I Need You Like a Donut Needs a Hole

Barry Louis Polisar emailed me yesterday. He saw my post here yesterday and sent me a message to tell me he’s glad he cracks me up.

It was like my childhood hero turned up on my front porch.

I stared at his name in my in-box while my brain did spastic flip-flops between 1978, when I listened to Barry constantly on a small black cassette player in my tiny yellow bedroom, and now, when I play Naughty Songs For Boys and Girls on the Ipod in my kitchen for my girls while I make breakfast.

But Barry turns out to be a real person living in Maryland who actually takes the time to email me because I posted the lyrics to his song?

Hot damn.

I was grinning like a fool.

I ran outside to tell my husband, who was raised Catholic in the 60s in a small rural town by a mother and father who were well into adulthood when he was born. He grew up watching Lawrence Welk and listening to big band and had never heard of Barry until we had kids. But even he thought this was extremely cool.

I emailed Barry back and said, “Is that really you?”

Those of you who had a deprived childhood may not know Barry’s songs and stories. But there’s a good chance you heard him sing "All I Want is You" in the opening credits of the hit film Juno. You know, when she's walking around with a big jug of Sunny D? That song was actually recorded on his second album in 1977.

Polisar has been making smart, witty, deep, funny, silly music for kids for over three decades. Kids like me, who grew up listening to "Never Cook Your Sister in a Frying Pan" and "My Brother Threw Up on My Stuffed Toy Bunny.”

And only ended up only the most deliciously sort of warped because of it.

After he was censored, Barry started putting stickers on his albums that read “Warning: the songs on this recording may be offensive to some people. Children are advised to use discretion in exposing adults to this material. Exposure may result in a sense of humor.”

My pal Barry wants everyone to know that some of the rebellious children he used to entertain recently banded together and released a 2-CD, 60-song tribute album of his songs called We're Not Kidding! A Tribute to Barry Louis Polisar. Hear free samples at http://www.barrylou.com/.

Barry Louis Polisar emailed me! Made my whole stinkin’ day.

A New Essay of Mine in True North Magazine

This quarter's True North Magazine features an essay of mine: Roots and Flowers: Loss, Grief, and Growth

Seven Candles, Burning Bright

Today is the seventh anniversary of the birth and death of my first child. There was a time when I thought it would get easier each year. Now I think, it doesn't.

First comes a frantic stemming of the tide. But it comes anyway—a massive tidal wave of grief. I cry for days. I mean, really, why not?

One of the most challenging aspects of this whole affair (yes, there are many) has been the inherent loneliness that comes with being the bearer of something so miserable that most people won’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. From the get-go, the edges and depths of this experience were something only a few of my contemporaries even tried to comprehend, let alone address. I can count on one-and-a-half hands those who have really gone there with me in seven years, and several of them are bound to me by blood, married to me, or I had to pay.

Perhaps the death of a baby is just one of those life-situations irrevocably fraught with peril. I’ve always known that everyone did what they were able. But that didn’t make it any less lonely.

One silver lining of this whole affair (yes, there are many) is my chickens. Not just their blessed existence, of course, but their reaction to this day. I always intended for our family history to be something that was out in the open for them—not overly dramatic, but truthful. So once a year we go to the cemetery to visit the brother they never knew. And each year, I am surprised and delighted by the ways that Noodle and Little transform the experience for us all.

Last weekend, Chicken Noodle began the planning. “What will we bring to him? Ooo—candy,” she moaned, like it was crack cocaine.

“How about a bouquet?” said Chicken Little, who is three and prides herself on her growing vocabulary.

“Candy,” sighed Noodle, still lost in an imaginary-sugar-induced fantasy.

“Candy,” agreed Little with a reverent whisper.

“No, I know,” said Noodle, who is five and has to have the last word, even if it means trumping her own idea. “We’ll bake him a cake. But we’ll eat it! At his cemetery! And we’ll leave him one piece right there by his name. And we’ll put heart candles on it! And we’ll sing”—she broke into a warbling tune—“’Happy birthday, lovey boy!’”

All I’ve wanted was for someone to validate his existence, honor my pain, love me there, and make me laugh. I could never have guessed that it would be my own children who would do this the very best of all.

Off to bake a cake…

Try Die

It has been said that all fear is fear of death.

I’ve managed to get my head around the fact that all negative emotions are fear. Envy is fear. Anger is fear. Anxiety is fear.

But I hadn’t gotten my head around all fear being fear of death until I came to live with a kid obsessed with death.

Two weeks ago: after a half-hour lost to the ephemeral delights of Screaming Flailing Crazyland on account of who-remembers-what transition, probably that it was time to go to gymnastics, I finally cornered Noodle, gave her a fierce hug, got down in her face, and said gently, “I know you have a hard time when things change when you aren’t ready for them to change.”

Her face crumpled. “I don’t want to grow up! I don’t want to die! I want to be five forever!”

Whoa, dude. And I thought I was existential.

Yesterday, on the way to swimming lessons, apropos of nothing: “Is everybody going to die, the whole world, everybody?”

I’ve learned to just cut to the chase. “Yes.”

“But that’s sad! I don’t want to die.”

“You aren’t going to die for a long, long time.”

“But, actually,” she brightly reconsidered, “ I want to try die, like, die for a minute and come alive again.”

“Well, sweetie, it doesn’t work that way.”

“Why not? I want to. Then I would know what it would be like, you know, for later.”

Before I could respond to this (who knows how) we arrived at our destination (“Land Ho!” hollered Chicken Little) and I was off the hook until next time.

Surely, if not before then, in May, when her brother’s birth/deathday rolls around. Unsurprisingly, Noodle thinks his cemetery plot is the most fascinating place on earth (“Is he really in there?”).

She recently told her entire preschool class about the cemetery (“We go and visit him at the place where all people go to die”) and her brother (“he lives there, but not really lives, because he’s dead”) with an enthusiasm akin to if he were, say, a newly acquired guinea pig.

To Noodle, the whole dead-sibling thing is like, seriously cool.

It’s given me a totally refreshing take on that particular situation, I must say.

Rockin' the Bard

Of particular interest to anyone who has ever made-out in the back of a school bus...or wished they had...

An essay from my upcoming book, Chance of Sun: A Perfectly Imperfect Oregon Upbringing, is in this month's Oregon Quarterly Magazine.

Rockin' the Bard

"God It’s Such a Drag to Have to Live in the Past"

The other night I dreamt I was pregnant with my ex-boyfriend’s baby. This is impossible for many reasons, not the least of which is I haven’t laid eyes on him since 1996. (Oh, and my ten years of marriage, though I guess that doesn’t stop everybody from getting into this particular pickle).

No matter—in the dream, this situation was very real and posed many problems in my current life. Did I shun the boyfriend, stay with Captain Daddy and hope he’d agree to raise my love child? Did I ditch my family and go live with this baby’s father, to raise our illicit bundle of joy together? Maybe a baby was what we always needed. Maybe a baby would make him faithful, magically force him to appreciate me and love me as he never did all of those years ago. Maybe a baby would encourage us to put aside the self-destructive behavior towards which we’d been so prone.

In the dream, my boyfriend held me, spoke soothingly in my ear. He promised me everything. Of course we would raise this baby together. Of course there would be love, joy—all of my heart’s desires and more.

I awoke with Captain Daddy on my left and Chicken Little on my right in the bed I’ve slept in for well over a decade—far from Portland and the past. Far from pregnant, for that matter. I knew immediately the meaning behind the dream. The baby is my book. My ex-boyfriend makes a small but illustrious appearance in my story—the chapter he dominates marks the arc of the narrative. It was the lowest, most dangerous and chilling time of my life. And I do feel like, by writing about it, by publishing it, I am giving birth to it again. I am bringing events long-ago put to rest back to life. It’s unsettling, to say the least.

But as Chicken Little woke beside me in bed, threw an arm around me and kissed me a sloppy good morning, I knew the answer to the dream’s central question. Of course I would stay here. To write about the past, to unearth it, to put it on display is to bring it back from the dead. But I don’t have to go back and live with it. I can pull those things out of my personal history and still keep my feet firmly planted in the life I crafted from the Phoenix’s flames.

Still, for the better part of the morning, I couldn’t shake the image of my ex holding me so tenderly, gazing fondly into my eyes. Everything was going to be okay, he seemed to say. This time, there would be a happy ending.

One-upping Mr. Nelson

Last week I was invited to a middle-school classroom to talk about being a writer. It was one of those moments that made me go “huh?” and look over my shoulder for the real grown-up/real writer who was surely standing behind me. “Oh, you mean me?” said my inner ego, who is nerdy, shy and still only 12 herself. She violently fears a room full of eyes on her, not to mention that she hasn’t a single thing to say.

But once I got there, perched on a red cane chair in front of twenty 7th and 8th graders, I surprised myself. I talked about writing, and kind of couldn’t shut up. I think my allotted time was ten minutes, and when I finally came to a sort of conclusion, thirty minutes had passed. The students were totally engaged, asking questions. One kid even tape recorded me. I can only hope that I was more entertaining and inspiring than the lawyer who’d launched this career series for them earlier in the week.

The kick of it was that it was really cool to talk about how I got here, and remind myself where “here” is. I worked my ass off, and it kind of even worked! It reminded me that talking about what you love is easy. I love talking about what I love. And I love writing. I even told them—with pride—that when I was a kid I used to spend every recess in the library. Even though at the time it made me a complete outcast, I see now that it was a crucial step in my developing identity. So there, Bangor Elementary.

But it wasn’t all about me. I told those kids they can be writers. All it takes is doing it, and doing it, and doing some more. Voila! You’re a writer. Unlike some things, like pro ball, which I could have done until I was brain damaged and still never excelled. I told them they didn’t even need to wait— starting today, they could be a writer. One kid said, “So I could submit an essay to a magazine right now?” I said, “You go for it. No one is going to ask how old you are. Just do it.”

Which got me thinking about Mr. Nelson. He was my 11th grade English teacher. He was a curmudgeonly sort who delivered fill-in-the-blank tests with questions like “How thick was the rope in The Old Man and the Sea?” He barely spoke a word to me all year long. Then on the last day of school, offhand, without smiling or even looking me in the eye, he said, “You’re the best writer in the junior class.” I was so stunned I just stood there like the dead fish in The Old Man and the Sea (was there a dead fish in The Old Man and the Sea? I don’t really remember. Surely there was. I am sure at one point I had to answer a test question about how long it was, and its species).

I’ve thought about that moment a lot, especially given that it took me another decade to decide to try to become a writer. Mr. Nelson, why not mention that little tasty tidbit of teacherly opinion a tiny bit earlier in the year? Why not encourage me? Why not point me in a direction that I totally wanted to go but hadn’t embraced yet? Why not be a mentor instead of just the giver of ridiculous tests?

That’s what I wanted to do for those kids. What I wish someone would have done for me. Why not? There’s always room for more of us.

I know, this is a long post. I told you I couldn’t shut up.

Every Girl's Sunday Afternoon Fantasy

So, I’m trolling through the grocery store. The chickens trail behind me. They bleat. “Mommy can we have this? Can we have that? Momm-meey?” They grab boxes of Pokemon macaroni and cheese and bottles of bubble bath shaped like Cinderella off the shelves. They bonk into other shoppers like poorly-shot pool balls.

It’s been a delightful weekend of homey togetherness. Captain Daddy has been at work, putting in his usual 48-hour shift. The rest of us-three have been crammed in the house doing the same puzzle over and over and getting increasingly sick of each other while it sleet/snows outside. Good times.

By this point—Sunday afternoon—I am over it. I am wearing a ball cap, old shapeless fleece jacket that I used to wear pregnant, and a scowl. Strutting my stuff. Running wild and looking pretty. Hot child in Fred Meyer. With offspring.

I round the bend at the end of aisle eight and nearly smash my cart into this totally cute guy in uniform. Turnouts, actually. Firefighter gear. He’s clean-shaven but a little rugged-looking, with crazy cheekbones and boyish good looks that have been around the block just the perfect number of times. His blue eyes gaze directly into mine. I am startled. I freeze.

The fireman takes a step closer. He leans over. He kisses me.

Though it kind of feels like it, I am not having a sleep-deprived fantasy, perhaps the sort that comes from getting no exercise and eating mostly only crackers and cheese for three days. I don’t recall having done any hallucinogens prior to loading my children into the vehicle and driving across town. I am not sure what else might explain this unexpected bright spot in my day.

“Daddy!” scream the chickens with delight.

This August, I’ll have been married to that cute fireman for ten years. We met 14 years ago this week. Every time I see him in uniform, I feel 25 again.

And yeah, on-duty firefighters grocery shop. And cook. That’s even hotter.

Joe Has Something to Say to My Friends

Captain Daddy and I recently watched the original documentary “Woodstock”, made in 1970 one year after the illustrious event itself. I was born that year. Even though my parents weren’t hippies, watching the film explained them, their generation, and the last forty years in some interesting ways.

At turns appalling and deep, “Woodstock” turned out to be a strange catalyst to introspection for me, a sort of underlining tool for the years of my life thus-far and the coming-of-age essays I am writing for my book.

In any case, the film is an experience not to be missed. It promises a “living vicariously through one’s television” sort of evening. It made Captain Daddy shake his head repeatedly and say, “I was born thirteen years too late.” It made me think that if I’d been born thirteen years earlier, I’d have gotten into a whole lot more trouble than I already managed to do.

Many an unforgettable performance is on display here. Jimi and Janis do their thing, the latter in a quite fascinating state of intoxication and each just a year away from tragic death.

But my favorite performance by far—the one that you’ve truly not lived until you’ve seen—is Joe Cocker singing “A Little Help From My Friends.” I, personally, was rendered speechless. And those back-up singers! Wow. Watch the whole thing. He’s just getting warmed up in the beginning.

I send Joe out now as a little Thank You to all of my friends and family who have seen me through many ups and downs in the last decade, particularly in terms of my writing. Sometimes your love has been tough, but I know in my heart that underneath it all you’ve been as enthusiastic as Joe. I appreciate each of you immensely.

Happy New You! Part III

This Sunday is my 39th birthday. 40 has been looming large this year: A Hindenburg blocking the sun, inflated by the hot air of my 20th high school reunion, Facebook, an offer of anti-aging products from my dermatologist and the realization there is little chance I’ll publish a book by the Big 4-0.

If 40 is when the weight of the past is equally balanced with the weight of the future on a life-sized scale, all the taking stock and anxiety that comes with it might be utterly requisite. (I am a Libra; naturally I will provide a scale metaphor with overdramatized consequences). This mid-life crisis stuff is not to be snickered at. I see the two halves of life pulling at each other in a matched tug-of-war, the past desperately trying to justify itself and the future taunting with undivulged secrets.

I spent the last year feeling 40 coming like a freight train, me the shrieking girl in red heels and fluttering skirt tied to the tracks. Count on me to get ahead of myself, fear the future when it’s still ten miles away. But now that here-comes-39, I am secretly a little bit excited about 40, and not just because I have another year until it hits or because I’ve been promised a massively awesome 80s dance party.

As my wise friend Rainie said on her 40th birthday last month, “My 30s were weird.”

Remember back in your 20s when you thought your 30s would be when you’d get it all together, blossom into your whole, fabulous, confident self? And then instead your 30s turned out to be about forgetting yourself altogether in the midst of new and utterly dominating identities as wife and mother? Then there was all of that grief—holy crap, who could have seen that coming? And how when you had two minutes alone with your own head all you realized—with an existential thunderclap loud enough to summon the dead—was how totally screwed up you were?

Wait, who am I talking to? Sometimes I slip into second person when I really should be in first person because I want everyone to feel the same way I feel so I won’t be so alone in the world and so I can pretend it’s really not about me, it's about someone else and therefore maybe I can get my head around it, seize control and fix it. This is because I have boundary issues. I just figured it out the other day. I plan to address it in my 40s.

(See Happy New You! and Happy New You! Part II for past birthday-inspired existential babble)

Nine Lives?

Nine years ago I got married, turned 30, quit my job and decided to take my writing seriously. I wanted to write professionally but had no idea how to do it. So I flew to Maui with my mother for the Maui Writer’s Conference.

For four days I absorbed everything I could about magazine writing. I learned about writer’s guidelines, queries, breaking in with front-of-book stories, features, essays. I learned about the Writer’s Market and how to track down contacts and market research and how to pique an editor’s interest. I took notes and avoided the pool and the mai tais and learned so much I thought my head was going to explode.

But I took it all home and worked like hell and within a few months, I was writing for magazines.

Tomorrow I fly to Hawaii to attend the conference for a second time. (It’s now the Hawaii Writer’s Conference and held in Honolulu, because who can afford four days at a Maui resort on top of conference fees these days? I can only pull Honolulu off because, lucky me, my mom lives there.)

It makes me feel retrospective to go back. Makes me think about that naïve, hopeful, determined girl. To just go for it like that—was that really me? And have it work out. Wow.

I’ve been to smaller conferences since. I’ve learned oceans more. Published lots, not published lots. Found out how hard this writing business really is. Gotten wiser. Made choices, made sacrifices, made compromises. Part of me thinks; I’ve heard it all, I know all there is, what more could I learn?

But there’s always more to learn. Right now I think part of why I need to go back to Hawaii is to figure out how much of that girl from nine years ago is still in me.

The Lost Weekend

Put 110 people with intermingled pasts and pending mid-life crises in one room, add high expectations, a few cocktails and the pressure to connect in a short amount of time and what happens? Everyone loses their minds. Or at least I do.

I would love to report on my 20th high school reunion, but since it seems that not all of me actually made it there, it may be a bit difficult. I will try anyway.

Here’s a dialogue smidgen:
Overwhelmed blonde girl: “I have…memories.”
Cute tall guy: “Me, too.”
OBG: “The fourth grade.”
CTG: “Yep.”
OBG: “Such a crush.”
CTG: “And English, senior year…there was…something.”
OBG: “Oh, I am sure there was something.”

That’s pretty much how the weekend went. I had many semi-coherent, almost-meaningful exchanges with people who, sadly, I realize are a part of my ongoing existence only in foggy memories. I expected some sort of special bonding only possible between polliwogs from the same pond. I expected a fabulous party, an escape from my grown-up life, the chance to pretend to be 18 again. Instead I got a three-day out-of-body experience, lots of hugs, missed connections, a hangover and a bundle of sadness.

Why the sadness? Middle-aged angst. So many years passed, so many doors closed, so many opportunities missed, so many traumas and joys tucked away, so many permanent decisions made, so much living already lived. Given the dazed expressions on half of the faces in the room, I don’t think I was the only one suffering from this strange sensation.

I underestimated the impact of going back to my hometown and rooting around in my never-to-be-heard-from-again adolescence. Or maybe it’s just that a weekend spent subsisting on vodka, double espressos and Safeway deli is a sure ticket to misplaced self.

In any case, it was surreal. The prom queen’s husband kept bringing me drinks and telling me he loved me. A guy I’ve known since Kindergarten pointed over and over again at my face, repeating, “You were always so nice to me,” like this was atypical. I took the chickens to my favorite childhood beach and kept tripping over the fact that I was the mother, not the child. Some guy told me he spent high school mad at the guy who came between us in the alphabet. One of the few women who has remained my good friend told a classmate who couldn’t remember my name that if he could, she and I would make out. (He couldn't). Oh, and there was a bomb scare. Someone tried to blow up the grocery store next to my motel.

Perhaps it was one of us, we group of nearly 40s reeling from the realization that sometime in the recent past, the last breath of youth passed us by and we missed it.