Gradbabies

image from by dno1967

You can also listen to this story here.


I saw my aunt and uncle in the grocery store the day before Easter. We met up at the end of the jam and jelly aisle, in an open area near the meat counter. I waved first, since it seemed inevitable that they'd see me. It had been at least a year since I last saw them, and I wanted to give them plenty of time to recognize me out of context.

The only thing in their cart so far was a 10 pound bag of potatoes. Later on I'd see them picking out a ham. Until a few years ago, we all used to gather for Easter and Christmas at another aunt's house. But it looked like everyone would be cooking for their own this year.

"Anything new?" my aunt asked.

I gave the standard, "Not much," and then remembered something new, a growing rarity these days: "I'm going back to school."

"Oh?" my aunt said. "That's interesting."

"When am I gonna be an uncle?" my uncle chimed in.

I knew what he meant. "You're already an uncle," I said, trying to sound good natured. "And you're a grandfather! What more do you want? To be a great-uncle?"

"He's that, too," said my aunt, referring to my other cousins who started babymaking a few years ago.

"That’s right!" I said, keeping up the lighthearted banter just a bit too loudly. "See, you don’t need me at all."

We talked for awhile longer, but the subject of me going back to school never came up again. Nobody wanted to know where or why or how or for what. After that conversation, I wondered how many other people are thinking what my uncle, always the outspoken one, actually said.

Me: I’m going to grad school!

Others: When are you going to have a baby?

At a family visit a few years ago, I stood beside my grandmother while we watched a scene unfold around the clan's newest infant. I'm not overly close with my grandmother, and she's not an overly talkative woman, but I know she loves me. After minutes of silence, she turned to me and said, "Well, your mother wanted to be a grandmother, but I guess that's not going to happen now."

I found this curious for several reasons, the main one being that she is my paternal grandmother: my father's mother. Unless she and her daughter-in-law had developed a strong bond recently, or my mother was much more grief-stricken about my childless state than she's let on, I couldn't imagine this was an actual conversation the two of them would ever have.

I didn't know what to say, so again I played the jester. I gestured to my younger brother and said, "Hey, he could have kids!"

I don't know why my grandmother assumed kids were out of the picture for me. I can't recall ever discussing with her my angst and ambivalence about becoming a mother. And this was just a few years ago, when I was in my late 20s or very early 30s and still spry enough to try for a little spring chicken if I so chose.

All in all, I'm thankful that I don't get much pressure from family or friends about my childlessness. For now, this is what makes sense and works for me and my husband. People generally respect that. But every so often, someone slips, and I wonder how many people are questioning my choices. That happens to everyone, I suppose. At some point, we just need to stop worrying about what family, friends, or society think of the path we choose.

A friend recently told me, "I'm so tired of trying to manage my image with my family." For sure, that can be exhausting work, full of subterfuge and half-truths. Personally, I've never really felt the need to do that, especially outside of my immediate family. Most of them have never really known me, but only because we run in different circles, not because I'm hiding anything.

While I was growing up, my parents, brother, and I often spent Friday nights at my great aunt's house in the country. This was on my mother's side of the family. There was always an elaborate spread of food for an evening meal, well after dinner time. It felt so decadent to eat after dark. Summers were the best because the table was covered in delights from my aunt and uncle's garden: sliced bright-red tomatoes, deep green bell peppers, shapely spring onions.

When I became a teenager, those visits became less fun, as do most things at that age. This was during my mandatory dark and twisty phase, in which I was trying to embrace the writer within. I remember sitting on a wooden stool at the little bar island in the kitchen, apart from the family merriment in the living room, and writing something along the lines of: These people are my relatives, but I do not feel related or relevant. It was my way of realizing that you can't choose your relatives, but you can’t hide from them, either.

Most of the people from those Friday night gatherings are far away or gone now. Unlike my dad's side of the family, which is teeming with new life, my mom's side has only seen two new additions. If anyone should be worried about my procreation habits, it would be them – if there were anyone left to worry.

As I settle into my third decade, I have a growing hunger for family and relative connections. But I'm also not ready to throw my own eggs into the ring just yet. When I am, I guess we'll all have something to talk about.

Don't Fear Your Creative Genius

Dear Creative Ones,
Please watch this video. It might be just what you need.



"Elizabeth Gilbert muses on the impossible things we expect from artists and geniuses -- and shares the radical idea that, instead of the rare person "being" a genius, all of us "have" a genius. It's a funny, personal and surprisingly moving talk." (from TED Talks)

Pitfalls of the Blogging Writer

image by the trial

There are many things I love about being a writer. There are many things I love about blogging. But sometimes, being a writer who blogs can be a real drag. Actually, being a writer has a number of pitfalls. I live in constant fear that I'll mispronounce the word "nuclear." I worry about undetected grammatical errors infiltrating my daily speech. Writing a quick email is never quick or easy. Words are my trade. Unfortunately, those very same words are what we English speakers use to communicate. So every written or verbal interaction is like a landmine for writers. One false move or double negative and BOOM! Not good.

I love using this space to tell stories. I also love that it's a place to make you laugh, share truth, and generally form and kindle connections. That's what I love about writing in general. So when I'm quiet for a few days (or nearly two weeks), it's not because I'm not thinking of you, dear reader. It's because I feel constrained by my role as Writer, capital W. I want to stop by and say, Hey friends, how's it goin'? It's cold and snowy here. Oh, and I've been working on a cool project. What's new with you?

But that's not very story-ish, now is it? (Plus, dropping the letter "g" from the ends of words could get me in trouble with the word police.) Even writing this post feels like a cop-out. In the back of my mind, I'm always aware that what I write on this blog can be used to judge me. Of course, that's true for all of us who blog or share our words in a public way: There's always the risk of judgement when we put ourselves out there. But that's a whole different emotional animal that deserves its own series of posts.

I mean that I know that potential clients and editors can come here and judge the quality of my writing or the content of my posts. I have no statistical data on this, but I believe that what I write here may be a factor in whether or not someone hires me. So I feel an unspoken pressure to make sure it's always good.

But that kind of pressure in this kind of format leads to no writing. While I often use this medium to share stories, a blog is something different than a book of essays. Sometimes I wonder if I should make it more like an online publication and less like my little corner of the virtual town square. But I've developed real friendships and made good professional contacts as a result of blogging. Erasing the community quotient from this space doesn't feel right.

I'd like to know how those of you who make your living creatively feel about this topic. Do you feel like everything you write must be a reinforcement of your personal "brand"? (I know, I know: many of you hate that term.) Does this issue of quality control impact other artists as much as it does writers? What about those of you in other fields? How do you balance staying in touch and building community with the need to provide quality content on a regular basis? And while you're at it in the comments, How you doin'?

Self Reflection

image by James Jordan

The man behind me in line at the post office smells bad, like a combination of body odor, motor oil, and stale cigarettes. I try to stand as far away from him as possible without creeping out the guy in front of me. But suddenly the man behind me starts to talk, apparently to me. He makes some comments on having to wait in line and trying to have fun regardless. I smile vaguely and mumble an agreement. But of course he isn't done.

He launches into a seemingly random and convoluted story about how he had to lecture someone -- his son, I think -- on acting like a man. Being a man isn't something that happens right away, not even after you've been in the military, he tells me. But his daughter, she had a four-point-grade-average. And why? Because she worked hard. You gotta study and work hard. And learn to be a man. I'm not gonna do it for you.

The line moves forward, and I'm next. Someone else is talking loudly about a local ski resort, and suddenly the man behind me switches subjects and launches into a treatise on the place. They have free skiing this time of year, he says, to get you hooked so you'll come back and pay later. He says he worked there for five years. I ask him if he skis. He says no, and seems to see the humor in this. I can't help thinking he's making the whole thing up. But when I look online later, I find out that the resort is indeed running a free ski ticket special.

The conversation is confusing and makes me feel embarrassed, but now I'm too invested in it to just turn around and ignore the man. I tell myself that he's probably lonely, possibly homeless, and perhaps delusional. Maybe he doesn't even have a son or daughter. Or maybe he does, and they don't want anything to do with him.

I don't want to talk to him, but I tell myself that he's a person who deserves respect. And what harm can a bit of conversation do? But even as I'm trying to be magnanimous, I notice myself glancing at the faces of the people in line behind him, wondering if they think I'm there with him, or if they pity me for being the sucker who got roped into talking to him. Or even worse, maybe they're thinking how kind I am for taking pity on him. I catch myself caring what these strangers think of me, and I feel ashamed.

The mail clerk calls "Next!" and I walk away from the one-sided conversation, pausing just long enough to let the man finish his sentence. I get swept up in the details of my mail and lose all track of the man. I have no idea what kind of transaction he does or whether he leaves the post office before me.

I leave, thinking about how I tried my best to see this outcast as a real person. But I also know that I did it halfheartedly, with reservation, and a secret sense of accomplishment at being the sort of person who will pay attention to a dirty, rambling man. And then I feel shame at such watery pride. My attempt to be openhearted is a thin gruel that amounts to nothing more than self-righteousness. It's sour and unfulfilling.

I feel even worse a few minutes later during a phone call with a friend when I complain about the wait in the post office and the chatty, smelly man behind me. I treated him like half a man to his face and then scorned him in private.

What kind of a person does that make me?

It makes me the kind of person I dislike. I once lambasted a friend of my parents' who complained about the homeless people panhandling outside of his office. If they really wanted a job, he claimed, they could get one. I was baffled and hurt when my dad agreed with his friend. I reminded him of how many jobs he'd personally lost due to lay-offs and plant closings. There but for the grace of God, I said. I lectured my elders on how good people end up down-and-out due to circumstances that that they couldn't foresee and that we don't know.

These were the same lectures I gave myself ten years ago as a volunteer coordinator for a mobile soup kitchen. The program fed dozens of people each night on the streets of east London. I was fresh out of college, alone in a new country, and floundering in a role that lacked adequate management and supervision. I spent most of my time hiding out in the office, ordering supplies, creating newsletters, and making the monthly volunteer schedules. I went out on the van just a few times during my year with the program. I was afraid to interact with the homeless men and women, afraid to be on the streets at night, afraid that I would look afraid. I let that fear guide me, even though the interactions themselves were never very frightening. But I made myself the wizard behind the curtain, keeping both the volunteers and the clients at arm's length.

I'm uncomfortable around the homeless, the elderly, the disabled, the infirm, the incoherent. This makes me uncomfortable with myself. To make up for it, I acknowledge misfits in the post office. I always try to look homeless people in the eye. When they ask for money, I either give a little something or say, "Sorry, not today." I try to give them a small piece of the respect I've lost for myself, and in that way, try to regain it.

Tell Your Story: An Interview with Jen Lee

The magical Jen Lee, photo by Jen Lemen

Some things I love:

• new friends with old souls;


• beautiful creative projects;


• learning how to do something new; and


• getting to the heart of a story.

This audio interview that I did with the radiant Jen Lee envelops all four of these things. First of all, my lovely new friend Jen has a wise soul that practically glows with creativity. To create this interview, she taught me a thing or two about using Garage Band on my new Mac. But the best part of this little interview is getting to hear a piece of Jen's story, including how and why she created Don't Write: A Reluctant Journal and Solstice: Stories of Light in the Dark, two projects that are still available for purchase on her website. (Each are part of limited edition runs, so don't wait to order them!)

Treat yourself to a warm beverage, close your eyes, and allow yourself to soak in Jen's voice as she talks about having the courage to write and making our voices heard.

(Once you click through to the audio link, just click "Play" to listen to the interview online.)

Where I was last week

It's All Happening: Mondo Beyondo Update

heart in Union Square, San Francisco

At the beginning of the year, I wrote a retrospective on 2007 and a Mondo Beyondo Prospective for 2008. (Find out more about the Mondo Beyondo concept.) I named 2008 my year of Opportunity, Abundance, Prosperity, Plenty, and Creation, and made a list of intentions for how I want to live and what I want to do. I also named and claimed some Mondo Beyondo dreams for this year and beyond. I'm amazed and joyful and humbled and pleased to see several of them coming to fruition.

I wanted: "to start creating mixed media art and find my own path as a visual artist." Next week, I'll go to my very first art retreat, where I'll take a painting and mixed media class. I'm also taking a travel journaling class and attending the Superhero Life workshop. I'm particularly excited about this last one, as it's being taught by the Super Duper Andrea Scher of Superhero Designs. I met Andrea very briefly at the BlogHer Swap Meet this summer and can't wait to learn from her. Plus? Her lovely assistant will be Jen Gray, who I "know" through blogging and a few emails. (It's hard to know if the word "know" is really the right verb in these cases, isn't it?)

And as if that weren't enough, Jonatha Brooke will be providing camp fire music, Boho Girl Denise will be running around taking artist portraits, and Kelly Rae Roberts, one of my favorite artists, will be hosting a discussion about living the creative life.

But wait! There's more! I was serendipitously connected with Kelly Barton of Camp Indigo Soul to share a rental car between the airport and the camp. After connecting with her, I realized that she is the woman behind one of my favorite Etsy shops. And speaking of serendipity, I'll also get to meet the inspiring Liz Elayne Lamoreux of Be Present, Be Here and The Little Room Etsy shop. (Remind me to tell you the funny little story about how we "met" online.) I'm also looking forward to meeting Kirsten Michelle from In the Land of the Lovelies.

I have a feeling that once I get back from New Hampshire, I'll be gushing about all of these women and more, as well as the whole Squam experience. (fair warning!)

I wanted: "to uncover and be at peace with my decision about having a child." Although I haven't reached a decision or a place of total peace yet, I have had a major epiphany in this realm, which has helped me to understand the swirl of emotions surrounding this issue for me. I'm not ready to tell that part of my story yet, but the plot is definitely taking a few twists and turns.

I wanted: "to spend a week at a writers' retreat somewhere beautiful, comfortable, and nurturing." Earlier this year I reconnected with a writer friend from college (hi, Jamye!). Several months ago, she asked if I would be interested in joining her and some other women on a writing retreat. The details are still unfolding, but it looks like this little dream will come true the first week of November.

At least one other Mondo Beyondo dream is in the works and looks like it will become a reality. And that's just what I can see. What if all the others are unfurling in their own way and time? I don't know where my dream cottage is yet, but I'm sure it's out there.

There is more of the year behind us than in front of us, but there's always time for dreaming and scheming. What are you up to lately?

Laundry: A Poem

image by charlie cravero

I'm trying something new tonight: sharing a poem with you. Seeing this artist's rendering of dryer lint reminded me of a poem I wrote in college. The scene that unfolds in it is fictional, but feels very real to me.

I'm rather shy about sharing this with you. Poetry is like singing for me: I enjoy it, but haven't the faintest idea if I'm any good at it. With my narrative non-fiction writing, I can usually get a handle on things and decide if a piece is good, or at least passable. But my own poetry leaves me baffled. I know I like some of it, but I have no bearing beyond that. Perhaps therein lies my answer: If I like it, it's good (enough) for me.

And so, I stand up and sing in front of the world:

Laundry

The agitated sloshing of cold water Tide
Is white background noise
To accompany silent swirling snow outside.
Two chairs from the door, resplendent in purple polyester pants,
And a gold paisley shirt
Plumps a sitting woman, serious about her breathing.
Across the room, brown and stout, the change machine crouches.
A small boy, same shade as the machine, though slighter in build,
Reaches on tip-toes to feed it a limp dollar,
Laughing with accomplishment as four shiny quarters clatter
Into the curved cup.
In the corner, farthest from the windows
(Though the fluorescent lights allow no shadow)
Entwines a couple, as agitated as my washer.

A harsh buzz,
The spin cycle stops.
Time to dry.
I open the smooth white lid to towels and shirts
Stuck, wet heavy cold, to the pin-holed sides of the steel tub,
Like people pressed to the walls of that amusement park ride
Spinning wildly and the floor dropped out and your face flattened
With the pressure.

The lint in the tray is soft speckled grey:
Leftovers of some stranger's laundry.
I'd like to keep it --
Collect the lint of a hundred machines,
Weave a familiar eclectic sweater
To wear when the wind threatens my warmth.
Instead, not to look odd in front of the wheezing polyester woman
(now sucking on a soda)
I toss it away and heap
My own into the dryer.

In the corner, the couple giggles.
The little brown boy stares until
Mother reprimands,
Her arms full of kiddie clothes,
A yellow, green, and white box of fabric softener wedged between her chin and chest.
The boy spies Polyester's Mountain Dew and clamors
For more change.
Another washer shutters to a stop.
The girl of the couple swings her tight acid washed jean hips to the machine,
Peers inside, unsure of the next step.
I wonder if her man will strut to her side and save his distressed damsel;
But he just stares at her backside leaning over the open lid.

A click and a beep.
My towels are warm and fluffy,
But too worn
For a Downey advertisement.
My basket piled full of woven lint,
I set it on the orange plastic scoop chair beside me.
The smell of static-electricity,
Like metal-vegetation:
Tiny crackling sparks as I pull apart
Washcloths and socks,
Pillowcase and bathmat.
The mother drops a small pair of overalls
And the boy asks me, "Do you have a quarter?"

What We Call Ourselves (Part 2)

image by jack dorsey

I sit down in the chair at the hair salon and Stacy, my stylist, says to me, "I have to tell you something. My name's not really Stacy." She's completely deadpan about this. I ask her if she's in the witness protection program and suggest that she not reveal her true identity. I don't want to end up at the bottom of a river somewhere. She glosses over my joke and says, "My name's not really Stacy. It's Jody."

Turns out that when Jody started working at the salon, there was already a Joni working there. And the receptionists couldn't distinguish who clients were asking for over the phone. So Jody, being the newbie, was forced to choose a new name. Thus, Stacy was born.

About a year after I started going to Stacy, Joni quit. And Stacy became Jody once more. But here's the thing: She was totally a Stacy. Even now, I sometimes have trouble remembering her real name. To me, Jody is the essence of Stacy.

What's in a name? I disagree with Shakespeare. I'm not so sure roses would still smell as sweet by any other name. Words in general, and names in particular, mean a lot to me. Just a small change in spelling affects how I perceive a word, even if the pronunciation doesn't change. For me, the words "gray" and "grey" are completely separate colors and ideas. (Grey is always much nicer, by the way.) Start mucking about with the pronunciation and my world turns topsy-turvy. An American to-may-to and a British to-mah-to might as well be completely different vegetables. (Okay, different fruits.)

What we call ourselves shapes us. Our names meld with us, becoming part of the fabric of our being. They also give us shape, acting as a sort of architecture on which other people can hang their understanding of us. Names become nearly inseparable from who we are. But what do you do if you don't feel like your name fits?

I had a friend in college named Katherine, but she went by Kat. After she graduated, she decided that Kat didn't really suit her and started calling herself Kate. That was fine for her new, post-college friends, but the rest of us had trouble letting go of Kat. I still have a hard time adding that extra "e" and remembering to make the long vowel sound in the middle. To me, Kat(e) will always be Kat, even though I honor her wish to be called Kate.

My failed attempt to rebrand myself from Jenn to Jenna wasn't the first name makeover I'd attempted. When I was much younger and people called me Jenny, I decided on "Jennie-with-an-i-e" instead of "Jenny-with-a-y." I chose that spelling, of course, because it seemed so much more sophisticated than "Jenny-with-a-y." But really, how sophisticated can the name Jenny get? It's young and cutesy. Perky, even. It's also the term for a female donkey. So essentially Jenny is an ass. It's also a type of bird, a jenny wren, which is rather sweet. (As is the Paul McCartney song of the same name.) And also? Jenny is the name of the world's oldest gorilla in captivity. It turns out that Jenny is really quite diverse.

Nowadays, the only people who still call me Jennie are a few family members and one friend from college. (She's Jessie and I'm Jennie. I think we should be characters in series of children's books about solving mysterious crimes.) The year I lived in England, people automatically shortened my name to Jenny. I'd say, "Hello, I'm Jennifer." And they'd say, "Hallo, Jenny!" I let it slide due to the accent. (That accent will let you get away with a lot. Just try it. Tell off the next person you see using a British accent and see what happens. They'll probably ask you out for fish 'n chips. Or spit on you. Proceed at your own risk.)

I never really liked my name until I discovered that it derives from Guinevere, which was Gwenhwyfar in the original Welsh. Still, I hated how commonplace Jennifer was. (This belies deep-seated insecurities, I'm sure.) When I grew out of my Jennie phase, I needed something more mature. This essentially meant that I needed something with as few syllables but as many letters as possible. And so Jennie became Jenn. I loved that second "n". I cherished it like it was my lifeline to individuality. It showed the world that although I had the most common name for girls my age, I had put some serious thought into my nickname. It gave me an edge. A certain je ne sais quoi. That's a heavy burden, even for such a stout little letter.

I still go by Jenn to almost everyone who ends up knowing me in person for longer than a month. But here's the thing: I think I might actually be a Jenna. I squashed that urge 14 years ago, but it's been floating around in the back of my consciousness ever since.

Would it be weird to start calling myself by a new name at the age of 32? Could my friends ever add that final vowel with any real level of comfort? Or would they forever be saying "Jenn" and then tacking a hasty "a"' on the end so it sounds like "Jenn...a"? In my professional and online worlds, I introduce myself as Jennifer. But when people actually call me Jennifer, it feels a bit foreign. In essence, I guess I could end up with four names: Jenn to most of my existing friends and family members; Jennie to a select few; Jennifer to business contacts; and Jenna to anyone I meet from here on out.

I'm not ready to make any changes just yet. Names get into our being. They're part of the story we tell to ourselves and about ourselves. I don't know if I can cast aside Jenn or Jennifer for Jenna. Plus, my husband is the only person who calls me Jenna. Do I want to offer up that name to just anyone, or keep it as a sort of sweet secret between us?

What do you call yourself?

Stroke of Insight

Because some stories are just too good not to share:



(If the video won't play, go here to watch it on the TED site.)

The subject matter of this TED Talk is fascinating: a neuroanatomist experiences a stroke and gets to study her brain from the inside out. The speaker, Jill Bolte Taylor, is one of the most captivating I've ever seen. She moves fluidly from science to the spaces beyond science.

I'm musing on how the functions of the left and right sides of the brain, as well as how they connect, inform the way I write and the way I live.

(Thanks to Jenni Ballantyne for this link.)

Acts of Love

photo by dusdin (modified)

"I see your dishes are all done!"

It's a little joke my mom and I have when she comes to my house. If there are dirty dishes piled up on the counter and in the sink (as there all too often are) she kindly ignores them. But when the kitchen is free of dirty dishes, she says, "I see your dishes are all done!"

Without context, that phrase makes her sound like one of those harpy mothers who show up in bad chick-lit novels and mediocre sitcoms. But it's not that way at all.

After several years of being a married woman and trying to "keep house," I confessed to my mom that I was embarrassed my the near constant state of disarray in my home. I love a clean, orderly space. I can even create one. I just have trouble maintaining it.

At some point, I stopped trying to pretend that I was a domestic diva--at least in front of my mother. Even though she's always kept a clean, neat, and well-organized house, my mom's never been one of those white-glove-test types or one to cast disapproving looks at the stacks of magazines and mail that regularly commandeer my kitchen island and dining room table. Still, I wanted her to be proud of me, to show her that I'd learned something about domesticity from her. Finally, I had to admit that housekeeping just wasn't my main gig.

I think the joke about the dishes started as her way of giving me a pat on the back, of saying kudos on getting the dishes done--something that she knew wasn't always the easiest or highest priority on my list. In those moments, I'm seven-years-old again and she's praising my picture for the school art contest. I don't care if it's the best. I just care that she sees it.

I admire my mom's ability to stick to a schedule, complete a task, focus on what needs to be done. But I've also seen how it forces her to push herself unnecessarily when she's weary and how it makes her feel guilty if she allows things to fall below her usual standard.

She once told me, "I wish I could be more like you. You seem to be able to just let things go. I can't do that." She was referring, of course, to my ability to let dirty dishes stack up in the kitchen, to let paper pile up everywhere, to forgo vacuuming for much too long. And as weird as that sounds, it really was a compliment on what she admired in me: my ability to put myself first sometimes, to choose fun over chores, and to say "I'll do it tomorrow" if I'm too tired to do it today.

After dinner a few nights ago, I loaded the dishwasher and looked at everything left on the counter that either can't go in the machine or just wouldn't fit this time around. In addition to the usual pots and pans, I still had a bunch of plates, bowls, and silverware left over. I thought about just washing the big stuff, but it seemed silly not to do a few extra things while I was at it.

I rinsed half a dozen pieces of silverware, a little metal bouquet, under running water. The sound of forks, spoons, and butter knives clacking together transported me back to the kitchen of my childhood, where all dishes were washed by hand, all the time. Back to that eat-in kitchen with the ceramic-top stove that was once blown out of the wall when our neighbor's ex-wife came crashing through it in her car. Back to the counter tops that old Aunt Martha insisted were much too poorly lit every Thanksgiving. Back to the mint green vinyl chairs with swivel seats and legs with wheels. Back to dinner being served every weekday at 4:30 when Dad got home from the factory. Back to when Monday nights meant swiss steak and mashed potatoes, and Friday nights often meant a pizza box atop the plastic tablecloth.

I looked at my hand holding that silverware and saw my mother's hand. I felt the hard curve of wet metal that she's felt thousands of times. The moment expanded so that I was my mother and she was me. The moment contracted so that all truth and love and acts of kindness were there in that little handful of metal. I finished the dishes and thought to myself, "I see all your dishes are done."

Sacrificing for My Art

photo by ndrwfgg

My butt hurts. As do the muscles in the front, back, and inner quadrants of my thighs. My calves? They're okay for the most part. But I may have some sort of hip flexor thing going on, too.

The culprit? Gardening.

This getting down on all fours and playing in the dirt is serious business, people. Serious on my body, anyway. It's as if my body is saying, "Wait, what? What is this pain? I'm used to sitting in a chair all day long, looking at that illuminated box you call a 'computer screen.' Why do I feel this way? Did we go back to that place you call 'the gym' and I missed it? Oh, wait.... I know. You had me pulling plants called 'weeds' out of the ground yesterday. Was that necessary?"

Apparently, it was. Not just for the sake of my garden and new landscaping, but also for the sake of this blog. It's been quiet around here. I haven't had much to say here or in my own private journal. No stories to tell. No amusing anecdotes. No life ponderings. I was beginning to think I'd lost my mojo; lost my ability to weave a tale out of the most mundane activities. But now my butt hurts and I'm back in business!

After playing in the dirt yesterday, I considered waxing poetic about the joys of getting in touch with nature; the earthy smell of fresh soil; the buds peeking out on my pear trees; the experience of being physical when I spend so much time being cerebral; the metaphors of digging deep and not knowing what you have until you really get in there. But garden and nature analogies? A dime a dozen, especially in the spring. So I thought I'd skip it and write this fluff instead. (But don't hold it against me if I wax poetic and add my penny's worth of a nature story some time in the future. I reserve that right.)

Now if you'll excuse me, I think I need to stretch and take a few Advil.

Great Interview Experiment: Laurel of Sass Attack

You know what? You're somebody.

I'm somebody. We're all somebody. We all matter, even if we're not rich, famous, or in big positions if power. But how often do we feel like we matter? Probably not often enough. Too often we feel small, misunderstood, overlooked. (I wonder if those feelings could even be worse for the aforementioned rich, famous, and powerful?)

Everyone has a story, and Neil Kramer of Citizen of the Month started the Great Interview Experiment so that more people had a chance to tell theirs. As Neil explains: "...I think anyone who decides to write about their life online is interesting, even those who may not do the best job yet of conveying that on paper. We all should be interviewed, at least once."

I was randomly matched up with Laurel of the blog Sass Attack. Laurel lives in NYC with her boyfriend AS (short for "Adult Sleep"), ran the 2006 New York City marathon, is preparing to go to grad school in Chicago, and used to be a synchronized figure skater. You'll read about all of that below.

Other things you won't read about include her favorite TV shows (Lost, Dawson's Creek, and Felicity), her computer preference (Mac), and a few bad habits (keeping her temper when she's upset; refraining from correcting other people’s grammar; and saving money.) I think many of us can relate.

Read on, and then hop over here to get to know Ms. Sass a little better.

When and why did you start blogging?

My first foray into blogging was a short-lived project with my book club in 2005. It was fun, but difficult to keep momentum going with six contributors! I have always kept a personal journal, but became frustrated when my entries became a string of boring event recaps or mushy thoughts about my boyfriend. I read a bunch of personal blogs already and liked the idea of regularly writing something topical. So, I took the plunge and started Sass Attack in August 2006.

What keeps you doing it and do you have a blogging philosophy?

Now I am sustained by (and accountable to) my blog-friends. I have met some "real" friends this way! My blogging philosophy is a combination between Write Something Coherent and Interesting and Don't Take It Too Seriously. I love meeting people and getting comments on my blog, but I'm not in this to become well known. In fact, when signs emerge that new, random people have found my blog, I'm not always thrilled!

You were born in Minneapolis and call yourself "a Midwesterner at heart." But you also say that you "refused to go to college in a five-state area" and moved to Seattle for school. Then you spent a semester in France and finally settled in New York City. Did you have to leave home to appreciate it?

I definitely did! Although, my transformation from rebellious Minnesota refugee to sentimental Midwest devotee was pretty much instantaneous. I was singing Minnesota's prizes by my second week in college. Minnesotans have a lot of pride! At the same time, my choices to go to college in Seattle, study abroad in Paris and then work in New York City have exposed me to a lot of really interesting people and experiences. I'm not sure that my experience would be this broad if I had stayed in the Midwest. Of course, living away from Minnesota also makes me miss my hometown's advantages: reasonable real estate prices and cost of living, a great arts and cultural scene, wonderful running opportunities and, of course, proximity to my family.

What's the most important or interesting thing you've learned from living in different places?

I didn't realize until I had lived in New York for a while how unappealing I found it as a place to ultimately settle. Unfortunately, if you want to live in the suburbs, you're looking at exorbitantly expensive real estate, high taxes and a long commute. I still don't understand what happens when both parents work in the city, their kids are in school an hour away on Long Island, and a kid gets sick at school. On the other hand, if you stay in the City, you're looking at OBSCENELY expensive real estate, private school tuition and/or insane competition for the "good" public high schools, high taxes, and no back yard. I didn't realize that any of that was important to me! My boyfriend AS and I hope to spend the married / kid-raising period of our lives in a more manageable place.

It looks like you're headed back to the Midwest for graduate school in Chicago. Are you excited?

I am thrilled. I think the school I will be attending is the perfect fit for me--in no small part because it is in the Midwest. My degree is known to be intense and competitive, and I really think the more relaxed, down-to-earth Midwestern attitude helps defray that a bit for me. The downside is that AS, my boyfriend of almost three years, is tied to his work in NYC, so we will be in a long distance relationship for at least part of my time there. As excited as I am to move to Chicago, there is a part of me that is very sad and anxious to leave New York. Living in NYC makes me feel like I'm living at the center of the world! So, I think an upside to the long-distance relationship is that it will help ease the transition out of the New York stage of my life.

Your childhood sounds interesting. You were a synchronized figure skater and also went to Norwegian language immersion camp. Tell us more!

I only participated in such strange childhood activities because I wasn't any good at "normal" stuff like soccer. My family is deeply Scandinavian (Norwegian on my dad's side; Swedish on my mom's). I attended language immersion camp in Northern Minnesota from age 8 to 15. It was just like regular summer camp--sports, crafts, pre-teen romance--except conducted in Norwegian and focused on Norwegian culture. I think that experience instilled in me a lifetime interest in other languages and cultures.

Figure skating will always be my first love. I am quite the klutz on the ground, but I manage to be somewhat graceful when I strap blades to my feet. Go figure. Synchronized figure skating (where teams of 12-24 skaters skate in unison and form shapes--similar to synchronized swimming) was a wonderful experience for me. I thrived as a member of a team and met lifelong friends. We also traveled independently to competitions all over the US, which, as you can imagine was very glamorous for a 16-17 year old!

What do you do when you're not blogging?

Lately, I have been neglecting my blog a bit, so this question should be easy! I run--sometimes I run a lot. I read about a book a week, the New Yorker and listen to NPR (the geek trifecta!). I cook for my boyfriend and the occasional roommate or friend. I watch a fair amount of bad television! These days I spend a lot of time getting things organized for my impending move to Chicago.

I read in your "100 things" that you're a "fourth generation, dyed in the wool Democrat." You call your 85-year-old, religious, retired farmer grandfather in rural Minnesota the biggest liberal you know and say his Democratic roots come from a very Christian place. Do you get frustrated that the media portrays Republicans as having cornered the market on all of the country's religious or spiritual people?

It really, really does. I think that the traditional "liberal" view in the rural area that my grandfather and father grew up comes from some of deeply Christian values. The difference, I think (and probably why the conservative view is more visible), is that the center of their beliefs is humility. They believe in policies that work towards peace, equal opportunity and economic fairness because they think it is unjust and immoral to accumulate huge wealth when others in this country and in the world are struggling. There are a lot of Democrats making great arguments for progressive economic / anti-poverty / health care policy and ending the war, but I think the Christian argument in support of those ideas is not often brought into the conversation. And, to me, the message of peace and equality is the best part of Christianity! Why would you leave that out?


Back to blogging: Do you read a lot of other blogs? Care to recommend any?

I read so many blogs. I am addicted. This question reminds me that I have to update my blogroll; it is woefully outdated! Outside of my personal blog friends, I love the Fast Company blogs for business news and ideas; The Superficial; and Apartment Therapy for design inspiration.

Your blog is called "Sass Attack." Do people call you sassy?

I've been called "sassy" a time or two! I am definitely a girl who likes to be funny and can keep up with the guys when the BS starts flowing. I think sassiness is an excellent attribute.

Practical Kindness (update on Jen Ballantyne)

Last month I wrote about Jen Ballantyne, a woman who is living bravely and honestly with stage-four colon cancer and the knowledge that she may have fewer than three years to live. One visit to her blog and you realize that Jen, also known as Jenni, tells it like it is: the fear, the pain, the confusion, and yes, even the joy.

In my last post about Jenni, I wrote about the "doctrine of substituted love" and encouraged us to bear her burdens of fear and pain. I truly believe that such metaphysical efforts translate into physical results. But it's good to go beyond the mystical and into the tangible realm. Several wonderful women, Bella at Beyond the Map,Meg Casey, and Jen Lemen are orgainizing a practical way that you can help Jenni. They are working to set up an eBay auction. A PayPal donations system is already in place. (See the donate button in the sidebar.) The money will be used to help pay for Jenni's treatment and those forms of care and pain management that will not be covered by insurance, such as acupuncture, massage, and naturopathy. The funds will also help to create a trust for her six-year-old son. These are things Jenni desperately needs, but can't afford. This is help she won't ever ask for, because she is too worried about everyone else. Get the full details on how you can help here. Donated items for the auction are being accepted until April 18, 2008. I'll post an update when the auction goes live.

A friend recently asked me how blogging ties in with my business as a freelance writer and editor. I said that this blog is a place for me to write regularly and showcase my writing style to my potential clients. Some posts, like this one, are more personal than others. Then again, even my essay-like posts usually revolve around a personal topic.

In many ways, I'm not very good at separating out the personal and the professional. My husband, who has mastered his emotions in a way that I sometimes envy and sometimes pity, reminds me that certain things are "just business." And while I try to take this to heart, that's just the problem -- I take things to heart.

I work and play with words because I love them. I tell stories -- yours, mine, and others -- because I love them -- the stories and the people in them. When I edit a manuscript for a client, I want that book to be its absolute best. I take it personally. When I write an article for a publication, I want readers to care about the issues. When I post on this blog, I want to connect with you.

Where does the personal end and the professional begin? For me, the line blurs a little more each day.

So if you're new to this blog and wonder why I'm posting about the story of a woman with colon cancer in Australia, it's because I truly believe that we're all interconnected. Our stories matter, because ultimately, they're all part of one larger story. And I always invite you to tell yours in the comments.

photo credit: icy beauty by josef.stuefer

Unmasking Ourselves

photo by exfordy

This is determination: Leaving at 4:00am to drive five and a half hours for a weekend with someone you've only met once. That's what my new friend Lisa, the head Nerdy Renegade herself, did last Friday. After planning to arrive on Saturday, we changed plans so Lisa could make it from Dayton to Greensburg without getting stuck in the blizzard that buried Ohio.

Lisa and I found each other last year in the world wide web of blogging. And then last July, on the first day of BlogHer in Chicago, as I was walking from the breakfast buffet to my seat, I heard a woman say, "Nerdy Renegade News." I whipped around, precariously balancing my coffee and mini-muffins, and said: "Nerdy Renegade News?! Are you Lisa from Ohio? I'm Jennifer from The Word Cellar!"

A few moments of squealing and hello-ing ensued, only to be cut short by the start of the morning seminar. A bit later, at a breakout session, I walked into the room and spied Lisa next to an empty seat. I sat down and assured her that I wasn't stalking her. We hit it off immediately, giggling like tweens over our blog crush across the room.

We continued to stay in touch by reading and commenting on each other's blogs and emailing every so often. Finally, Lisa suggested that we arrange a road trip to take our friendship to the next level: from virtual to physical. (And yes, I realize that sounds weird. And no, it wasn't like that. Even though while we were making dinner together one night, I exclaimed: "This must be what it's like to have a wife!" Ask any woman and she'll tell you that she really could use a wife.)

The most surprising part of the weekend was how easy it all was. I've been seeking new opportunities for friendship and community for at least a year, but always had this idea in the back of my head that I'm too old to be making new friends. I felt like it would just be too much work to meet new people and start from scratch.

This weekend I remembered that making new friends doesn't feel like work. Meeting business contacts, networking, and schmoozing -- those can feel like work. Falling into a friendship with a kindred spirit feels more like play.

Another interesting thing about making new friends as an adult is that it frees you from expectations. My friends from my younger years know me like we're family. Those long-term relationships can have a wonderful sense of intimacy and comfort. But there's also an unconscious, self-imposed rule to conform to a specific role. I don't mean that they foist their expectations upon me. I mean that it's easy for me to fall into the familiar patterns of our friendship; to stick to the script; to be the same old person.

But as we grow and evolve, we don't always know how to share these changes with the people who've known us to be this or that. If we're not careful, we stop being ourselves -- our current and up-to-date selves -- around the people who've known us the longest.

And there's a bonus with new friends: They're blank slates! They haven't already heard my favorite stories a dozen times. Which means they don't secretly roll their eyes when I pull out my stock anecdotes. And trust me, I have a lot of them. (Stick around here long enough and you can roll your eyes at me, too!)

I'm grateful for the new friends I'm making through blogging, as well as the ones who've known me for years. Each shows me a different side of myself, and I'm learning to be authentic with both sets.

(And now all you former Girl Scouts, please sing along with me:
Make new friends, but keep the old;
One is silver and the other's gold.
I don't agree with assigning precious metal status to friendships, but gosh it's a catchy tune. Now, let's do it in a round!)

Chain Reaction

Ten years ago, when I still lived at home with my parents, and my husband was just my new boyfriend, I inadvertently caused a car accident. One late summer night I wanted to meet my boyfriend at a friend's house. In order to get to my mom's Ford Taurus (the car of choice, when the choice came down to that or my Dad's blue Buick) someone needed to move the Buick out of the tandem driveway.

We lived near a busy intersection on a busy street. But traffic was sparse this night. So sparse in fact, that the slightly intoxicated lady driving the SUV down the hill at a high rate of speed should have had plenty of time to see my brother backing the blue boat out onto the street. After all, she had a clear line of sight from the top of the hill to the intersection at the bottom.

She crashed into the Buick underneath my parents' bedroom window. I’m not sure what woke my dad: the noise of the crash, or my mom, who was watching us through the window, shouting, "David's been hit!" Either way, Dad bolts out of bed, flies out of the house, and starts running down the street. Only the running was more like prancing because he was shot through with adrenaline and was barefoot on a sidewalk littered with gravel. On his way to save his youngest child, he hadn't thought to put on shoes, his glasses, or any clothes. I should mention that he was sleeping in his tightie-whities.

My brother was fine, the car needed some work, Dad didn't seem to be embarrassed by the ordeal, and the SUV driver got off clean, even though the cops said she was "borderline" on the sobriety test. And my boyfriend thought I was joking when I called and said, "Can you come here instead? My brother's just been in a car accident and my dad's half naked."


Thanks to Jenna Glatzer at Hot Diggity! for prompting me to share this story. I was lucky enough to win one of Jenna's books, The Street Smart Writer, during the Bloggy Giveaway Carnival.

Top 7 Posts of '07

Lentil Soup

My First Trip to NYC

Paranoia Cha Cha Cha

The Littlest Birds Sing the Prettiest Songs

We're Gonna Have Roast Rabbit!

Downward Dog

How to be Ready for Christmas

True Blue: My First Talent Show (6th 1st)

Way back in May, before anyone was thinking about the holidays, before farmer's markets sprouted up and gave us the joyful fruits of summer, even before I went on and on about that conference I went to in Chicago, a few of you participated in the First Official Readers' Poll and voted for the final installment in my mini-series of Firsts. As you may recall, there was a tie between my first night as a sorority girl and my first talent show. So now, without any further ado, (although I love ado, don't you?), I bring you: My First Talent Show!

I think the elementary school talent show started out as an idea in our classroom's suggestion box. Our teacher, who was in her early 20s, was pretty much the coolest adult I'd ever met. We were her first teaching job and she treated us like real people. For our school play, in which I played the role of the Forget-Me-Not Lady, she gave me one of her old prom gowns to wear. (I later wore it to a Halloween party and ruined it during the egg toss.) She once invited our whole class to her house for a cook-out. She lived just a few blocks from me, and didn't seem to mind if my best friend and I stopped by on the weekends or during the summer, even after we'd graduated from elementary school.

For the talent show, my best friend and I decided that we'd do a dance routine, set to Madonna's song, True Blue. We went to Claire's Accessories and bought one pair of electric-blue lace gloves, one glove for each of us. I can't picture the rest of our outfits, but I'm sure they matched and suspect they involved leggings.

I'd been tap dancing since the age of 4, but we decided to do a jazz/contemporary routine because it seemed more appropriate to our stature as cool fifth graders who ruled the school. We choreographed the whole song, pantomiming lines like "Your heart fits me like a glove," and "No-whoa more sadness, I kiss it goodbye!" and stealing bits of a routine that I saw in a jazz class at my dance studio. There may also have been some lip-syncing involved.

What happened next is foggy (as these things often are). I seem to recall that each student could only be in one act. And some adult in my life, not understanding the current popularity of lip-syncing, dance routines, may have mentioned that perhaps I'd have more success in the talent show by playing a song with my band friends. (More success? How do you define success in a school talent show? Were their prizes? Maybe a free book or a pack of pencils?) This is where it gets cloudy, because my best friend was also in the band. But I think I abandoned her. And somehow or other, a group of us budding band geeks formed our own mini-band for the talent show.

We held rehearsals at each other's houses, which I'm sure our parents just loved. When it was my turn to host practice, we moved the dining room table off to the side to create a studio space. I had my flute, Brian was there with his saxophone, and Tawnya had her trumpet. When our drummer showed up for practice, he forgot to bring his snare drum with him. I think my dad gave him a bucket and some spoons to use instead. Despite this, we were a well-oiled band machine.

Looking back, I can't remember what song we played, if we won a prize, or even what my best friend said when I backed out on our act. But I remember wishing I was up there with her as she twirled around to the hottest Pop music of our time. I even remember some of those sweet dance moves. Most of all, I remember this when I weigh two options or consider two paths: It's better to be true blue to your heart than to seek out the approval of others, even when they mean well or sound sensible.

Paranoia Cha-Cha-Cha

While some people pretended to be the aliens from V, I feared them. And I feared that everyone around me, including my parents, would simultaneously reveal themselves to be lizard-like creatures masquerading as humans. And that I would be the only human left in the world, or at least in my neighborhood.

I lie in bed at night, imagining this bone-chilling scenario. I planned my escape, visualizing my emergency evacuation route. I'd slip out of bed and creep to the door of my bedroom. If it was late enough and my reptilian parents were asleep in the room across the hall, I would stealthily sneak past the door and flee toward the front of our ranch house. But if it was still early, which was when I usually had this frightening fantasy, I'd have to be more careful. In order to get out of the house, I'd have to be either very fast or very quiet.

The living room, where my parents were watching TV and pretending to be normal human beings, was adjacent to both the kitchen and dining room -- the only two rooms with doors leading directly to the outside world. Could I run fast enough to evade their flicking lizard tongues and quick lizard legs? I doubted my speed.

The alternative was to sneak out of bed and open the cellar door, which was just outside of my bedroom. But the door was creaky. They would be sure to hear and catch me before I made it down the steep steps and out into the backyard! Besides, the door had a lock at the top, and I was too short to reach it.

So out the kitchen door it would have to be! I ran - nay! I flew! - down the hall, into the kitchen, out the door! Into the dark night! I crossed the alley next to our house and raced up the street! But where would I go? What would I do? In this scenario all adults were potential flesh-eating lizard aliens. I could trust no one. And being in just the third grade, my knowledge of the neighborhood was as limited as my resources. How would I survive in this hostile world?

Better to stay quietly in bed and pretend I didn't know the truth about their identities. Maybe then they'd let me live to go to middle school.

In the meantime, I made sure to sleep under the covers, no matter how hot it was. Even if it was just a thin bedsheet, I felt safer. Because otherwise, a monkey would lower himself down from the ceiling by his tail and stick a hypodermic needle in my bum cheek. (This one had nothing to do with lizard aliens. It was just one of my quirks.)


I don't think I'll be reading this book when it comes out in a few months.

NaBloPoMo: Day 14

Oh my gosh. The writing. The writing. The writing. Every day with the writing. That's what I get for signing up for National Blog Posting Month and publicly declaring my intention to write a blog post every day. It's only Day 14 and I'm stumped, folks. I asked The Husband what I should write about today, and the conversation went something like this:

Me: What should I write about? What are some of the stories I always tell?

Hubs: Hm... How about the time you dressed your brother up like Baby New Year?

Me: That's a good one.* Maybe I'll save it for New Year's.

Hubs: Or how you used to put makeup on him.

Me: I didn't do that. He just says I did. ...at least, I don't think I did.... I think he wanted to try some on.

Hubs: That goes a long way in explaining a lot of things.

Me: Didn't you ever want to try on makeup as a kid?

Hubs: No. Although, my mom did have this face cream that formed a mask and you could peel it off in one piece. I used to put it on my face so I could pretend I was one of those aliens on that TV show "V" and then peel my face off.

I didn't say it to him, but that goes a long way in explaining a lot of things, too.

*There's even a picture!