I know very little about birds: They lay eggs, they hatch. Birds fly around in the sky in various shapes, sizes, and flight patterns. Some birds hunt. Some pick worms out on the lawn. Some eat garbage. Each bird has its own distinct call.
There are a few things I have heard about birds, but don’t know if they are true: Once a baby bird is touched by a human it will be disowned. Birds go to sleep when it is dark. Crows can recognize and remember human faces. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
It was very early in the morning a couple weeks ago I heard the unmistakable scratch and peck of a bird’s talons and beak hard at work somewhere under the eaves and above my bedroom window. I have heard birds up there before, but this was continuous, and happening again the next morning, and the next. I didn’t think to cause a scene. I am not bothered by birds, nor do I have any particular affinity to them. I don’t have a bird feeder, although in the summertime there are enough fishy crackers thrown around the yard to attract more than a couple of crows. This bird above my window was much smaller, a benign species with nothing threatening about it. I caught a flutter of wing and tail as this bird disappeared into a hole somewhere above my car port and my bedroom, he seemed small enough.
And then the chorus began. Early. Dawn cracking early. I awoke to the peeps and squawks of a nest of freshly hatched chicks. All I could imagine as I rolled around in my bed at 5am was the vision of the nest right above my head with a hand full of tiny baby birds, all fuzzy and disgusting, their eyes bugging out, their red beaks stuck open, and wide enough so that you can actually see inside to their guts, as if they were opened like a little coin purse. And they cry. All morning and afternoon crying in spurts, just like a human baby. I hear them up there when I am putting away laundry, and have this same vision, the birdie gullet waiting for the regurgitated worm.
I am annoyed, but in more of a way like I have a loud tenant living in the apartment above me. I haven’t resorted to banging on the ceiling with a broom handle just yet, as if this might really give those birds something to think about. I just hear them and thank the heavens that they will at least be quiet all the way through the night, which is more than my babies could do at that age. I have considered naming them, but in order for that to happen I have to actually go into the attic and witness this blessed brood in their nest, count heads, and then decide if I want boys or girls. But I won’t, because, as my kids have reassured me, only Dads go into the attic. I’m off the hook.
Thing One seems rather excited that we have baby birds. When she and I sit on my bed at night to read a story we can hear them. Every day the sound gets much closer to a scream than the high frequency peep one would imagine a baby bird to make. I think that the picture Thing One has in her head about these tiny birds is much different from mine. Most likely they are some incredible shade of purple, they are perfectly proportioned and symmetrical, and in every way exactly like those birds that fly in and wake up Cinderella in the Disney movie, complete with bed making and improvised showering skills.
It has been almost a week now. My husband is confident that, at some point, the birds will learn to fly out. The next day he also mentioned he that he should go up there and “do something about those birds.” So, I’m not really sure if this is a temporary residence for the flock, or if we are going to have to share the mailbox with the new upstairs neighbors. I am hoping for the former. This little house is pretty crowded as it is.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
Despite the Cracks, There Will Be Flowers
Here are some happy thoughts for the day:
The sun was out.
It was Margarita:30 around dinnertime, and I managed to finish one before I had to flee the Mexican restaurant with my rambunctious 2-year-old.
My mother bought flowers for me, and I planted them in pots to decorate my back patio; the patio with the giant weed-filled crack running diagonally across; the patio that is usually overrun with tiny plastic replicas of cars, naked and dead Barbie dolls, buckets of various shapes, sizes, colors, and in various stages of disintegration; the patio with the green plastic chairs that were given to us the week we moved in by the Peterson’s across the street as they moved out, and into a retirement home. The chairs each have three holes drilled in the seat, probably by Mr. Peterson himself back in the early 90’s, and some of them have the armrests glued back on with some kind of mismatched brown putty.
The flowers add a certain element to this backyard scene. Today we planted my fiberglass decoratives with purple Petunias, white Lobelia Regatta (which I learned this afternoon means hanging, as opposed to upright), and right in the middle I placed a giant yellow Snapdragon because they are my favorite. I am also partial to Dahlias of any sort because they remind me of a psychedelic, medieval mace, the spiked petals forming a perfect sphere at the top of their long stalks. I like the red ones. If I am lucky some from last year will sprout up, but I am almost certain I saw a squirrel make off with the bulbs sometime last fall.
It is an amazing feat, bringing the back yard to life after the winter. The lawn is still filled with deep divots from the year we had a giant poplar tree cut down. Each time the chainsaw finished a section it would drop down on to the soggy November lawn leaving little reminders. As if we could forget the tallest tree in the neighborhood; the tree that shot branches off like spears every time the wind blew, sometimes sticking so far into the ground and so perfectly straight they could be mistaken for new growth. The stump is still there, as are a few large cross sections that were too big to hack to bits with the axe. All of this rests in a pile that is covered with 4 years of giant zombie weeds that die and come back to life, bigger every year. It has become its own special garden that needs no tending, and every once in a while we offer up gifts to the stump gods in the form of a rotten potato or some half eaten sandwiches. Most of the rest of that enormous poplar tree has been burned in the backyard fire pit, on some of those summer nights I remember from the past when my pots were planted and full, and the patio seemed inviting despite the crack, the toys, the chairs that could fall apart at any moment. Despite, despite.
My mother-in-law is somewhat of a master gardener. As a teacher she has unlimited amounts of time in the summer to tend her flowers, and her gardens are indescriblably beautiful and inviting. If I could sit outside on her patio all summer long with a book in one hand, celebrating Margarita:30 in the other it would be heaven. My pots this afternoon look a little like a kid’s crayon drawing compared to her Monet, but there is something about the garden that makes everything seem nice, contemplative—comfortable.
So each one of my black pots has a circle of flowers now that have yet to reach their potential, but I’m sure it’s going to be good, assuming I remember to water them, and in hopes that Thing Two doesn’t decide to pick off every leaf and petal, presenting them to me as “gifts.”
The sun was out.
It was Margarita:30 around dinnertime, and I managed to finish one before I had to flee the Mexican restaurant with my rambunctious 2-year-old.
My mother bought flowers for me, and I planted them in pots to decorate my back patio; the patio with the giant weed-filled crack running diagonally across; the patio that is usually overrun with tiny plastic replicas of cars, naked and dead Barbie dolls, buckets of various shapes, sizes, colors, and in various stages of disintegration; the patio with the green plastic chairs that were given to us the week we moved in by the Peterson’s across the street as they moved out, and into a retirement home. The chairs each have three holes drilled in the seat, probably by Mr. Peterson himself back in the early 90’s, and some of them have the armrests glued back on with some kind of mismatched brown putty.
The flowers add a certain element to this backyard scene. Today we planted my fiberglass decoratives with purple Petunias, white Lobelia Regatta (which I learned this afternoon means hanging, as opposed to upright), and right in the middle I placed a giant yellow Snapdragon because they are my favorite. I am also partial to Dahlias of any sort because they remind me of a psychedelic, medieval mace, the spiked petals forming a perfect sphere at the top of their long stalks. I like the red ones. If I am lucky some from last year will sprout up, but I am almost certain I saw a squirrel make off with the bulbs sometime last fall.
It is an amazing feat, bringing the back yard to life after the winter. The lawn is still filled with deep divots from the year we had a giant poplar tree cut down. Each time the chainsaw finished a section it would drop down on to the soggy November lawn leaving little reminders. As if we could forget the tallest tree in the neighborhood; the tree that shot branches off like spears every time the wind blew, sometimes sticking so far into the ground and so perfectly straight they could be mistaken for new growth. The stump is still there, as are a few large cross sections that were too big to hack to bits with the axe. All of this rests in a pile that is covered with 4 years of giant zombie weeds that die and come back to life, bigger every year. It has become its own special garden that needs no tending, and every once in a while we offer up gifts to the stump gods in the form of a rotten potato or some half eaten sandwiches. Most of the rest of that enormous poplar tree has been burned in the backyard fire pit, on some of those summer nights I remember from the past when my pots were planted and full, and the patio seemed inviting despite the crack, the toys, the chairs that could fall apart at any moment. Despite, despite.
My mother-in-law is somewhat of a master gardener. As a teacher she has unlimited amounts of time in the summer to tend her flowers, and her gardens are indescriblably beautiful and inviting. If I could sit outside on her patio all summer long with a book in one hand, celebrating Margarita:30 in the other it would be heaven. My pots this afternoon look a little like a kid’s crayon drawing compared to her Monet, but there is something about the garden that makes everything seem nice, contemplative—comfortable.
So each one of my black pots has a circle of flowers now that have yet to reach their potential, but I’m sure it’s going to be good, assuming I remember to water them, and in hopes that Thing Two doesn’t decide to pick off every leaf and petal, presenting them to me as “gifts.”
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
I'm Not A Hoarder, I'm Just Really Tired All The Time
I am running out of topics off hand. I would like to say that every day is inspiring, but it is not true, and any person who has a mostly new and inspiring day every day is probably making things up—which is its own skill entirely.
Luckily, I have been saving a small list of topics for just this occasion, least of all those topics being THE SUN IS OUT! And Why are things better in a tent? But I did not choose either one of those today. If anyone would like to chime in on why things are better in a tent, I am open to interpretations.
What I am really struggling with this evening, looking at the infinite amounts of birthday gifts my children have strewn about the living room, is why can’t I organize anything—ever.
In my house there are piles of clothes everywhere. The closet in reserved for all the clothes I never wear, but can’t seem to part with, no matter what size. The Coca Cola t-shirt I wore every other day from eighth grade until I graduated from college, hangs there, thread bare and unseen for years. I can’t wear the shirt anymore because it is virtually translucent, but I remember how cool I thought it was, wearing the Coke shirt before they came into fashion and they started selling them at Target. I pretty sure there is a suit in there that is a size four (A size I don't believe I ever was). My dad bought it for me in high school when I joined the Youth Legislature for one whole session. I’m not entirely sure whether I joined to get the suit, or to go on the extended over night field trip to Olympia, but I am positive it was not because I was at all interested in politics. There are also 75 pairs of shoes. 45 are heels I probably have nothing to wear with, 30 are a mismatched assortment of boots, slippers, decrepit flip flops, and 3 generations of running shoes.
If it is at all possible to describe my desk, it would have to be that it is not a functional desk like someone would have who has lofty goals of getting work done at home, or keeping a functioning filing system of important papers, receipts, ledgers of such financial importance that I wouldn’t even understand it if I did have investments (I have a sordid relationship with math). The moment I go through my piles, clear off enough space for my computer, dust off the picture of my husband and me that I placed with good intentions next to the desk lamp, that is the moment that the clean space becomes a free for all for any junk that looks like it may be “important”. Sometimes I like to save important mail because it makes me feel better, like I may need it someday, but I know that I will never look at it again until the next time I steam roller it from my desk into a garbage bag.
We have a wealth of extra appliances, gadgets, several sets of dishes, pots, frying pans, spatulas all stashed throughout the kitchen. Sometimes I wonder where to put the actual food. Never rmind about my collection of canned soup that we will never eat unless the apocalypse comes next week. My husband does his best to keep the kitchen clean, and if it weren’t for me having to feed my kids three or twenty times a day, and then not having the energy to clean it all up, the kitchen would likely stay that way.
I am not a hoarder, although I read an interesting essay this afternoon that made me question such things. I keep discarding crap. I have little attachment these days to the stuff of years gone by. It is the children I must blame for this, some day they will curse me right back, I am sure, but tonight I can say that I am so tired of toys, and the more tired I am, the less I can do.
This evening when I asked Thing One why she didn’t like to play in her room she said, “Because there are too many toys in there.” Obviously. I immediately got out three garbage bags: one for forgotten toys, one for outgrown clothing, and one for actual garbage. I made it through two toy drawers, packed all the bags with their respective fillings, and still there was so much more. When one thinks of Spring cleaning a house it doesn’t even begin to cover ours.
I need to put myself on the three week plan, get it all out of here. I have to find the extra time in the day to do all of this cleaning that seems so important, but where is that time? Is that the time that I use to read for school? Is it the time I spend wrangling my kids through the grocery store? Certainly not the time that I’m at work, that is its own special time. Perhaps it’s right now, while I am sitting in my chair (not at a desk) whisking away all the complaints I can think of about my own mess, and sharing them with the entire world. This would probably be the only time I can think of.
Luckily, I have been saving a small list of topics for just this occasion, least of all those topics being THE SUN IS OUT! And Why are things better in a tent? But I did not choose either one of those today. If anyone would like to chime in on why things are better in a tent, I am open to interpretations.
What I am really struggling with this evening, looking at the infinite amounts of birthday gifts my children have strewn about the living room, is why can’t I organize anything—ever.
In my house there are piles of clothes everywhere. The closet in reserved for all the clothes I never wear, but can’t seem to part with, no matter what size. The Coca Cola t-shirt I wore every other day from eighth grade until I graduated from college, hangs there, thread bare and unseen for years. I can’t wear the shirt anymore because it is virtually translucent, but I remember how cool I thought it was, wearing the Coke shirt before they came into fashion and they started selling them at Target. I pretty sure there is a suit in there that is a size four (A size I don't believe I ever was). My dad bought it for me in high school when I joined the Youth Legislature for one whole session. I’m not entirely sure whether I joined to get the suit, or to go on the extended over night field trip to Olympia, but I am positive it was not because I was at all interested in politics. There are also 75 pairs of shoes. 45 are heels I probably have nothing to wear with, 30 are a mismatched assortment of boots, slippers, decrepit flip flops, and 3 generations of running shoes.
If it is at all possible to describe my desk, it would have to be that it is not a functional desk like someone would have who has lofty goals of getting work done at home, or keeping a functioning filing system of important papers, receipts, ledgers of such financial importance that I wouldn’t even understand it if I did have investments (I have a sordid relationship with math). The moment I go through my piles, clear off enough space for my computer, dust off the picture of my husband and me that I placed with good intentions next to the desk lamp, that is the moment that the clean space becomes a free for all for any junk that looks like it may be “important”. Sometimes I like to save important mail because it makes me feel better, like I may need it someday, but I know that I will never look at it again until the next time I steam roller it from my desk into a garbage bag.
We have a wealth of extra appliances, gadgets, several sets of dishes, pots, frying pans, spatulas all stashed throughout the kitchen. Sometimes I wonder where to put the actual food. Never rmind about my collection of canned soup that we will never eat unless the apocalypse comes next week. My husband does his best to keep the kitchen clean, and if it weren’t for me having to feed my kids three or twenty times a day, and then not having the energy to clean it all up, the kitchen would likely stay that way.
I am not a hoarder, although I read an interesting essay this afternoon that made me question such things. I keep discarding crap. I have little attachment these days to the stuff of years gone by. It is the children I must blame for this, some day they will curse me right back, I am sure, but tonight I can say that I am so tired of toys, and the more tired I am, the less I can do.
This evening when I asked Thing One why she didn’t like to play in her room she said, “Because there are too many toys in there.” Obviously. I immediately got out three garbage bags: one for forgotten toys, one for outgrown clothing, and one for actual garbage. I made it through two toy drawers, packed all the bags with their respective fillings, and still there was so much more. When one thinks of Spring cleaning a house it doesn’t even begin to cover ours.
I need to put myself on the three week plan, get it all out of here. I have to find the extra time in the day to do all of this cleaning that seems so important, but where is that time? Is that the time that I use to read for school? Is it the time I spend wrangling my kids through the grocery store? Certainly not the time that I’m at work, that is its own special time. Perhaps it’s right now, while I am sitting in my chair (not at a desk) whisking away all the complaints I can think of about my own mess, and sharing them with the entire world. This would probably be the only time I can think of.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Three Dreadlocks and the Detangling Spray
It was my weekly (or bi-weekly) day to brush Thing One’s hair. She has that long, fine, golden little girl hair that curls at the ends like the ribbon on a birthday present. It is also sticky as spider’s web and every night she goes to sleep and magically wakes up with three long dreadlocks on the back of her head.
When this weekly brushing occurs, my daughter immediately runs—and screams. I make my token groaning sound and stomp around the house looking for both brush and detangler, which are inevitably in two different places; one of those places usually ends up being the kitchen floor for some reason. We then sit together on the floor and I start with the little blonde threads at the bottom, working the bristles on the brush up toward the really nasty tangles. There is a running commentary of “Ouch! Mom, you are moving my head!” Which is her weird way of saying that I am pulling her hair. I then respond with, “If you would just let me brush your hair every day it wouldn’t get this bad!” followed by “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m almost done.” But I’m never “almost” done. Combing Thing One’s hair is like unknitting a sweater. There is no meter to gauge which one of us hates this task more.
What never occurred to me before Thing One started preschool was that other mothers don’t endure the torture that is the detangling of kid hair. The other girls in Thing One’s class all have adorable little bobs, or hair that is just long enough to make a cute pony tail, but not long enough to strangle her while sleeping. These girls have smarter mothers than Thing One. They take their kids in for haircuts at regular intervals.
My daughter’s first haircut was this year, at age four and a half. Her first professional haircut, anyway. When she was two and her curls were just becoming a little more than fuzz and branching out below her neckline she had her very first tangle. It was one of those terrible knots that becomes a little ball, not even the finest pick comb can get through it. I had no patience to sit and whittle away at the knot, and she would have never let me, so I snipped it out, pruned it like a stray vine. Later that year when her hair started to look less like baby down and more like a little kid’s messy frizz, I could see the spot on the back of her head where some of the hair was much shorter than the rest.
For a long time Thing One didn’t want a haircut because she was certain that it would hurt. Not just hurt like brushing, but she was under the impression that cutting her hair would be the same as cutting off her pinky toe. We never discussed the logistics, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she had thought that a hair cut involved bleeding. I finally convinced her after four years to let me give her a little trim at home—not my specialty, as I mentioned—but her hair had grown well past her tiny shoulder blades, and the curls at the bottom made her hair look uneven anyway. I cut off an inch and she looked exactly the same.
Every time I brush her hair now and she cries and cries, I always offer up the haircut as an option. I would be happy to get the hair cut off, I would be happy to not go through the awful brushing routine, making her so unhappy. But she always says no, and I always think to myself: You would never cut all her hair off. First, because her hair is beautiful, she my beautiful little ladybug; second, I’m too lazy and too cheap to get an appointment at a salon. I haven’t even had my own hair cut for almost two years.
So, this process of waiting and waiting until the dreadlocks are so fat I can hardly find a strand to start with will continue, and I will pull and pick at all the tangles; she will cry. Eventually she will grow up, and perhaps someday she will have a daughter of her own to comb through. She will endure the torture because she will remember how her mother used to do this to her when she was little, just the way mine did to me. And someday she will cut it off and miss how long her hair used to be, not realizing just how long it takes to grow back.
When this weekly brushing occurs, my daughter immediately runs—and screams. I make my token groaning sound and stomp around the house looking for both brush and detangler, which are inevitably in two different places; one of those places usually ends up being the kitchen floor for some reason. We then sit together on the floor and I start with the little blonde threads at the bottom, working the bristles on the brush up toward the really nasty tangles. There is a running commentary of “Ouch! Mom, you are moving my head!” Which is her weird way of saying that I am pulling her hair. I then respond with, “If you would just let me brush your hair every day it wouldn’t get this bad!” followed by “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m almost done.” But I’m never “almost” done. Combing Thing One’s hair is like unknitting a sweater. There is no meter to gauge which one of us hates this task more.
What never occurred to me before Thing One started preschool was that other mothers don’t endure the torture that is the detangling of kid hair. The other girls in Thing One’s class all have adorable little bobs, or hair that is just long enough to make a cute pony tail, but not long enough to strangle her while sleeping. These girls have smarter mothers than Thing One. They take their kids in for haircuts at regular intervals.
My daughter’s first haircut was this year, at age four and a half. Her first professional haircut, anyway. When she was two and her curls were just becoming a little more than fuzz and branching out below her neckline she had her very first tangle. It was one of those terrible knots that becomes a little ball, not even the finest pick comb can get through it. I had no patience to sit and whittle away at the knot, and she would have never let me, so I snipped it out, pruned it like a stray vine. Later that year when her hair started to look less like baby down and more like a little kid’s messy frizz, I could see the spot on the back of her head where some of the hair was much shorter than the rest.
For a long time Thing One didn’t want a haircut because she was certain that it would hurt. Not just hurt like brushing, but she was under the impression that cutting her hair would be the same as cutting off her pinky toe. We never discussed the logistics, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she had thought that a hair cut involved bleeding. I finally convinced her after four years to let me give her a little trim at home—not my specialty, as I mentioned—but her hair had grown well past her tiny shoulder blades, and the curls at the bottom made her hair look uneven anyway. I cut off an inch and she looked exactly the same.
Every time I brush her hair now and she cries and cries, I always offer up the haircut as an option. I would be happy to get the hair cut off, I would be happy to not go through the awful brushing routine, making her so unhappy. But she always says no, and I always think to myself: You would never cut all her hair off. First, because her hair is beautiful, she my beautiful little ladybug; second, I’m too lazy and too cheap to get an appointment at a salon. I haven’t even had my own hair cut for almost two years.
So, this process of waiting and waiting until the dreadlocks are so fat I can hardly find a strand to start with will continue, and I will pull and pick at all the tangles; she will cry. Eventually she will grow up, and perhaps someday she will have a daughter of her own to comb through. She will endure the torture because she will remember how her mother used to do this to her when she was little, just the way mine did to me. And someday she will cut it off and miss how long her hair used to be, not realizing just how long it takes to grow back.
Monday, May 2, 2011
My Favorite Text Conversation Ever
On my way home from seeing David Sedaris last night I texted my mother, who was babysitting, and here is what the conversation looked like on my iPhone:
Me: On our way home. Have you been watching the news?
Mom: No. Watching movie. What’s going on?
You need milk.
Me: We’ll get some. Osama Bin Laden was
killed by the US. Big News.
Mom: Wow. Great news.
Me: We’ll be home after we get milk.
Mom: Ok. Still watching movie.
(Sorry Mom, it was too funny. I had to share. . .)
Me: On our way home. Have you been watching the news?
Mom: No. Watching movie. What’s going on?
You need milk.
Me: We’ll get some. Osama Bin Laden was
killed by the US. Big News.
Mom: Wow. Great news.
Me: We’ll be home after we get milk.
Mom: Ok. Still watching movie.
(Sorry Mom, it was too funny. I had to share. . .)
I Could Almost See David Sedaris at Benaroya Hall
David Sedaris gave a reading at Benaroya Hall here in Seattle last night. I was sitting in the third row from the ceiling, in front of the lady with the loud chortle and inappropriate candy wrapper crinkling, and next to my husband and some of our closest friends. Down, down, down, at the tiny podium on the stage stood Mr. Sedaris, from my vantage point a mere man shaped spot in the middle of the blonde, blank wood flooring. If I leaned my head one way or the other I could almost make out the person toward the edge of the stage translating the pieces in sign language, but more frequently than a person would think at an expensive show at a concert hall, the people in that row would get up and squeeze past each other, knocking knees and saying excuse me, adding a comic shadow puppet element to my viewing experience. But one doesn’t go to see David Sedaris, one goes for the listening experience, in hopes that he will give just a little peek at something never before seen, or perhaps a revision of an old favorite. On all these points he succeeded to impress me.
Something that I found very humbling about the performance came toward the end during the question and answer section. Mr. Sedaris had just finished talking about one of his favorite Tobias Wolff books, The Barracks Thief, a book about a small group of guys about to be shipped out to Vietnam. He commented on the slender page count (100 total) and how, although it may be fairly short, still counts as reading an entire book, and is thereby impressive. A woman down in the pit of somewhere below, asked a question I couldn’t quite hear, except she said the word “spare.” I think maybe she was asking why all the books Sedaris recommends or loves are quite “spare,” and it was unclear to both Sedaris and to me at that moment whether she meant precise, succinct prose, or if she was referring to the shortness of page numbers. In the end it didn’t matter because his answer was somewhere in the realm of: I don’t like to torture myself with wordy, lengthy, boring things just I am supposed to think it is amazing. This is, of course, my crude interpretation, but I felt like he had suddenly given me permission to stop feeling guilty about not reading and loving (or even understanding) ancient classical literature, or even just the books that use more words than I have the patience to pay attention to. This doesn’t exactly speak well for me as an intellectual, but there is a certain amount of input a person must do for his or her craft, but that doesn’t mean this exentive "learning" isn’t sometimes torturous. I like that he gave me permission to feel that way, because I already did.
Having finished my nice little book that counts as my master’s thesis, I now have a small body of work that will go out into the world in a very small way, but it is significant to me because I can now say that I am a grown up writer. What I choose to do with that self proclamation will define whether this is true. Listening to Sedaris go through his essays, causing the audience to snort and gafaw at moments, and at other moments let out audible “awww” sounds. He was funny, as expected. His pieces had depth, interesting narrative. I envy the way he uses dialogue because I can never recreate a conversation and make it mean something. I was also acutely aware, for the first time, of the way each one of his essays was structured. I could tell certain points that were rough. I could hear places where I would have made changes. It was an awful feeling, and it was amazing. It was like listening to someone play a symphony and be able to see the notation in my head. It was like holding a slab of raw meat in my hand and knowing that it weighs exactly three quarters of a pound. It wasn’t as if I was right about any of the running commentary in my head, the idea was merely that I could have an opinion about the writing on that level at all which impressed me.
After that moment of reckoning in the theater, enjoying Sedaris reading hilarious pages from his diary, I realized that I still have a very long way to go.
Something that I found very humbling about the performance came toward the end during the question and answer section. Mr. Sedaris had just finished talking about one of his favorite Tobias Wolff books, The Barracks Thief, a book about a small group of guys about to be shipped out to Vietnam. He commented on the slender page count (100 total) and how, although it may be fairly short, still counts as reading an entire book, and is thereby impressive. A woman down in the pit of somewhere below, asked a question I couldn’t quite hear, except she said the word “spare.” I think maybe she was asking why all the books Sedaris recommends or loves are quite “spare,” and it was unclear to both Sedaris and to me at that moment whether she meant precise, succinct prose, or if she was referring to the shortness of page numbers. In the end it didn’t matter because his answer was somewhere in the realm of: I don’t like to torture myself with wordy, lengthy, boring things just I am supposed to think it is amazing. This is, of course, my crude interpretation, but I felt like he had suddenly given me permission to stop feeling guilty about not reading and loving (or even understanding) ancient classical literature, or even just the books that use more words than I have the patience to pay attention to. This doesn’t exactly speak well for me as an intellectual, but there is a certain amount of input a person must do for his or her craft, but that doesn’t mean this exentive "learning" isn’t sometimes torturous. I like that he gave me permission to feel that way, because I already did.
Having finished my nice little book that counts as my master’s thesis, I now have a small body of work that will go out into the world in a very small way, but it is significant to me because I can now say that I am a grown up writer. What I choose to do with that self proclamation will define whether this is true. Listening to Sedaris go through his essays, causing the audience to snort and gafaw at moments, and at other moments let out audible “awww” sounds. He was funny, as expected. His pieces had depth, interesting narrative. I envy the way he uses dialogue because I can never recreate a conversation and make it mean something. I was also acutely aware, for the first time, of the way each one of his essays was structured. I could tell certain points that were rough. I could hear places where I would have made changes. It was an awful feeling, and it was amazing. It was like listening to someone play a symphony and be able to see the notation in my head. It was like holding a slab of raw meat in my hand and knowing that it weighs exactly three quarters of a pound. It wasn’t as if I was right about any of the running commentary in my head, the idea was merely that I could have an opinion about the writing on that level at all which impressed me.
After that moment of reckoning in the theater, enjoying Sedaris reading hilarious pages from his diary, I realized that I still have a very long way to go.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
The One Where I Discuss My Irrational Fear of Slugs
There aren’t many things that truly horrify me. I can watch disgusting films where people are disemboweled, I have gotten over the grossness of bodily functions after the first time I was peed on, barfed on, and I still have to change diapers on a daily basis. Sometimes a child will hand me food that has been half chewed because he or she doesn’t like it. If there is nowhere else to put this wad of pickle, or candy, or sandwich, sometimes I just eat it. The only thing in the world that creeps me out—I mean really makes my skin crawl—are slugs. Yes, I live in the Pacific Northwest. This isn’t exactly the optimal location for a person with an irrational fear of slimy gastropods.
When I was a kid we used to go for walks on the nature trail near my house and every time I saw a giant spotted yellow banana slug I would scream like someone had just been murdered right in front of me. I couldn’t jump over it, walk around it. I would stand petrified until my mother would talk me down and I psyched myself out to scoot around the enormous blob.
Last year was by far the worst year ever for my slug aversion. The past summer slugs were out every night around 10pm. This was the witching hour for slugs. While I was still sitting outside in my back yard enjoying a late night margarita or can of PBR, you could see them inching out from under the back porch, climbing up over the curb of the cement patio. The worst nights were those when the slugs would find their way up the middle of the back door and stick there like gooey suction cups. It was too much. My skin is crawling just thinking of it. I would make my husband go out and remove all slugs before I could make my way outside.
I hate them so much and I don’t know why. The idea of touching a slug brings me to near fainting.
There was a morning last fall when I was making pancakes in my kitchen and I stepped on something just a little too squishy, and that was it. My two little kids watched as I screamed so loud and so high pitched, I scared the pajamas off of them and they both started crying. I ran to my bedroom, woke up my husband, and forced him to get the itty bitty slug out of the house. It was the worst thing that has ever happened.
I could not figure out how a slug could infiltrate the walls of my crappy rental house, until one evening I saw one crawl under the gap between the front door and the carpet (I mentioned my house was close to being a cardboard diorama of a house?) I sat in my chair and watched, petrified, without my husband around to save me, as the slug inched his way in. There was no way I was going to do anything about it. I couldn’t. Miraculously, the slug inched his way back out again. He must have sense my high pitched, supersonic scream about to burst forth and high tailed it out. We have since installed the weather stripping the door needed, not to keep the house from the hurricane strength drafts we endured for four years, but because there were slugs. I can’t have that.
Last Saturday was one of the most beautiful days we have had all spring. My daughter’s friends were gathering out in the yard for her birthday party, I was in the kitchen making small talk with moms. I looked up at the seam of the back door and noticed an odd splotch. It was right at eye level, nearly fossilized, and slug shaped with a line of dried yellow drip that ran down to I don’t know how far because now that I know what it is I will never be able to look at it again. I can’t figure out how a slug could crawl into the door jamb, have the door close, and not ever fall out. I can’t believe I just wrote a whole page about slugs. It was not at all cathartic, and I have no idea who is going to scrape off the remains stuck in the door frame.
When I was a kid we used to go for walks on the nature trail near my house and every time I saw a giant spotted yellow banana slug I would scream like someone had just been murdered right in front of me. I couldn’t jump over it, walk around it. I would stand petrified until my mother would talk me down and I psyched myself out to scoot around the enormous blob.
Last year was by far the worst year ever for my slug aversion. The past summer slugs were out every night around 10pm. This was the witching hour for slugs. While I was still sitting outside in my back yard enjoying a late night margarita or can of PBR, you could see them inching out from under the back porch, climbing up over the curb of the cement patio. The worst nights were those when the slugs would find their way up the middle of the back door and stick there like gooey suction cups. It was too much. My skin is crawling just thinking of it. I would make my husband go out and remove all slugs before I could make my way outside.
I hate them so much and I don’t know why. The idea of touching a slug brings me to near fainting.
There was a morning last fall when I was making pancakes in my kitchen and I stepped on something just a little too squishy, and that was it. My two little kids watched as I screamed so loud and so high pitched, I scared the pajamas off of them and they both started crying. I ran to my bedroom, woke up my husband, and forced him to get the itty bitty slug out of the house. It was the worst thing that has ever happened.
I could not figure out how a slug could infiltrate the walls of my crappy rental house, until one evening I saw one crawl under the gap between the front door and the carpet (I mentioned my house was close to being a cardboard diorama of a house?) I sat in my chair and watched, petrified, without my husband around to save me, as the slug inched his way in. There was no way I was going to do anything about it. I couldn’t. Miraculously, the slug inched his way back out again. He must have sense my high pitched, supersonic scream about to burst forth and high tailed it out. We have since installed the weather stripping the door needed, not to keep the house from the hurricane strength drafts we endured for four years, but because there were slugs. I can’t have that.
Last Saturday was one of the most beautiful days we have had all spring. My daughter’s friends were gathering out in the yard for her birthday party, I was in the kitchen making small talk with moms. I looked up at the seam of the back door and noticed an odd splotch. It was right at eye level, nearly fossilized, and slug shaped with a line of dried yellow drip that ran down to I don’t know how far because now that I know what it is I will never be able to look at it again. I can’t figure out how a slug could crawl into the door jamb, have the door close, and not ever fall out. I can’t believe I just wrote a whole page about slugs. It was not at all cathartic, and I have no idea who is going to scrape off the remains stuck in the door frame.
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