Wednesday, September 2, 2015

The part-time farmhand

A couple weeks ago, the girls and I were up visiting Blue Hound. Lily, Jovie and one of their friends were playing with the goats and scrambling after a hen and her peeps – tiny balls of uncatchable fluff. 

"If you know anybody who could work up here a couple mornings a week, I could sure use the help," Kristi told me. 

I've been underemployed for a couple of months now – something I'd assumed would correct itself as part of the feast-or-famine cycle of life as a freelancer. To be honest, I was grateful for the break at first. Most of my nights had been spent on my laptop doing work that wasn't particularly inspiring or all that interesting, but that could be completed at the end of a long day wrangling kids without a lot of headaches. I kind of got used to the new routine. My evenings all the sudden unspoken for. 

I probably should've used that extra time to write all those things that I'd always meant to write but claimed I didn't have the time to. But I didn't do that. I also didn't spend a lot of time looking for new gigs. I kind of dread the prospect of more marketing blogging. 

What have I been doing? I'm not really sure.

Anyway. When another slow month went by, I started getting antsy. To be honest, I was antsy the whole time. But the antsy-ness level had gone up. Markedly.

So when Kristi's told me she needs help – feeding animals, picking stalls, tidying up and other miscellaneous tasks – well, it felt like a good time to raise my hand. 

My office is this 72-acre paradise of pastures and pond and massive trees and ethereal flowers and dirt. 

The work is straight forward. Fresh water. Replenish the feed. Pick up the poop. Scratch the goats, give the pigs a belly rub, pat the horses. Make sure all the gates are latched.

If there's a wedding at the farm that day, additional duties might include turkey wrangling (they're very social and would almost certainly crash the party), barn scrubbing and flower picking.

I'm a rookie. I haul water farther than it needs to go. Get stepped on by horses. Bitten by hens. My skills with a pitch fork are minimal; the amount of time I spend chasing evasive manure around stalls is comical. 

Last weekend when I came home – sweaty and tired – even Jovie commented on how filthy I was. 

It's good to be dirty though. To smell the earth, the sweet hay, the milky tang of cows, the ammonia of animal waste. To hear the murmur of chickens and the boasting of roosters and the snuffling of pigs and the satisfied munching of horses. 

Everywhere I look is a painting. Still life and real life.

There's no multi-tasking here. No texting while Facebooking while making dinner while mediating an argument over the purple cup. I do the job in front of me. And then do the next one.

I feel guilty getting paid to work here. I know for every wheelbarrow and bucket I fill, my heart and spirit are filled ten fold. I think about this as cut Queen Anne's lace under a cotton cloud-filled blue sky. 

There are no blinking cursors. No blank pages to be filled. 

Life there is beautiful, even when it's messy.

It's a good job.

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

Assholes, ducklings and the end of the universe

Courtesy of NASA Goddard Space Flight Image/Flickr

The universe is dying.

I mean, there's probably a few billion years before lights out, but still. The universe may or may not be endless and infinite, but it's definitely not eternal. 

And the scientists are pretty poetic about it.

From an article posted on

"The stars die, like a fire dies, and then you have embers left over that then glow but eventually cool down. And the fire just goes out." - Joe Liske of the University of Hamburg.

And this ...

"The universe has basically sat down on the sofa, pulled up a blanket and is about to nod off for an eternal doze," - Simon Driver, professor at the University of Western Australia.

I found this news kind of comforting.

Not in the I-want-to-end-it-all sense (though, come on, that comfy sofa, a cozy blanket and nice long nap seem pretty appealing, right?)

But that our existence will run its course and then it will be over. 

I've been feeling a bit cynical lately. I don't much like that. 

My tolerance for humanity – for the man honking his horn and waving his hand at me because I didn't accelerate fast enough when the light turned green or the self-righteous woman who can't see her own faults through the haze of her anger and self-pity berating my friend unjustly or the passive-aggressive commentary about how much my dog barks or the girls bickering over all the little whatevers (why does it matter who goes through the door first? Whose story is read first? Who sits on the potty first?) – they all just make me want to close my eyes and plug my ears. Find a nice sofa, etc.

The ugliness here. I just can't deal with it. And it's everywhere it seems. 

And it's in me, too. I know that. Nobody is immune to that bitterness. To being selfish over being selfless. I don't always let the car pull out in front of mine. Or suppress the urge to roll my eyes when the person in front of me at the checkout has endless transactional questions. I don't feel especially patient anymore with the people who comment about how different my daughters look from each other – the one with the light hair and the one with the dark hair – like somehow they're not really sisters. 

I don't mean to be an asshole. I'm sure most people don't mean to be. 

And we don't start out our lives being assholes. We're just really, really hungry. Or, really, really tired. Or we really, really need our diapers changed. Or really, really want to be cuddled. And aside from the diaper thing, probably most of our assholey behavior* stems from all those holdovers from infanthood.

I try to remind myself about this when people disappoint me. Sometimes I forget to remind myself. I've been forgetting a lot recently.

But then I heard this news about the universe and all the sudden I feel a little better about things. 

Let me explain.

Part of my concerns about how shitty we are to each other is the fact that we've apparently been shitty to each other since the beginning of time and I can't really foresee a time when we are going to stop being shitty to each other. I mean honestly. We'll chip away at the walls we've built in one place while erecting them in another. History is a broken record, right?

But eventually the record player will just stop working. 

Everything that was and everything that is will flicker away into the void and that's that. 

If you're waiting for the uplifting part of this whole thing, here it is: It won't be like this forever.**

We'll all be Ra's al Ghuled and the next universe to start up will have a clean slate. I'm a little shaky on my physics, but I'm pretty sure that's how all that works.

This thought is kind of freeing, right? (I mean, end of existence aside). 

At least it was reassuring to me. It allows me to shake off the oppressive chains of infinite assholery and just be human. To stop worrying so much about my sins and the sins of all mankind past, present and future and work on being better today than I was yesterday. 

It won't be like this forever. So we just have to grab onto those little bits of joy and let that be the stuff that fills our souls. The more we do that – the more we cuddle our inner infant – the better we'll be to each other, right?

I've been watching season two of "Louie," and last night I came to the episode where Louie goes to Afghanistan as part of a USO tour. Unbeknownst to Louie his 5 year old stashes one of her class ducklings in his luggage. In a note, she tells her dad the duckling is meant to keep him safe. And this happens:

The lesson here: We all just need to keep an eye out for ducklings.

* Side story about literal assholey behavior: So, Lily's developed this odd habit of sticking her hands down the back of her shorts. I'm not sure what she's doing down there, but I've asked her not to do it in public. "It's not a problem for you to stick your hands down your pants in private – just make sure to wash them after. But it's impolite to stick them down your pants in public," I've told her. Multiple times. So we're in Ikea last week waiting in line at the checkout. Lily is bored and just wants some frozen yogurt. Her hands are down her pants again. "Lily, you need to take your hands out of your pants." I tell her. "Why?" she asks. "Because we're in the middle of Ikea and it's not polite to have your hands down your pants in the middle of Ikea," I tell her. At which points she whips her hands out of her pants and covers my face with them, giggling maniacally. I swat her hands away and am about to correct her about the stink palming and she interrupts me. "Mom! Can I have ice cream?" So that happened. She go the FroYo. Because I'm a pushover.

** For those of you who are concerned about the state of my spiritual life and are ready to remind me of the glories of heaven, in this scenario I'm writing about our Earthly existence. The possibility of a heavenly reunion with our many deceased cats is a subject for another day.

*** Before I forget. If you happen to be in the York area at 7 p.m. Aug. 28, I'll be reading this short story at the Agriculture and Industry Museum. It won second place in the fiction category of YorkFest's adult literary competition. So while I might never find an agent who will help me publish that novel I wrote, when it comes to semi-obscure local writing competitions, well, I'm moving up in the world. Not that it matters, you know. What with the universe dying and all.

Thursday, July 30, 2015

Magical waterfalls, hazy brains and Paul Rudd

Rainbow Falls on Gorge Trail, Watkins Glen.
So I've been in kind of a contemplative mode lately ("But, Sue," you say, "you're kind of always in a contemplative mode ... remember that time you contemplated the layers of filth on your kitchen floor? Or that other time you contemplated your olfactory senses after your dog ate and threw up two sticks of unsalted butter?" Point taken). 

Anyway, after That Column I wrote a couple weeks ago, I got to thinking about where life has taken me more recently. And that made me think about last year. Remember then? That magical time when I was nearly finished with the first draft of my first novel ever (four years in the making!) and preparing to do my first reading ever

I had a lot of momentum back then, it seemed. A lot of giddiness and excitement and optimism about being a writer. Strike that. A Writer. 

Even though I'd yet to actually complete the first draft of my first novel ever, I'd already begun to entertain the impossible possibility that I could actually make a living (well, OK, supplement a living) writing fiction. (I know. The fantastical places a third-place win for a big-town/small city literary competition takes you.)

But a year went by. I revised the draft. I shined it up. And I started querying agents. I wrote a few short stories and submitted them to some literary competitions. And then all the "thanks, but no thanks" started rolling in and my confidence and ambition started rolling out. (I know, I know. I need to quit whining like Lily when she's just "so, so hungry" that she "can't wait much longer" for the chicken and broccoli I'm serving for dinner and has to have some fruit snacks "right now.") 

This is life. And this is definitely the life everyone who's ever written anything has warned everyone who wants to write anything, about. It's not magical. It's grueling. And often disappointing. Though sometimes sprinkled with third-place wins. 

Just keep writing my writing friends say.

But my writing brain feels like it's mired in this deep fog. 

It was at least a billion degrees today and so humid the air hung on me like a still wet-sweatshirt straight out of the dryer. I decided the girls and I should take the dog for a walk around the neighborhood, because it had been forever. Lily, who'd dressed herself in her new, oversized Dale Earnhardt Jr. shirt and a pair of leggings, refused to change out of her "cozy pants" into shorts. "I'll be fine mom!" she told me.

But sure enough, part way through the walk she was wilting. Overheated and limp. And I knew exactly how she felt. Because that's exactly how my writing brain feels. Like taking a walk in cozy pants on a scorching, dank day in late July. 

And it's not like I haven't had time to write.

Work's been slow – affording me vast swaths of time (well, vast by my definition) to write and write and write about what I want to write. Instead, I've been ignoring writing's incessant tapping on my shoulder.

I'm taking the low road: Apathy.

While re-watching "Wet Hot American Summer" Saturday night (a really great way to avoid eye contact with writing) I discovered the personification of my attitude toward this ridiculous self-ascribed calling: Paul Rudd. 

In this scenario writing is the chair, the tray and the fork; Janeane Garofalo is the logical part of my brain and Brad and all my other wise-and-encouraging friends; and I am Paul Rudd.

And then there's this scenario where my role is again played by Paul Rudd and the role of writing is his doting girlfriend, Katie (Marguerite Moreau).

I covet that pole dancing bird flip move (perfecting it might be the only reason I'd venture into another pole dancing scenario). 

It's pretty much been my exact sentiment about pursuing fiction right now. 

A big 'ol sassy fuck you.

Our family vacation afforded me an excellent opportunity to pretend I wasn't a writer anymore. While I brought my laptop with me (we're a bit codependent, me and my laptop) I didn't turn it on for nine glorious days. Didn't even really think of turning it on for nine glorious days. 

Did I mention it was glorious?

Instead, I was the fun mom who hiked up magical waterfall trails and romped in mountains of foam and jumped on giant bouncy pillows and played mini golf and drove on racetracks and swam in lakes and didn't enforce bedtime or vegetables and allowed my amazing aunties to spoil her children with pre-dinner slushies and post-pizza froyo and trips to the zoo and the science museum.

OK, so in reviewing my vacation photos, there's no real visual record in my involvement in any of this. Actually, the whole trip was Brad's idea. You'll just have to trust that I was along for the fun.

Lily's tired legs on Jacob's Ladder.
We visited Watkins Glen and took the girls up the famous gorge there, a one and a half mile hike up, up and up – not terribly hard for 33-year-old legs but intimidating for 3- and 4-year-old little legs. Lily led the way for most of the hike, enchanted by the waterfalls and the creek and the massive rock walls. But by the time we reached Jacob's Ladder, the final 180 steps up to where the shuttle would pick us up and take us back to our car, she was done. 

"My legs are tired. I can't walk anymore," she told me flopping on the bottom steps.

"You can do it!" I told her. "Just one step at a time."

And she did it. (I helped her a little along the way, but who doesn't need help along the way?) We made it to the shuttle (probably her favorite part of the whole day. The girl loves a good bus ride).

I'm reading "Wild" by Cheryl Strayed (you should go read it right now) and I thought about this moment today. How you have to keep walking and walking and walking to get to where you're going and that you can't worry about where you've been and where you're going. Here's Strayed:
“The thing about hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, the thing that was so profound to me that summer—and yet also, like most things, so very simple—was how few choices I had and how often I had to do the thing I least wanted to do. How there was no escape or denial. No numbing it down with a martini or covering it up with a roll in the hay. As I clung to the chaparral that day, attempting to patch up my bleeding finger, terrified by every sound that the bull was coming back, I considered my options. There were only two and they were essentially the same. I could go back in the direction I had come from, or I could go forward in the direction I intended to go.” 
Lily's plight on those steps and my plight with the writing obviously aren't as dire as Strayed's journey on the Pacific Crest Trail and the demons she was hoping to exorcise. Probably, most things in life aren't. But it doesn't matter anyway. We're all on navigating our own trails. And their as steep or level as we make them out to be.

Recently, as I was bemoaning the idea of starting a new novel to my friend Kristen she said something equally as profound. That it didn't have to be the same experience I had last time I wrote a novel. I couldn't compare the two. 

I hadn't considered that. Not even for a second. In order to protect myself from high expectations I've been lowering them to a point of stalling out. 

And Brad chimed in, too (after I whined ... err ... vented to him):
"With your writing, I know it's frustrating that you aren't at the same point as other people, but you are on the path. And you are WAY further down the path than a lot of other people who want to be where you are .... You just aren't as far down as you want to be. But it's your path, and you're not racing against anyone else. You'll get there if you keep writing."
So fine. You win bossy friends and husband. The only way to dig my way out of my Paul Rudd Rut (allow me: groooooooaaaaaan) is to keep writing. 

I know, I'm as disappointed as you are. 

So here goes nothing (uh-gain). 

Monday, June 22, 2015

Turned inside out by 'Inside Out'

Courtesy of Disney Pixar
Brad and I took the girls to see "Inside Out" this weekend (Or, as Lily prefers, "Disney Pixar's Inside Out." She insists on using the long-form because it's what she's been hearing on Disney Junior for the past couple months. She might not be listening to my repeated requests not to spit on me or lick her sister or stuff the cat into my favorite tote bag, but if the TV says it – well that must be of critical importance.)

I knew, based on the preview I saw months ago, that I was going to ugly cry during "Inside Out." I mean, come on, it's literally a movie about ALL THE FEELINGS.

And I have so many feelings.

And the tagline is "Meet the Little Voices Inside Your Head."

And the name of my blog is My Inside Voices.

And it's about an 11-year-old girl struggling with change and the complications of growing up when her families moves from Minnesota to San Francisco.

And I've long been convinced that my life peaked right around 11 or 12. 

And it's about the memories we form as children and how we carry them (or lose them) as we grow older. 

And I have the wonderful/terrible duty of directly impacting the happy, heartbreaking, terrifying, infuriating, regrettable memories of two small humans. And it's a such a huge job and I often feel that I'm failing at it. 

What if there just isn't enough joy on the shelf to get them through the rigors of adolescence?

Predictably, I was crying within the first five minutes.

But I was also laughing. Because Amy Poehler is Joy and Lewis Black is Anger and Bill Hader is Fear and Mindy Kaling is disgust and they're all hilarious – even when they're just voices embodied by colorful blobs of emotion.

And then I was cry-laughing. Like when Sadness (voiced by the show-stealing Phyllis Smith of "The Office" fame) says "Crying helps me slow down and obsess over the weight of life's problems" because it is so scarily spot-on I felt a little bit inside out myself sitting there in the movie theater.

For 94 minutes the writers of "Disney Pixar's Inside Out" were the puppeteers of my emotions – they'd tug at my heart as newborn Riley opens her eyes and sees the smiling faces of her parents for the first time and then shake my funny bone as toddler Riley goes streaking through the living room naked in full on Goofy mode (a near nightly occurrence at our house).

Emotions aside, it was fascinating to see the inner workings of the brain as interpreted by writers and animators. 

The sequence of how dreams are staged was fantastic (thanks in part to a super aloof Rainbow Unicorn) and made a dream I had last night about a literary agent calling me to discuss my manuscript even more amusing.

"Is this Susan?" she asked in a faraway voice, the cell phone she was calling from going in and out of service. "We just finished your book. It was alright. Not bad. Did you want us to glance over a second draft?"

And I had to frantically remember whether a second draft even existed (it didn't) because I figured having her "glance over" the book again would bump up her "not bad" assessment to "pretty good."

When I woke up this morning I had to laugh. Even in my wildest dreams, the news is still just "Eh, we could take it or leave it."

And that seems to be the thesis of the movie. When we're little, Joy runs the ship and all our memories, even our bad memories seem to glow. But then we get older, and Sadness takes the wheel more and more. And all the sudden all that glittered in youth turns blue as Sadness slumps about tainting everything with melancholy. 

Life goes from super awesome to just pretty good. And even when we experience those moments of super awesome as an adult, it seems they're always shadowed by self-doubt and worry and stress. 

(Even Pete Doctor, the movie's director, has these moments: "There was this really heavy pressure that whatever we were going to show had to be perfect or at least good enough to move into actual production. And yet, I was sitting there in editorial going, 'This is not working.' I was walking around that weekend ... going, 'I'm a failure. These other films were flukes. I don't know what I'm doing. I should just quit,' " he told Terry Gross on NPR's Fresh Air.)  

This realization only made me cry more because I was watching the girls watch the movie and, like Joy, wanted desperately to slow (or even stop!) the progression of Sadness in their lives. But how can I keep Sadness in her little circle so that Lily will continue leaping around the house in her Bambi costume from Halloween and Jovie will continue to celebrate pooping on the potty by analyzing the shape of each deposit ("That one looks like a sandwich!") and asking for "lemon-nems" (M&Ms)?

But the transition feels all but inevitable. 

This was made even more clear when I looked over at Lily during a part of the movie when Joy and Riley's imaginary friend Bing Bong are trying desperately to get out of the Memory Dump. I was already crying (again) and, as I predicted, Lily was bawling. 

"Mom, can we go to Buffalo Wild Wings now?" she sobbed – we'd planned to take Brad there for a Father's Day dinner after the movie. 

And I asked the obvious question. "Is this making you sad?" 

And Lily nodded vigorously. And I told her we should stay just a little longer, because I was sure the movie would become happy again, and that we didn't want to miss it. 

And she agreed – somewhat reluctantly.

Because it's part Disney, we got our happy ending. Though I'm not quite sure why it was happy. I mean, is it really, truly a happy ending if the resolution is that Joy realizes she needs to make room for Sadness? 

It validated me, as an adult. But Lily, well. I'm not so sure.

At one point, I turned to Lily and whispered, "Which one do you like best? Joy?" (I mean, of course she likes Joy, I told myself. She's so fun and silly and chipper and the perfect representation of childhood. Why wouldn't Lily identify with Joy?!!?!)

"No," she whispered back. "I like Disgust. She's so pretty!"

Sigh. I need to stop overthinking things.

Tuesday, June 9, 2015

That time I went pole dancing in New York (and other stories)

Photo courtesy of Kenny Louie/Flickr

A while back one of my best friends from high school suggested a girl's weekend.

I figured I'd go down to Virginia where she lives for an overnight. We could go to a yoga class, grab dinner, chat until the wee hours about the past and the present and the future. 

My friend had other plans. 

She wanted to get away. 

"Is Puerto Rico too far?" she texted.

"Maybe somewhere a little closer?" I replied, not quite able to wrap my brain around flying to an island and leaving Brad and the girls behind.

We decided on New York City. She'd take the bus and I'd take the train.

It all felt very sophisticated and other worldly.

I feel very silly writing that. I grew up in the D.C. suburbs, so this wasn't exactly a country mouse in the city scenario. I frequented D.C. growing up and have visited New York, Boston, Baltimore, San Francisco, Denver and L.A.. 

But I've lived in York for more than 10 years. A little snow globe of farms and parks and factories and subdivisions and strip malls with a clump of "city" in the middle (considering I was planning a weekend in New York, I don't feel judgmental putting city in quotes).

I've gotten used to my unfussy, unpretentious town and its practical, homey people. 

I don't know, maybe I'm a little too comfortable here.

I was anxious about taking the train. Anxious about navigating the city on my own. Anxious about all the people. Anxious about feeling so plain and uncosmopolitan in the capital of cosmopolitan. 

My friend's request that I take a pole-dancing class with her didn't help matters. It also didn't help when she begged me to take a second pole-dancing class. (My friend has been taking pole dancing classes for fitness for more than a year. I went to her showcase back to November and based on her ripped abs and ... err ... acrobatic skills, I can attest to the fitness benefits.) 

And it wasn't the fitness I was averse to as much as the, you know, pole, but I agreed to go. To both classes. I'm probably more flexible than I give myself credit for.

So before I know it it's Friday. And I'm getting on a train that whisked me past the pastures and livestock and silos of Lancaster into the bowels of New York City. And I get off the train and got swept up into the current of people, seemingly all of humanity, shuffling through Penn Station at 10 o'clock on a Friday night. 

Baptized by the chaos of Penn Station I hauled myself up to the street overwhelmed and disoriented and was relieved to see the smiling face of my friend, who, in an act of supreme serendipity, just happened to be walking past the exit I chose at that exact moment.

I caught my breath. And together we dove into New York.

As it turns out, all of humanity wasn't in Penn Station. They were mostly in Time Square, taking photos of those giant video screens and the giant buildings and wearing giant plush costumes of various super heroes and Disney Characters, or, as was the case with a pair of blonde ladies and someone's grandma, wearing nothing at all!

Here goes nothing, I told myself.

I'll attempt to be uncharacteristically brief* while recapping the (approximately) 40 hours I spent in the city. 

The Food

I guess you can't go to New York and not mention food, right? 

On Saturday, we met up with Brad's cousin on the Upper East Side and she took us to Salvo's Pizzabar and ordered this divine Chicken Francese pizza (I feel like I should mention it was off menu, which made me feel infinitely more posh) with the perfect crispy/chewy crust and gooey cheese paired with garlic and zesty lemon chicken. I'm kind of pining for it now. 

Then we met up with my friend's aunt and cousin at The View Restaurant & Lounge in the Marriott Marquis (New York's only Revolving Rooftop Restaurant and Lounge – because it's New York and why the hell not have a restaurant on the 48th floor of a building that spins 360-degrees an hour?). The view was (obviously) impressive as were the prices. We settled on one cocktail a piece (any more would've increased the minor motion sickness I was already feeling) and otherwise filled up on great conversation.

Next, it was down to Chelsea where we wandered aimlessly for a while before turning to Yelp for assistance picking out a spot for dinner. We settled on Kobeyaki, which was like a Japanese Chipotle – delicious, affordable food fast. I got a grilled vegetable roll (think sushi) which had tempura sweet potatoes, zucchini, carrots, avocado, miso onion and kobeyaki (i.e.: awesome) sauce.  Endlessly yummy, I almost stopped back in on my way out of town to pick up another. And because you can't ever have enough tempura sweet potatoes, we got an order of tempura sweet potato fries to share, which were crispy on the outside, sweet and soft on the inside and tasty all around. 

We ended our Saturday night at Max Brenner in Union Square, where there was an almost two-hour wait for tables at 10:30 p.m. I opted for a to-go Pure Chocolate Granita (dark chocolate over ice) my friend opted for a glass of wine from the hotel bar. I feel I made the better choice, but then I'd pretty much do whatever evil bidding dark chocolate ever asked of me. Apparently, my soul is easily bought. 

The Show

Saturday night, inspired by my spirit mother (she probably wouldn't call herself that because she has no idea who I am and would probably think I'm a super creeper, but it's Amy Poehler), we saw Goat, an improv show, at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre in Chelsea. It was awesome, even when it was awkward – maybe especially when it was awkward. You could see the adrenaline pumping through the actors as they had to figure out what to do in the scene and watch the their eyes glow when they figured out their next move. Like a schizophrenic game of chess. I wanted to tag in.

The Pole Dancing

I saucy (well attempted to saucy) walked well out of my comfort zone at those two pole-dancing classes (one at S Factor and one at Body & Pole). This will surprise no one who has ever seen me dance, but I won't be quitting my night job. The sad irony was that while I could've benefitted from the saucier aspects of pole dance (booty shaking, hair flipping, felinesque crawling, pole humping, etc.), as a weary stay-at-home mom I could just not get into a mindset where I didn't feel fraudulent and ridiculous attempting these moves. 

Jovie has a major pooping-on-the-potty hurdle to overcome in our quest toward carefree underwear wearing, which means for the past couple weeks I've had actual human feces on my fingers at least every other day. And then there was Friday's mailbox ant infestation, which had me frantically trying to paper towel then dust buster ants and their eggs out of my mailbox as they frantically crawled up my arm. Neither a three-hour train ride nor the bright lights of the city were enough to remove me from the gross realities of motherhood. In my mind, I was just a sweaty, hairy, ant-and-poo covered mom in pole dancer's clothing (well, at least in exer-shorts and a tank top). Even the loud, sultry music couldn't drown out the "Doc McStuffins" theme song in my head.

And it wasn't awesome awkward like UCB improv. It was just sad awkward, like clumsy-stay-at-home-mom-takes-pole-dancing-lessons awkward. Which, as it turns out, would probably make a super awesome start for an improv show.

My problems with the pole are just symbolic of my problems in life in general. Overthinking where my feet needed to be instead of just letting them fall where gravity was going to take them anyway. Telling myself I was incapable of mastering even basic steps – my neurosis always tripping my instinct for no good reason. Who knew my trouble with savasana would also be my trouble with sexy fitness? 

The People

So many people. Seriously, all the people it seemed, in such a small area. But instead of looking at all the people as just a big old faceless sea of humanity, I tried to spot individuals. 

A few caught my eye. 

Like the little boy who stopped to help a street vendor pick up change from a tip cup that had spilled all over the sidewalk on a super-crowded section of 7th Avenue right off Time Square. His dad was pulling him away from his act of kindness – probably like any parent, worried about where to be next or terrified of losing his kid in the hoard.

There was another boy – a little older, like 9 or 10 – standing in front of a store practicing imaginary free throws while watching his reflection in the window. He was absorbed in his world, unaware of all the people walking by, confident in his ability to make shot after shot after shot. I wish I had that bravado.

And then on the subway platform this tiny, elegant woman, probably in her mid-50s, wearing a pretty A-line skirt cut at the knees and sweet little heeled shoes swaying to the blues riffs of a guy playing guitar. Her face was relaxed and smiling and she seemed completely at home and in the moment and happy to be alive. The music was good, and when the music is good, you dance whether that's at a party on on a subway platform.

The pictures

I took five pictures. Total. Two blurry shots of the view from my hotel window. The rest, I'm ashamed to admit, make it look as if my phone had been hijacked by a 13-year-old boy.

Case in point: 

So, this was the light in our hotel lobby. One might say they look like under-filled water balloons.
Others might say they're reminiscent of distended man bits.
But in my defense, Jovie kind of primed me for this sort of thinking by asking me
if she could wear her "over-balls" earlier that same day. So. I'm not totally pervy.

Here's what the mannequin at one of the pole dancing studios was wearing.
I felt it needed to be documented.
I also don't feel like I need to explain why.
*snort* That's what she said *snort*
(Side note, the door at Kobeyaki is, like, the heaviest door ever.)

The end

So, and I'm probably gonna get major eye rolls from the New York obsessed among you, but before this weekend, I was kind of in an "I can take it or leave it" sort of space when it came to the city.

You know, Meh.

But I think I get it now. Maybe just a little bit.

It's that opportunity to witness life – young, old, loud, dirty, pristine, glamorous, degenerate, beautiful, weary, frantic, racing, meandering, exciting, overwhelming, excessive, ridiculous, sweet, simple – all of it – ALL of it – every day.

This crazy-diverse grab-bag of existence packed into a little island teetering at the edge of an ocean and the edge of sanity. 

I can see why people love it so much. And I like it a little more, too.

But it's still good to be home.

*I failed.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

Dear writing, it's not you, it's me

Writing has been a challenge these days. 

OK. Well. That's not quite true. Writing has always been a challenge. But one that I'd always welcomed. 

But I have not welcomed the challenge recently. Recently, the ideas have been there but the will has not. The will has been straggling behind saying things like, "but I don't wanna" and "you can't make me" and "Shouldn't we just watch another episode of 'Big Love'"? and  "Fuck it. Let's watch another episode of 'Big Love."

Pardon my language.

Actually, don't. That was an appropriately used fuck it.

I never meant for my hobby to become something I'd resent and question. It was supposed to be fun. Something I looked forward to and that was only mine.

Only suddenly, it feels like a folly. This needy, self-serving monster that's always tapping my shoulder and asking for another snack. Always asking for a little extra something. A little bit more of my time and energy. It never lays off the guilt trip. Never stops bossing me around.

Writing didn't feel so much like a need for affirmation and approval and reassurance and ego until I set out looking for someone (i.e. an agent) to affirm, approve, reassure and stroke my ego. 

It was fun. And when it wasn't fun, it was cleansing. A place to sort out messes and make sense of senseless things (or at least point out the senselessness). And say the things I wanted to say without worrying about whether someone else would ever pay to read it. 

And that's the real problem, right there. I suppose that's the problem with all creative endeavors. That's why artists should be hermits rather than brands. 

Not that I'm an artist. Or a brand for that matter. 

If I were to pick a label from the list it would just be "writer" at its most basic "it-puts-the-words-on-its-page" level ("Silence of the Lambs" anyone? Anyone? Clarice? Anyone?).

So, a week or two ago, it was a long day and I had this idea for a poem. I haven't written a poem in years. In fact, I had to send a note to a friend who is an actual poet to make sure I knew what even qualified as poetry anymore. I've never been one for rhyming in any way other than obnoxiously). Based on her response (pretty much anything that is broken up in stanzas or some such can be a poem these days) I decided my poem qualified as a poem by modern standards (though maybe not by Emily Dickinson's). 

Here's my attempt to make up with writing*. 

"Cry Poem" (for lack of a better name)

I cry at everything these days.
Everything that’s not my inability to fold the fitted sheets.
Or the diaspora of toys
Always rehoming themselves underfoot.
Or the half-eaten yogurt and uneaten broccoli.
The tiny battles with tiny people.
These things are just the noise of the interstate in my front yard.
The whirling tires I never notice anymore anyway.

Yesterday, my small daughter put on my grandmother’s small gloves.
They fit her, except for the finger tips
Which were empty.
But she’s growing all day
and soon her hands will be my grandmother’s.
And by then she won’t be Cinderella waltzing around the oak tree.
And she won’t notice the magic dust that glitters on sunny days.
And for this I cry and cry.

I'm aware now that the world is immense.
An insignificant universe of ugliness
I never noticed until my small daughters.
The reckless callousness and carelessness we live by
chases me into a fort on the couch
that my small daughters made for me with a blanket
after wiping away my tears.
We should stay here forever, I tell them. Just them and me.

Because I cry at everything.
Save for all the nothing things.
I wonder if I should cap my frayed live wire nerves.
With medication.
And join a world that’s just fine.
Room temperature tap water on a hot day.
That neurological equilibrium
That feels slightly less like living.

But, I think, this is just motherhood.
Perpetually molting my thickest skin
The remaining layers thinner and thinner. Paper then tissue.
There’s no shield anymore from the little Cinderella
And her smaller sister eating a sundae with such joy,
For a moment, I remember the world before this world.
And this makes my nose red and my eyes glass.
My flickering heart is always on display now.

I dwell in the littlest things now.
Like finding a young bird, floating in the plastic pool
under the oak tree my small daughter waltzed around.
I buried the bird in the part of the yard we don’t ever tend to.
She’s back there under a short cairn
and the purple iris that were my grandmother’s favorite
and the rest of the futility I feel
and some of those tears I cry these days.

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Wannabe novelist ISO ambivalence and full-body foot skin

Photo courtesy of Ann Toal/Flickr
Back in January I wrote about how prepared for rejection I was. I've had three decades worth of experience to draw from. Rejection of all flora and fauna. A veritable ecosystem of "I like you, buts" and "I'm sorry to inform yous" and "Regretfullies" and "Unfortunatelies." (I never actually read beyond those first words, because there's no point, really. Rarely has the word "Unfortunately" been followed by "we've decided to turn down all the other applications/submissions because you are by far the most awesome applicant/submitter we have ever come across in the history of our organization and we want to hire/date/represent you." That's like (to reference "The 40-year-old Virgin") tearing up the hardwood to see if there's carpet underneath. It's never the case.)). 

Man that was a long aside. With double parentheses even! To think nobody would want to represent a writer with such a proclivity for digression! Who doesn't want to read pages and pages of meaningless asides before anything actually happens in the story? 

Where was I?

So, back in January, I wrote about how prepared for rejection I was. It was a good thing I was prepared, because shortly after that, I received word that short stories I'd submitted to two literary competitions were rejected. 

No big deal, I told myself (after I finished secretly sobbing in the car while listening to Florence + and Machine) because it stands to reason I can't be rejected forever. All this short-term rejection will eventually lead to long-term success, right? Didn't someone once say that the road to getting published was paved with the tears of a thousand wannabe novelists? 

Maybe that's just what I told myself after yet another ugly cry.

Armed with my most recent rejection and a weird combination of blind optimism masked by too-cool-for-school cynicism, I submitted my manuscript to five agents in March.

And then a week later, one of those five agents wrote back and asked for the first chapter. And then a week after that, that same agent wrote back and asked for the entire manuscript, which I sent. 

I didn't sleep much that night. And didn't sleep all that well for many nights after. During the day I obsessed about whether that agent was reading my manuscript and what they thought about it and when I'd hear back from them and  whether they'd want to represent it. My stomach felt like that forest in Mexico where all the Monarch butterflies migrate. The girls would try to have conversations with me and their words would flutter about, never actually landing in my ears because I was off fantasizing about the mere possibility of acceptance.

When Brad tried to get excited on my behalf, I told him it probably wasn't going to happen. And he'd say something like, "It only takes one person to read it and like it" and then I'd say "Well, I'm supposed to be turned down, like a billion times first, and anyway, probably nobody is going to like it ever because it's horrible and lame and I should probably just focus my efforts on removing all those hairy, sticky spots on the kitchen floor." And then he'd roll his eyes at me and then I'd say, "I just don't want to get my hopes up."

But in secret, my hopes were up. Just, floating on up into the stratosphere like an escaped birthday balloon.

I started designing the cover art in my head. Writing the acknowledgments. Picturing its placement on the bookstore shelf.

You know, generally getting way ahead of myself. 

But then I didn't hear anything back. For weeks and weeks and weeks. It had been a month and a half since I sent out my initial round of queries and my email inbox was nothing but a wasteland of work-related emails and coupons from Gymboree and Books-a-Million. Not even any "thanks, but no thanks" or "unfortunatlies" or "regrettablies" or "you should probably give up on your childhood dream and pursue more practical arts, like dish scrubbery or fitted-sheet folding."

And then, last week, I heard back from the agent (well, the agent's assistant anyway):

"Thank you for sending the additional material. Unfortunately, OUT OF THE WOODS is not quite what [AGENT's NAME] is looking for. Therefore, she must regretfully decline consideration at this point.

We wish you all the best with this and future projects. Thanks again for the opportunity to review your work."

As it turns out, it doesn't matter how much you've been rejected in the past. It still really, really sucks when it happens again.

"They" (i.e. those who have been through this process before) say that when you're querying, you're supposed to just keep on writing. And even though I have plenty of story ideas, these days I dread writing.

And that's the most disheartening part about this whole thing. It's not necessarily the rejection. It's the loss of motivation that accompanies it. The feeling of futility. It makes me want to give up on writing. All the noise and great expectations and disappointment are sucking the joy out of this thing that I love to do. Amy Poehler even warned me about this very thing (OK, not me personally. It was in her book. But it felt like she was speaking directly to me): 

"Ambivalence is key. You have to care about your work but not about the result. You have to care about how good you are and how good you feel, but not about how good people think you are or how good people think you look."

I know, I know, as a wannabe novelist/first-time querier, I should have thicker skin. Like, right now it's wet phyllo dough when it really needs to be tough and leathery, kinda like the skin on the bottom of my feet. I'm pretty sure I could walk over a miles-worth of Legos and dried up bits of Play-Doh, barefoot without any pain. That's how tough my foot skin is (attractive I know, especially now that it's sandal season). 

It was foolish to think so early on I'd find my golden ticket. I'm no Charlie Bucket. I won't happen upon a few candy bars and end up with a published novel. No, I'm Veruca Salt in this scenario going through thousands and thousands of candy bars in search of The One. 

Only in this scenario, literary agents are candy bars. And I don't want any omniscient squirrels.

I think the solution is, more chocolate. And more Florence + The Machine.