been a long time since I hung out with a baby. Last night, he caught me smoking. I was in the living room, bottle of Febreeze in one hand, Camel Light in the other. I thought The Boy was tucked away in his room for the night. I knew it was risky, but I thought I could get away with it. As soon as I heard him creaking down the steps, I tried to crush the cigarette, hide the ashtray and spray Febreeze at all once. The Boy just shook his head. I'm sorry, I told him. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I told him I wouldn't do it again, I won't smoke in the house, I'll go outside, I'll quit smoking, I swear! and The Boy patted me on the shoulder. It's cold outside, he said like he understood these things. Like he understands something about me, he has some insight into me that I don't have.
Getting past The Boy is easy. I can scuttle to Kwik Trip, buy a pack of smokes, and scuttle back without him ever noticing I'm gone. With The Boy, the problem comes when I want to smoke a cigarette. Indoors is out of the question (though for the week over Christmas when he was at his father's, I smoked in the house nonstop: while watching Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew Pinksky; while soaking in the tub; while reading in bed; while frying eggs like I was a short order cook in a dingy diner.) Smoking on the front porch is an option, except for when his friends are coming and going. Smoking on the back deck is best, though not comfortable--it's cold, it's cold, there's no place to sit, it's cold.
I have become hyper-aware of other small inconveniences and a few larger-sized ones: the cats' nightly spat; how every morning the kitten tips over her water bowl; that my pants are tighter than I like but cookies are more delicious than ever; how falling asleep at night comes regular, but staying asleep through a night is rare. I wake up and everything is quiet (not counting the pug, whose breathing is heavy like an obscene phone call.)
Everything is quiet except for the boom boom boom of my panicky heart and the noise in my head. I lay awake and think, I am having a heart attack, I am having a panic attack, I am losing my mind.
I think about this: the last time I hung out with a baby, I held his rattle near his mouth, then jerked it away. Then again: I held his rattle near his mouth, then jerked it away. I repeated this action several more times--I got nowhere; the kid would not latch on--until I realized I was trying to play with him the way I play with my dog.
In April, The Boy turns seventeen. It's been a long time since I hung out with a baby. Last night, he caught me smoking. I was in the living room, bottle of Febreeze in one hand, Camel Light in the other. I thought The Boy was tucked away in his room for the night. I knew it was risky, but I thought I could get away with it. As soon as I heard him creaking down the steps, I tried to crush the cigarette, hide the ashtray and spray Febreeze at all once. The Boy just shook his head. I'm sorry, I told him. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I told him I wouldn't do it again, I won't smoke in the house, I'll go outside, I'll quit smoking, I swear! and The Boy patted me on the shoulder. It's cold outside, he said like he understood these things. Like he understands something about me, he has some insight into me that I don't have.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
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