Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
In his book Love’s Executioner, Irv Yalmon, this really interesting psychologist, discusses four existential concerns—death; freedom; isolation; and meaning—and those are the very concerns I get myself into a tizzy about all the time. I worry that every mole, every sniffle and sneeze, every headache or bout with indigestion means I, or someone I love, is probably dying. I fret over the push and pull between embracing the freedom of becoming an authentic self and my responsibility toward others. My mind goes round and round wondering if it’s selfish to want to both connection with others and separateness from them. But it’s that fourth concern—the idea of meaning—that gets under my craw. I’ve got this Pure O-obsession with the desire to make meaning. I want things, my experiences, my relationships, both present and past, to make sense.
Take this anecdote, for example. I could think all day on what it means, what it reveals about my son and me, what it says about power dynamics and competing philosophies. The Boy and I have had the kitten for a year and a half now, and while this sweet sassy ball of fluff has brought all this energy and light into the house, her presence continues to infuriate our older cat. In fact, the older cat is so peeved that every night she hops into the kitten’s litter box where she leaves a big old nasty deposit, and—this is the best part—she doesn’t bury it. She just leaves it there to show the kitten: this is what I think of you.
There’s a turf war taking place in our house. Territory is being claimed. Lines are being drawn. I look at that nasty mess in the litter box and see a metaphor. “Wouldn’t it be fantastic,” I asked the boy, “if we had that kind of power? If we could go to the bathroom, that most intimate space, at an enemy’s house and leave a little something there for him to find in the morning? Wouldn’t that send the clearest of messages?”
“It’s cat shit,” my son, the literalist, said.
Take this anecdote, for example. I could think all day on what it means, what it reveals about my son and me, what it says about power dynamics and competing philosophies. The Boy and I have had the kitten for a year and a half now, and while this sweet sassy ball of fluff has brought all this energy and light into the house, her presence continues to infuriate our older cat. In fact, the older cat is so peeved that every night she hops into the kitten’s litter box where she leaves a big old nasty deposit, and—this is the best part—she doesn’t bury it. She just leaves it there to show the kitten: this is what I think of you.
There’s a turf war taking place in our house. Territory is being claimed. Lines are being drawn. I look at that nasty mess in the litter box and see a metaphor. “Wouldn’t it be fantastic,” I asked the boy, “if we had that kind of power? If we could go to the bathroom, that most intimate space, at an enemy’s house and leave a little something there for him to find in the morning? Wouldn’t that send the clearest of messages?”
“It’s cat shit,” my son, the literalist, said.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Happy Birthday, Turdface!
The boy was born during an episode of Murphy Brown. It was Monday, April 20, 1992, 9:45 pm. The day before had been Easter. My water never broke--not in that dramatic, wet, messy way you see on TV; it was more like a slow leak, so undramatic that I wasn't sure it was worth pestering my doctor about on Easter Sunday. So I didn't. Apparently, though, I should have. If water can leak out, my doctor explained, then infection can get in. He said I should have called, they would have induced labor, and the boy would have been born on Easter.
This gets the boy riled up. He thinks it would have been good to be born on Easter, good luck, a good omen. Instead, he shares a birthday with Adolph Hitler. He's never quite forgiven me for this. He also doesn't like when I talk about how I was in love with the doctor who was young and handsome and late for the delivery. The opening music to Murphy Brown was in its first few bars when I started screaming drugs! drugs! give me drugs! and the nurse said you have to wait until your doctor gets here. But the doctor was taking forever to get there. I'd find out after it was all over that his tardiness was because he'd stopped at Taco Bell. He was hungry. In the time it took him to eat two soft shell tacos and a bean burrito, I stopped loving him. He'd arrive at the delivery too late to give me drugs--by the time they kicked in, the baby would be born.
The boy also isn't crazy about his humble beginnings, how he was taken home to a double wide trailer on 40 acres in New Wilmington, PA. I was 21 years old. I knew nothing about babies except I had one.
I loved his father and then I stopped loving his father and we got a divorce and in my conversations with the boy, when I referenced his father, instead of saying "Daddy," I said "your father." Words like "visitation" and "every other Wednesday" entered his lexicon. Then his father moved across the country, so the boy learned new words like "Minor Traveling Alone."
Today the boy is better traveled than I was at his age; while I am still skittery and fretful in airports, anxious about finding my gate, worried about if the plane will crash, he is nonchalant.
While big cities make me nervous, he's casual about them. I think he'll end up living in a city. I think he'll wear a tie to work. He'll carry a briefcase. He'll have a secretary. He'll make a million dollars.
I gave a Greenwich Village clairvoyant $80 and asked him to take a peek into my future and tell me what he sees. He told me the boy has a lazy intellect now, but that he'd shape up and do well in college. He told me the boy is in many ways my opposite: he's conventional, he's practical, he's logical. The boy, he said, will do everything right. He'll have the right job, he'll marry the right girl, they'll have a few kids, and I will be the weird grandmother swooping down to disrupt all the logical rightness. You know he thinks you're crazy, right? the clairvoyant said.
Not too long ago, I was feeling all sad and mopely and lonely about the state of my heart. How I've racked up not one but two ex-husbands, and I'm not even forty. How my relationships with guys get muddied and complicated and weird. Then I got to thinking about the boy. My relationship with him is the longest stretch of relationship I've had with any boy. We've been together for seventeen years. He's the only boy I haven't been afraid to love.
This gets the boy riled up. He thinks it would have been good to be born on Easter, good luck, a good omen. Instead, he shares a birthday with Adolph Hitler. He's never quite forgiven me for this. He also doesn't like when I talk about how I was in love with the doctor who was young and handsome and late for the delivery. The opening music to Murphy Brown was in its first few bars when I started screaming drugs! drugs! give me drugs! and the nurse said you have to wait until your doctor gets here. But the doctor was taking forever to get there. I'd find out after it was all over that his tardiness was because he'd stopped at Taco Bell. He was hungry. In the time it took him to eat two soft shell tacos and a bean burrito, I stopped loving him. He'd arrive at the delivery too late to give me drugs--by the time they kicked in, the baby would be born.
The boy also isn't crazy about his humble beginnings, how he was taken home to a double wide trailer on 40 acres in New Wilmington, PA. I was 21 years old. I knew nothing about babies except I had one.
I loved his father and then I stopped loving his father and we got a divorce and in my conversations with the boy, when I referenced his father, instead of saying "Daddy," I said "your father." Words like "visitation" and "every other Wednesday" entered his lexicon. Then his father moved across the country, so the boy learned new words like "Minor Traveling Alone."
Today the boy is better traveled than I was at his age; while I am still skittery and fretful in airports, anxious about finding my gate, worried about if the plane will crash, he is nonchalant.
While big cities make me nervous, he's casual about them. I think he'll end up living in a city. I think he'll wear a tie to work. He'll carry a briefcase. He'll have a secretary. He'll make a million dollars.
I gave a Greenwich Village clairvoyant $80 and asked him to take a peek into my future and tell me what he sees. He told me the boy has a lazy intellect now, but that he'd shape up and do well in college. He told me the boy is in many ways my opposite: he's conventional, he's practical, he's logical. The boy, he said, will do everything right. He'll have the right job, he'll marry the right girl, they'll have a few kids, and I will be the weird grandmother swooping down to disrupt all the logical rightness. You know he thinks you're crazy, right? the clairvoyant said.
Not too long ago, I was feeling all sad and mopely and lonely about the state of my heart. How I've racked up not one but two ex-husbands, and I'm not even forty. How my relationships with guys get muddied and complicated and weird. Then I got to thinking about the boy. My relationship with him is the longest stretch of relationship I've had with any boy. We've been together for seventeen years. He's the only boy I haven't been afraid to love.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
I didn't sleep so well last night, and this morning I'm feeling pretty grumpy so when the kitten starts up with her game of morning merows -- Merow! she says, and she turns over her water dish, Merow! she says, and she knocks a book off the shelf -- I merow back in the same snide pissy whine. Merow, says she. Merow, says I. Then she jumps in her litter box and proceeds to dig through it, sending the granules flying. Merow! she says, Merow! I tell her, and it must make me think of the Ludacris song "Stand Up," because I am singing when you merow, I merow! (Just like that!)
Which makes me remember how the Boy, a fifth grader at Holy Family Catholic School, and I were driving home from school when he started humming that song, then singing it, but the words were slightly different. Instead of when I move, you move (Just like that!), the boy was singing when I pray, you pray (Just like that).
And when I asked him what'd you do at school today? Sit around and pray? he said of course he didn't sit around and pray, there were morning prayers, and prayer at lunch, and another prayer before the last bell, but his day also included social studies and language arts and math class.
Good for you! I told him. Social studies, language arts, and math class AND praying three times a day, he must be exhausted.
Then he said actually, he prayed more than three times a day, he talked to God all the time. Don't you? he said.
And I said something snide and pissy like of course I do, right now I am praying that God will get this light to hurry up and change, it's been red forever, and I'm tired of sitting here.
And that was the end of that, though I never thought of Ludacris in the same way again. And I never thought I gave the boy a good answer. Instead I gave him the snarky answer, a real merow of an answer. Merow! I said, and when the light finally turned green, I hit the gas to burn rubber, and I high tailed it through the next light which, as I approached, was yellow-turning-red. I clearly remember looking over at the boy in the passenger's seat to see what he thought of my antics, which were usually good to get an exasperated eye-roll or a a sigh and a head shake, but he looked calm. Peaceful. Serene, even. He was ten years old. What business did he have with serenity? Was he praying? Had he just prayed? Did he pray for things or just about them?
Which makes me remember how the Boy, a fifth grader at Holy Family Catholic School, and I were driving home from school when he started humming that song, then singing it, but the words were slightly different. Instead of when I move, you move (Just like that!), the boy was singing when I pray, you pray (Just like that).
And when I asked him what'd you do at school today? Sit around and pray? he said of course he didn't sit around and pray, there were morning prayers, and prayer at lunch, and another prayer before the last bell, but his day also included social studies and language arts and math class.
Good for you! I told him. Social studies, language arts, and math class AND praying three times a day, he must be exhausted.
Then he said actually, he prayed more than three times a day, he talked to God all the time. Don't you? he said.
And I said something snide and pissy like of course I do, right now I am praying that God will get this light to hurry up and change, it's been red forever, and I'm tired of sitting here.
And that was the end of that, though I never thought of Ludacris in the same way again. And I never thought I gave the boy a good answer. Instead I gave him the snarky answer, a real merow of an answer. Merow! I said, and when the light finally turned green, I hit the gas to burn rubber, and I high tailed it through the next light which, as I approached, was yellow-turning-red. I clearly remember looking over at the boy in the passenger's seat to see what he thought of my antics, which were usually good to get an exasperated eye-roll or a a sigh and a head shake, but he looked calm. Peaceful. Serene, even. He was ten years old. What business did he have with serenity? Was he praying? Had he just prayed? Did he pray for things or just about them?
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
I think high school proms are lame, but then it's prom: it's supposed to be bad, really bad. It's this thing--this supposedly monumental event, this so-called rite of passage, this allegedly magical experience--that's really over-dressed high school kids wiggling their hips to pop music under paper streamers.
That said, the Boy seems pleased to be going. And this won't be his first trip to the rodeo: he went last year and thought the prom was a really great time. All the preparation for this year's prom got me to thinking about last year's.
Here are my notes from Prom 2008 :
1. They ate dinner at Mongolian Grill.
2. Then they went to Tylor's house and hung out.
3. Then they went to the prom.
Me: Did you dance?
The Boy: It was the prom.
Me: What does that mean?
The Boy: What do you mean did I dance?
Me: Well, did you?
The Boy: It was the prom.
Me: I guess that means you danced.
The Boy: I danced.
Me: Slow-dancing? or fast?
The Boy: It was the prom!
Me: What does that mean?
4. Then after the prom was over--around 11:30-11:45 pm--they stopped at my house so the Boy could change his clothes. At this time I was passed out on the couch, wearing clothes that reeked of my friend Luke's neighbor's firepit. Luke was having a get-together which I interpreted as a get-drunk-together-so-drunk-you-have-to-go-home-early. There was a small Tupperware container on the floor beside me; Luke put it there in case I needed to, you know, puke. I have a vivid memory of opening my eyes, contacts sticky but also dry, to see a small huddle of giggly, over-dressed prom-goers speaking in hushed tones. I sat up and tried not to appear wasted, though I most definitely was.
Me: Hi guys.
Them: giggle giggle.
Me: Did you have fun at the prom?
Them: Uh huh.
Me: That's nice.
LONG SILENCE.
Me: Where's the Boy?
Them: Changing his clothes.
Me: Wow. He's taking forever.
LONG SILENCE
Me: But he's always been poky like that. Even when he was little. He always took forever. I
always had to tell him to hurry up!
LONG SILENCE
Me: I probably smell like a campfire. I was standing around one earlier.
Them: giggle giggle.
Me: Boy! Hurry up! You're keeping people waiting!
LONG SILENCE
Me: So now what? Where are you guys off to?
Them: We're going to Perkins.
Me: Gonna go have some coffee and maybe some pie? That's nice.
Gawky Awkward Gangly Teenage Boy: I'm having french fries.
Me: Those are good, too. Boy! HURRY UP!
5. They went to Perkins. Then they went back to Tylor's house. They watched Cloverfield. One of their friends called them up and said I'm at this party where people are drinking alcohol. Please come get me.
The Boy: Yeah, and there were all these people I knew playing beer pong. They were all drunk and it smelled like marijuana.
Me: How do you know what marijuana smells like?
The Boy: It smells like those guys in shop class.
6. They rescued their friend from this evil party of underage alcohol consumers and illegal marijuana smokers and returned to Tylor's house where they watched more movies and "talked about stuff."
Me: Like what? What did you talk about?
The boy: I don't know.
Me: What do you mean you don't know? How could you not know?
The boy: I don't remember.
Me: It was just a few hours ago! How could you not remember
The boy: (impatiently) I just don't, okay? Geez! It's not like I was taking notes!
Me: (thinking he will make a lousy memoirist) But probably you guys just talked about life and
stuff.
The boy: Yeah.
7. By 5:00 am, everyone has fallen asleep on the floor of Tylor's living room.
8. At 8:00 am, the boy wakes up and he's bored because everyone else is still sleeping. At 9:30, when everyone is still sleeping, and he's still awake, he calls for me to come get him.
9. While I am en route to pick him up, he calls my cell and tells me he's already left Tylor's house and I should look for him walking down Look Out Drive.
Me: Why?
The boy: Why what?
Me: Why did you leave Tylor's house?
The boy: because I have to pee.
Me: Why can't you pee at Tylor's?
The boy: Because I don't want to wake anyone up.
Me: (amazed he thinks his urine will hit the toilet with such fury and force that it will wake the asleep, but that's the ego of a teenage boy.)
The boy: I haven't peed since I left home yesterday.
Me: My god! That was four o'clock.
The boy: I know! I really have to pee!
Me: Well, I'm getting there as fast as I can. It would help if I knew where on Look Out Drive to find you.
The boy: I have to pee really, really bad!
Then I see him. I see the boy running, running like I've never seen him running, legs pumping, arms pumping, he's running toward some trees. I pull into a parking lot and wait.
The boy: I couldn't wait.
Me: Do you feel better?
The boy: (snorting like this is the stupidest question he's ever heard) Yeah.
***
The prom is next weekend. I will be interested to see if this one is just as awesome.
That said, the Boy seems pleased to be going. And this won't be his first trip to the rodeo: he went last year and thought the prom was a really great time. All the preparation for this year's prom got me to thinking about last year's.
Here are my notes from Prom 2008 :
1. They ate dinner at Mongolian Grill.
2. Then they went to Tylor's house and hung out.
3. Then they went to the prom.
Me: Did you dance?
The Boy: It was the prom.
Me: What does that mean?
The Boy: What do you mean did I dance?
Me: Well, did you?
The Boy: It was the prom.
Me: I guess that means you danced.
The Boy: I danced.
Me: Slow-dancing? or fast?
The Boy: It was the prom!
Me: What does that mean?
4. Then after the prom was over--around 11:30-11:45 pm--they stopped at my house so the Boy could change his clothes. At this time I was passed out on the couch, wearing clothes that reeked of my friend Luke's neighbor's firepit. Luke was having a get-together which I interpreted as a get-drunk-together-so-drunk-you-have-to-go-home-early. There was a small Tupperware container on the floor beside me; Luke put it there in case I needed to, you know, puke. I have a vivid memory of opening my eyes, contacts sticky but also dry, to see a small huddle of giggly, over-dressed prom-goers speaking in hushed tones. I sat up and tried not to appear wasted, though I most definitely was.
Me: Hi guys.
Them: giggle giggle.
Me: Did you have fun at the prom?
Them: Uh huh.
Me: That's nice.
LONG SILENCE.
Me: Where's the Boy?
Them: Changing his clothes.
Me: Wow. He's taking forever.
LONG SILENCE
Me: But he's always been poky like that. Even when he was little. He always took forever. I
always had to tell him to hurry up!
LONG SILENCE
Me: I probably smell like a campfire. I was standing around one earlier.
Them: giggle giggle.
Me: Boy! Hurry up! You're keeping people waiting!
LONG SILENCE
Me: So now what? Where are you guys off to?
Them: We're going to Perkins.
Me: Gonna go have some coffee and maybe some pie? That's nice.
Gawky Awkward Gangly Teenage Boy: I'm having french fries.
Me: Those are good, too. Boy! HURRY UP!
5. They went to Perkins. Then they went back to Tylor's house. They watched Cloverfield. One of their friends called them up and said I'm at this party where people are drinking alcohol. Please come get me.
The Boy: Yeah, and there were all these people I knew playing beer pong. They were all drunk and it smelled like marijuana.
Me: How do you know what marijuana smells like?
The Boy: It smells like those guys in shop class.
6. They rescued their friend from this evil party of underage alcohol consumers and illegal marijuana smokers and returned to Tylor's house where they watched more movies and "talked about stuff."
Me: Like what? What did you talk about?
The boy: I don't know.
Me: What do you mean you don't know? How could you not know?
The boy: I don't remember.
Me: It was just a few hours ago! How could you not remember
The boy: (impatiently) I just don't, okay? Geez! It's not like I was taking notes!
Me: (thinking he will make a lousy memoirist) But probably you guys just talked about life and
stuff.
The boy: Yeah.
7. By 5:00 am, everyone has fallen asleep on the floor of Tylor's living room.
8. At 8:00 am, the boy wakes up and he's bored because everyone else is still sleeping. At 9:30, when everyone is still sleeping, and he's still awake, he calls for me to come get him.
9. While I am en route to pick him up, he calls my cell and tells me he's already left Tylor's house and I should look for him walking down Look Out Drive.
Me: Why?
The boy: Why what?
Me: Why did you leave Tylor's house?
The boy: because I have to pee.
Me: Why can't you pee at Tylor's?
The boy: Because I don't want to wake anyone up.
Me: (amazed he thinks his urine will hit the toilet with such fury and force that it will wake the asleep, but that's the ego of a teenage boy.)
The boy: I haven't peed since I left home yesterday.
Me: My god! That was four o'clock.
The boy: I know! I really have to pee!
Me: Well, I'm getting there as fast as I can. It would help if I knew where on Look Out Drive to find you.
The boy: I have to pee really, really bad!
Then I see him. I see the boy running, running like I've never seen him running, legs pumping, arms pumping, he's running toward some trees. I pull into a parking lot and wait.
The boy: I couldn't wait.
Me: Do you feel better?
The boy: (snorting like this is the stupidest question he's ever heard) Yeah.
***
The prom is next weekend. I will be interested to see if this one is just as awesome.
Monday, April 13, 2009
I've given my son permission to cut his Fifth Hour physics class. He has that class right before lunch, and he says he needs the extra time to get to his girlfriend's house before she does. He plans to surprise her with flowers and chocolates, macaroni and cheese that he's prepared himself, and a formal invitation to the prom. It's already been established that they are going to the prom together--she bought her dress, he rented his tux-- but he's never outright asked her. She told him he needs to. She told him his invitation had better be good.
I like this girl. She's smart and funny and she's not going to settle. But her spunk and sass have created a good bit of anxiety in my unromantic son. He's been fretting about just how to go about The Asking for weeks now. Some of his ideas were quite grand (renting a billboard) while some were cute-but-dumb (spelling it out in elbow macaroni.) Now time's up, and he's decided on flowers and chocolate--a bit cliche unless you're a high school boy in love with a high school girl.
I think it's sweet, but admit I am not thrilled about him cutting out of physics. While my son has his talents, mirror-gazing and Halo-playing among them, when it comes to physics, he's no rocket scientist. So I'm faced with a choice: do I choose rocket science or do I support love? Both are outer worldly, but which better serves him in the long run?
You'd think that as a college professor I would stress the importance of education. Screw that. I am a fool for love.
But am I making the right choice? Am I setting a bad example, a bad precedent? Should I slap my hand against the table and give my son a stern lecture about his imperfect G.P.A. and less-than-proper study habits? In comparison, surprising a girl by mixing butter and milk into a box of Kraft seems trivial and maybe even bone-headed.
I'm probably making the wrong choice. But that's been my experience with parenting this boy for the last almost-seventeen years. Do I follow my head or do I go with my heart?
I'm Sorry You Feel That Way is a collection of essays about men and boys I've known, and several of the essays are about the boy I'm raising. I have not been a perfect mother. I've often veered back and forth between too-much and not-enough, between absolutely smothering that kid and not being able to remember the last time I took him to the dentist. I've had a lot of ambivalence about the job: I adore my son but he drives me koo-koo bananas.
Take today's situation: I gave him permission to cut physics without too much hesitation, but when he mentioned 1.) he'll need a ride to his girlfriend's house and 2.) he doesn't have any money to buy her flowers (okay, he didn't say this, but I'd bet on it), I started dragging my feet. Outright lying to his school (we're explaining his absence by faking a doctor's appointment) is something I'm apparently okay with, but inconveniencing me, well, that's another matter all together.
"You better not poke around getting here; I don't live my life waiting for opportunities to drive you around," I told the boy. "And don't think I'm spending a lot of money on these flowers. I don't see why I have to finance your love life. And anyway, when are you getting a job? You need to get a job."
My son leaned down to kiss me on the cheek. "Bye, Mom," he said. His eyelashes are long and his cheeks are pink and he's the most beautiful boy I've ever seen. He and I both know already I'm just a lot of hot air, I will shell out the cash to buy flowers for him to give to some other girl.
UPDATE: The Boy paid for the flowers himself.
I like this girl. She's smart and funny and she's not going to settle. But her spunk and sass have created a good bit of anxiety in my unromantic son. He's been fretting about just how to go about The Asking for weeks now. Some of his ideas were quite grand (renting a billboard) while some were cute-but-dumb (spelling it out in elbow macaroni.) Now time's up, and he's decided on flowers and chocolate--a bit cliche unless you're a high school boy in love with a high school girl.
I think it's sweet, but admit I am not thrilled about him cutting out of physics. While my son has his talents, mirror-gazing and Halo-playing among them, when it comes to physics, he's no rocket scientist. So I'm faced with a choice: do I choose rocket science or do I support love? Both are outer worldly, but which better serves him in the long run?
You'd think that as a college professor I would stress the importance of education. Screw that. I am a fool for love.
But am I making the right choice? Am I setting a bad example, a bad precedent? Should I slap my hand against the table and give my son a stern lecture about his imperfect G.P.A. and less-than-proper study habits? In comparison, surprising a girl by mixing butter and milk into a box of Kraft seems trivial and maybe even bone-headed.
I'm probably making the wrong choice. But that's been my experience with parenting this boy for the last almost-seventeen years. Do I follow my head or do I go with my heart?
I'm Sorry You Feel That Way is a collection of essays about men and boys I've known, and several of the essays are about the boy I'm raising. I have not been a perfect mother. I've often veered back and forth between too-much and not-enough, between absolutely smothering that kid and not being able to remember the last time I took him to the dentist. I've had a lot of ambivalence about the job: I adore my son but he drives me koo-koo bananas.
Take today's situation: I gave him permission to cut physics without too much hesitation, but when he mentioned 1.) he'll need a ride to his girlfriend's house and 2.) he doesn't have any money to buy her flowers (okay, he didn't say this, but I'd bet on it), I started dragging my feet. Outright lying to his school (we're explaining his absence by faking a doctor's appointment) is something I'm apparently okay with, but inconveniencing me, well, that's another matter all together.
"You better not poke around getting here; I don't live my life waiting for opportunities to drive you around," I told the boy. "And don't think I'm spending a lot of money on these flowers. I don't see why I have to finance your love life. And anyway, when are you getting a job? You need to get a job."
My son leaned down to kiss me on the cheek. "Bye, Mom," he said. His eyelashes are long and his cheeks are pink and he's the most beautiful boy I've ever seen. He and I both know already I'm just a lot of hot air, I will shell out the cash to buy flowers for him to give to some other girl.
UPDATE: The Boy paid for the flowers himself.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
ISYFTW totes are in transit! I mailed a bunch of them out this morning, a task that required parallel parking, which is no small feat for a person who also hates merging, driving in reverse, and left-hand turns.
Please consider sending me a picture of you and your tote; I will post it on this blog.
Please consider sending me a picture of you and your tote; I will post it on this blog.
Friday, April 10, 2009
I've been thinking and thinking about this--it came up in class yesterday, and I have yet to figure it out. The context is this: a student had written a humorous piece about his roommate, and during workshop, we got to talking about bringing more details about the roommate, a gun owner of the strident sort. I thought it would be effective to show another side of his personality, a softer, sweeter side. I asked my student to tell me more about their domestic situation.
Our what? the student said.
Your life together.
My student--a guy in his young twenties--made a face. It was the same face my son makes when I tell him I like his outfit. It's okay to say I like his shirt, but it's not okay to call what he's wearing an "outfit." It wasn't okay to refer to my student and his roommate as having "a domestic situation."
I decided to get more specific. I asked my student if he and his roommate watch Wheel of Fortune together.
My student said they did not.
What about doing the dishes? Do you wash and he dries?
My student said no. They didn't do that, either.
I needed to come up with some kind of something. Some question that my student could answer about his roommate. How does your roommate eat an ice cream cone? I asked. Is he a biter or a licker?
My student said he had no idea.
What I was after were those small details that give a reader the sense of who someone is. I liked trying to picture how this strident gun-owner would eat an ice cream cone. Would he be a biter or a licker or maybe a little of both? I couldn't decide. I suggested there was one way to find out.
You could bring him an ice cream cone, I said.
And watch him eat it??? my student said. He seemed incredulous, and the rest of the class agreed with him.
At first, I thought my students were wigged out by the idea of going Truman-Capote on someone. Then I thought maybe they found the question of how-does-someone-eat-an-ice-cream-cone strange. But it wasn't coming out of nowhere. I'd seen a variation of that question--do you bite or lick an ice cream cone--on any number of Facebook surveys. The more I listened to the students talk, the more I understood they thought it was weird for a different reason.
Evidentally, according to my students, it would be weird for a single heterosexual guy to bring his roommate, another single heterosexual guy, an ice cream cone.
Why? I said. Let's say you're at Dairy Queen, and you're getting yourself an ice cream cone. You wouldn't think, Hmmmm. I bet my roommate would like one, too, I'll bring one home for him.
Never, my students said.
What if you have a half gallon of ice cream, and you're at home in your kitchen, fixing yourself a bowl. You wouldn't think, while I'm at it, I'll fix a bowl for my roommate.
Never, my students said.
What if he did that for you?
He never would! my students said. It would be weird!
I thought it was weird that they thought it was weird. But then I've never had a roommate. I've only lived with husbands and my son. Sometimes I daydream about what I'll do when the Boy leaves home. I'm not high on the idea of living alone. I don't think I'd like it. So I daydream about getting an international student to come live in my house with me. This person could come live here for free. He (I always picture this person is a boy, a surrogate son) wouldn't even have to worry about groceries because I'd feed him. I'd have dinner ready and there'd be cereal for breakfast, and in the mornings while I'm putting together a sack lunch for myself, I'd fix one for him, too. It's just as easy to make two sandwiches as it is to make one. When we're in the house together, he could ignore me all he wants--the Boy does--but maybe every once in a while he'd be willing to come downstairs and play Scrabble with me or watch Wheel of Fortune.
But D.J., it's not about the roommate dynamic, my friend Matt told me.
This was later, a few hours after class, and I was telling him about our discussion.
A single heterosexual male does not bring food to another single heterosexual male, Matt said. Matt, who is a single heterosexual male, and his roommate, another single heterosexual male, have known each other for more than ten years, but evidently, one dishing ice cream into a bowl for the other would be too intimate an act. We would never do that, Matt said. It would be weird. Matt told me if his roommate was asleep on the couch and shivering because he was obviously cold, Matt would not put a blanket over him. Matt said if he did anything at all, he'd kick his roommate and say wake up, you're cold.
I know my examples are anecdotal and not representative of every young, single, heterosexual guy, but good grief, I think it's weird. And I got to remembering all the times the Boy was heading out for a night of Halo-playing with his friends, how I'd try to send him off with a bag of chips or a plate of cookies. Here, I'd say, take this with you. And he'd refuse to. And I could never figure out why.
Matt told me the only time it's acceptable for a guy to give another guy food is when it's something he's killed himself. Like a deer. Then the guy could say, here. Have a package of venison.
How is that any different?
According to Matt, it just is.
Our what? the student said.
Your life together.
My student--a guy in his young twenties--made a face. It was the same face my son makes when I tell him I like his outfit. It's okay to say I like his shirt, but it's not okay to call what he's wearing an "outfit." It wasn't okay to refer to my student and his roommate as having "a domestic situation."
I decided to get more specific. I asked my student if he and his roommate watch Wheel of Fortune together.
My student said they did not.
What about doing the dishes? Do you wash and he dries?
My student said no. They didn't do that, either.
I needed to come up with some kind of something. Some question that my student could answer about his roommate. How does your roommate eat an ice cream cone? I asked. Is he a biter or a licker?
My student said he had no idea.
What I was after were those small details that give a reader the sense of who someone is. I liked trying to picture how this strident gun-owner would eat an ice cream cone. Would he be a biter or a licker or maybe a little of both? I couldn't decide. I suggested there was one way to find out.
You could bring him an ice cream cone, I said.
And watch him eat it??? my student said. He seemed incredulous, and the rest of the class agreed with him.
At first, I thought my students were wigged out by the idea of going Truman-Capote on someone. Then I thought maybe they found the question of how-does-someone-eat-an-ice-cream-cone strange. But it wasn't coming out of nowhere. I'd seen a variation of that question--do you bite or lick an ice cream cone--on any number of Facebook surveys. The more I listened to the students talk, the more I understood they thought it was weird for a different reason.
Evidentally, according to my students, it would be weird for a single heterosexual guy to bring his roommate, another single heterosexual guy, an ice cream cone.
Why? I said. Let's say you're at Dairy Queen, and you're getting yourself an ice cream cone. You wouldn't think, Hmmmm. I bet my roommate would like one, too, I'll bring one home for him.
Never, my students said.
What if you have a half gallon of ice cream, and you're at home in your kitchen, fixing yourself a bowl. You wouldn't think, while I'm at it, I'll fix a bowl for my roommate.
Never, my students said.
What if he did that for you?
He never would! my students said. It would be weird!
I thought it was weird that they thought it was weird. But then I've never had a roommate. I've only lived with husbands and my son. Sometimes I daydream about what I'll do when the Boy leaves home. I'm not high on the idea of living alone. I don't think I'd like it. So I daydream about getting an international student to come live in my house with me. This person could come live here for free. He (I always picture this person is a boy, a surrogate son) wouldn't even have to worry about groceries because I'd feed him. I'd have dinner ready and there'd be cereal for breakfast, and in the mornings while I'm putting together a sack lunch for myself, I'd fix one for him, too. It's just as easy to make two sandwiches as it is to make one. When we're in the house together, he could ignore me all he wants--the Boy does--but maybe every once in a while he'd be willing to come downstairs and play Scrabble with me or watch Wheel of Fortune.
But D.J., it's not about the roommate dynamic, my friend Matt told me.
This was later, a few hours after class, and I was telling him about our discussion.
A single heterosexual male does not bring food to another single heterosexual male, Matt said. Matt, who is a single heterosexual male, and his roommate, another single heterosexual male, have known each other for more than ten years, but evidently, one dishing ice cream into a bowl for the other would be too intimate an act. We would never do that, Matt said. It would be weird. Matt told me if his roommate was asleep on the couch and shivering because he was obviously cold, Matt would not put a blanket over him. Matt said if he did anything at all, he'd kick his roommate and say wake up, you're cold.
I know my examples are anecdotal and not representative of every young, single, heterosexual guy, but good grief, I think it's weird. And I got to remembering all the times the Boy was heading out for a night of Halo-playing with his friends, how I'd try to send him off with a bag of chips or a plate of cookies. Here, I'd say, take this with you. And he'd refuse to. And I could never figure out why.
Matt told me the only time it's acceptable for a guy to give another guy food is when it's something he's killed himself. Like a deer. Then the guy could say, here. Have a package of venison.
How is that any different?
According to Matt, it just is.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
"A man is a god in ruins"--Ralph Waldo Emerson
I will admit I get a big kick out of guys. Not long ago, someone referred to me as “an Elaine”—like the Seinfeld character, one of those girls whose friends are mostly male. I’ve always had a female friend, a girlfriend, but just one at a time. Even now, at age thirty-eight, I’ve never been part of a female circle. I can’t figure out how to speak the language or decode the signals or infiltrate the group. Maybe it’s because I grew up with brothers. Or maybe it’s because my father was such a mysterious (and god-like) presence in my life that I spent more time seeking out male approval. Or maybe it’s got something to do with some insecurity on my part, some real or perceived flaw in my own character, some bump on my nose or dark spot on my brain. The fact remains: I’m a girly girl who enjoys a good fart joke.
I get asked a lot about the book’s epigraph, and I think Emerson had it only halfway right: I think we are all gods in ruins. Men and women alike, all of us capable of compassion and vengeance, forgiveness and grudge-holding. We’re a miserable species, but we’re likewise amazing. I didn’t want to demonize any of the guys I wrote about, but I didn’t want to valorize anyone, either.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The book makes its first television appearance (I, however, look good on the radio): click here.
To listen to the interview I did with Stephen Usery for his show "Book Talk" on FM 89.3 in Memphis, click here.
I love teaching. I love standing in front of a roomful of students—whether it’s their very first Introduction to Creative Writing class or a Graduate Workshop—and doing whatever I can to convince my students that their stories matter. That their stories are interesting. That they are interesting and their lives are the stuff of art. What absolutely slays me is that we so often don’t know the ways we’re interesting. We take our experiences for granted, or we think what we know is what everyone already knows. And while it’s true that there are universal experiences—everyone has the story of how he or she first learned about sex, for example—the details that of experience, the specifics are what make it fascinating. One of my student’s sex talk consisted of a pop-up book her mom left on her bed. A pop-up book! Another student’s sex talk was his dad saying, “You know not to get anyone pregnant, right?” The sex talk my father gave me—“Don’t be a pig,” he said—was so weird and great that it became the story that opens the book.
These are the three stories I encourage my students to tell:
1. The story you don’t want to tell your friends.
2. The story you don’t want to tell your mother.
3. The story you don't want to tell yourself.
But my biggest teacherly concern is convincing my students that being a writer goes hand-in-hand with being a reader. I spend a lot of time yapping about the absolute pleasure of reading, reminding my students that it’s good when a book is challenging or fills you with anxiety or rage. When a book gets you all riled up. When you wish you could call the writer up and say look here, pal, you got me thinking. Emily Dickinson said, “If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry,” and I say yep. Good writing blows my mind, too. It’s all about communicating with a reader. The writer starts the conversation with what he or she has written and the reader says something in response. For me, a good piece of writing will lead me to two reactions: recognition—I know exactly what you mean, or revelation—I never thought of it like that. But the best writing gives me both.
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