the pieces of my life

The other night we watched Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work (and by “we watched,” I mean, I watched while Adam fell asleep on the couch. I admire Joan Rivers a lot. It’s easy to joke about the plastic surgery and the QVC stuff she does, but she really has—to quote Michelle Bachmann—a lot of “choots-pa.” She has done amazing things with her life. But what stuck out at me most about the documentary is how, at 75, she still fears being judged. She’s still completely insecure. She put on a play in London to a standing ovation. Yet the reporters were lukewarm on it, so she refused to put the play on in New York for fear of what the critics would say.

That’s the thing with any creative field. And I don’t think I realized it until recently. An entire hierarchy exists in which, if you can just get to the next point, everything will be okay. But the problem is, that next point doesn’t exist. There’s always the point after.

Once upon a time, I was a lonely little writer sitting in my illegal first floor apartment on 10th Street in the East Village of New York City. I had a box of a computer with the black screen and a copy of WordStar. I worked as an editorial assistant for a now defunct book packaging company, and while during the day I churned out book proposals for work, at night I spent every free hour that wasn’t drinking, doing freelance proofreading (because at my peak in this company, I earned $16,000, which even in 1990, wasn’t enough to live on in NYC) and working on “my writing.” “My writing” was this ambiguous thing in those days, scrawls that filled notebooks and half pages of WordStar files. When I was feeling brave enough, I’d print them out and bring them to a writing group, filled with folks like myself—overeducated, underpaid, young New Yorkers who longed for a more literary era. Personally, I fancied myself a Dorothy Parker.

Each writing group was fraught as we gently tried to help each other improve. Sitting there silently as others judged your writing was a challenge. But it was a necessary evil as three years later I decided I wanted to do something with “my writing” and I applied to MFA programs.

Talk about brutal. I knew that once I got into a program, everything would be okay. I’d be validated about my writing and I’d begin a successful career. Never mind the rejection notices I received. I had pretty much despaired, planning on skipping out of NYC, finding a place to wait tables somewhere out West, and just write, when I came home late one night, half drunk, from a friend’s show at Sin-e on St. Mark’s. I actually remember the night pretty well, because there was another guy sitting there, writing, while the band was playing and he was wearing headphones, listening to something else, which I thought was pretty rude. I confronted him on it, because that’s the kind of thing I do. He claimed to be a musician and not into my friend’s music, and I thought he was an ass, and continued to think he was an ass, even though it turned out he was a famous ass and then a tragic one when he died a few years later.

But, as usual, I digress. The point is, I came home that night, opened my mail box, and cried when I saw the thin letter from the University of Washington. In the hallway, I started just sobbing. I really wanted to go to the University of Washington. I was going to put the envelope on the table to deal with the next morning, but didn’t want to wake to misery, so I opened it, thinking “It’s odd that they’re pleased to reject me,” taking a full five minutes to realize that, thin or not, it was an acceptance.

And so my life was made. I was set! Until I had to produce, three pieces a trimester, to be—not gently—ripped apart by my peers, constantly worried that I was the fraud, that I was the one who didn’t belong. Trying to keep up, trying to produce work. Trying to complete my thesis. And, finally, so I did.

And so my life was made. I was set! Well, until I started trying to get published. Once a literary journal had accepted me, I’d be validated about my writing and have a successful career.

And the journals have come. Very slowly. Painfully slowly. Dribbles here and there amidst the multitude of rejections. I save my rejections in a folder, hold onto them for the day I can say, “See! I told you I could write!” But it turns out publishing in journals isn’t enough.

I had to write the novel. And I did. Four of them actually (if you count my grad school thesis). But finally I wrote the one I thought would work. It passed the muster of my writing group. But I needed an agent. So I put myself out there again. I queried and hoped and revised and because once I got an agent, I’d be validated about my writing and have that successful career. And it happened. I got my agent. My wonderful agent who put my novel through the wringer to make it not just a good novel, but what I hope is a great novel. So I’m there. I’m validated. I’m done.

Except, of course, I’m not. Because, after watching Joan Rivers tonight, it’s been hammered in what should have been so obvious to begin with. If you choose a career like writing, there is no validation, there is no content with a successful career. Because when you’re writing, you’re always auditioning.

Now, I sit and wait for my agent to submit the novel to editors who will then judge my writing. And in the meantime, I submit my novel to writers whom I admire to see if they will blurb my book, and I wait, anxiously, for them to judge me. And—if—an editor makes an offer on my book, I’ll wait to hear what readers, what critics have to say. And then there will be the pressure of the next book, where it starts (almost) all over.

How many times have you picked up a published book and thought, “Eh? Didn’t love it.” And there are even times you pick one up and say, “This was terrible!” Not everyone will love every book. I have to remind myself of that. Not everyone will love my novel.

I’m not going to spout platitudes about how simply writing is validation. It’s not. Simply writing is simply writing. I guess the key is to give up looking for that validation, although, let’s face it: That’s not human nature.

A story for you: My grandmother was an incredibly well read woman. We traded books fairly frequently. She was also a very harsh woman, a woman who rarely had a kind word to say to anyone’s face. I’m not sure why I did it, but shortly before she died, I let her read one of my novels (not the one that’s being shopped around; one that I keep in my bottom drawer). She read it. She called me. She told me she was proud of me for writing a novel, she didn’t know how I did it with kids and working and keeping my home, and it was marvelous that I had done it. She was so impressed. And, then, she started the critique. And, oh what a critique it was. I don’t even remember half of it. Except for one part. “One of the problems with the main character is all she does is get drunk and get laid. That’s it! She needs to be a more three-dimensional character. There has to be more to her than drinking and sex.” Valid point. And then she said it. The words that shall live in my heart forever. “She’s you, right? Your main character is based on you.”

You can’t escape being judged. Sometimes not even by your own grandmother. But learning to live with the judgements is easier than not being a writer. So go ahead. Judge away.

It’s happened. My little, precious, smart, beautiful, wonderful girl. She’s changed. She’s grown. She’s… She’s… Arg!! I need to just spit it out. She’s… got stinky feet! Oh dear lord, that cute little thang is now a smelly force to be reckoned with. Seriously, you can detect her a room away.

“Sorry!” she says, when I complain about the stench of her feet.

“You can prevent this!” I tell her. “Just freakin’ wear socks!”

“I hate socks!”

“Well, the rest of us hate that smell!”

She’s no longer my little baby. She’s well on her way to being a totally gross tween. Between my gym clothes, the boy’s room, and her feet, we are going to be the house to avoid. Oh, the stinkiness of it all!

Last night at dinner:

Pie: What’s for dinner?
Me: Do you just want your cupcake?
Pie: Huh?
Me: I’ll let you eat your cupcake for dinner.
Pie: Um, well, I should probably have some protein first. It’s healthier that way.
Me, shocked: Uh…
Pie: And you should too. Make sure you have some protein—and calcium—before you eat your cupcake!

Thank goodness she went to bed long before I ate my, um, dinner. Yep, that’s what we’ll call it. Dinner.

This is the first year since 2004 that I haven’t considered doing a marathon. I ran New York in 2004; 2005 I skipped because Pie was born; ran New York again in 2006; Miami in 2007; Baystate in 2008; and Miami again in 2009. I had planned on running Chicago last year, trained, made it up to 18 miles, but ended up bailing on the race because every time I ran over 16 miles, something hurt. As I’ve mentioned here before, I have nothing left to prove. My PR (personal record) isn’t fabulous, but it’s nothing to be embarrassed about either (my first marathon I ran in about 5:19, I think; my PR, Baystate, was 4:13:46. I’m considering having that number tattooed on me. Just kidding. I think.).

So this is the first summer I’ve been able to feel laissez-faire about my running. I’m running primarily for fun. I’m cross training. I take a Piyo class (Pilates/Yoga) my neighbor runs once a week. I’ve been doing strength training videos. I’m walking a ton. I’m still running three or four days a week, but at a slower pace and for shorter distances. It’s more enjoyable.

I’ll be doing a half marathon in the fall, the same one I’ve done for the past four years. But as I’m not training for a marathon, I’ll need to do a little work to get up to speed for the half. I resigned myself to looking up a half marathon plan. Working backwards from the race date, I’ll have to start training about August 14.

Hal Higdon is my go-to training plan guy. So I went to his half marathon plans with a heavy heart. Do I really feel like getting back into the training grind? Am I ready for the commitment? I decided to go with the Intermediate plan. I’m definitely not a novice, but I don’t feel like putting in the effort (read: speed work) to do the Advanced plan.

So, with my eyes half shut to block out the pain of training, I looked at the plan. And—oh my gosh—it’s nothing! After all those years of thinking in terms of a marathon, I completely forgot that training for a half marathon doesn’t require much effort! Midweek runs max out at 5 miles. And there’s one—one!—12 mile run. I do anywhere from 6 to 10 miles right now on the weekends. 12 is nothing more. I know for a lot of folks 12 miles seems daunting. And it can be! But not from where I am.

I can be lax on running and still race safely. I can go on vacation and not stress if I don’t get the miles in. Half marathons, baby! It’s where I’ll be from now on.

And… it’s… in! I finished revisions to my revisions and my agent is crafting a cover letter and preparing to send my manuscript off into the world. It will be months, most likely, before things really start to happen, but right now, I feel light and happy and free! Yes, I’m still trying to get blurbs. Yes, there will probably be more revisions if? when? the manuscript is bought. But for now, the novel is all wrapped up in a pretty bow.

I think it’s time to open a bottle of something!

Go down, Pie Pie, way down to camp land,
tell old, teacher, “I’m going to let my mommy go…”
[Can you hear the tune? Because I can’t get it out of my head.]

It’s that Pie. She’s back to her old tricks again. The kids are doing the Summer Fun program at the local middle school. We walked in this morning, and the woman who runs it also ran the Club Invention both my kids were in. Doodles did wonderfully at Club Invention. Pie did wonderfully… when she wasn’t crying because she missed me.

The director took a look at us, and panic entered her eyes. She said, “Oh, Doodles is joining us for Summer Fun!”

“Pie, too!” I responded. I can only describe the director’s look as horrified.

We dropped Doodles off at his class (where the teacher asked, “Uh, how old is he?” and I assured her that despite his size and reluctance to state his name, he is indeed going into third grade and is age appropriate for Wacky Science for third to fifth graders. “Just checking,” she said).

Then Pie and I made our way through the school to the kitchen, where Way Cool Cooking for first and second graders was starting. Pie was so excited for Summer Fun. Way Cool Cooking in the morning and American Girl Doll fun in the afternoon (not as scary as it sounds, I swear: “Read books, play games, act of scenes, make fun crafts and projects as we learn how American girls lived and played long ago”). These were the camps she most wanted to attend.

But, of course, that didn’t stop the tears. “Mommy! Don’t go!” What kills me is this is camp. As I keep telling Pie, “Camp is optional!” She can stay. She can go. She just can’t make me stand there in the hallway for 20 minutes while she sobs, confused. The thing is, she really wants to go.

My trusty Interwebs research is starting to make me think that she has a (more on the mild side) case of separation anxiety disorder. Not that that makes it any easier to have my daughter in tears. Taking the selfish route here, having her a mess every morning ruins my day. I’m tense and stressed out, and inevitably, when I pick her up, she’s had a fantastic day. Every night she comes home from her camps (Club Invention, Girl Scout camp) saying how marvelous it is. Every morning she’s in tears when it’s time to go.

Nothing witty or uplifting to say here. Just a chance to vent about my daughter and her inability to separate. Two kids. Same parents. Same upbringing. One can’t get rid of me fast enough. The other already talks about how she’s going to live with me when she’s an adult.

It’s not a party till someone throws up. But who would it be? Would it be me who ate copious amounts of raw cake batter for breakfast? Adam who consumed his body weight in pork? The friends who made six pitchers of white sangria, a plate of Jell-O shots, a case and a half of beer, the gin and tonics, and I-don’t-know-how-many bottles of wine magically disappear?

The day started with the annual neighborhood 4th of July bike parade. The day was hot. But the kids didn’t mind and the boy rode around a few extra times, despite the heat.

After the parade, parents bring snacks to share. On holidays like this, I try not to notice what the kids eat, but sometimes it’s hard not to notice. The girl had some cookies and a bunch of watermelon. The boy had cookies. And one of those tubes of frozen sugar water. And some more cookies. I wanted to eat the cookies. But that morning I had made Rice Krispie treats (oops, that one fell on the floor! I better eat that one), a three-layer cake (which fell apart before I could serve it, which meant the only thing to do was for me to shove handfuls of it into my mouth), and the aforementioned sangria (which required frequent tastings to insure the right balance of wine, Cointreau, sugar, and fruit). Adam was too busy licking the BBQ sauce from his face to even be concerned with the snacks.

After the parade, we headed home to set up for the party and to listen to our kids say on average 3.74 times per minutes, “When does the party start? When does the party start?” The party started at 3, thank you. Luckily the in-laws agreed to arrive an hour early to keep the “When does the party start”ers out of our hair.

The party itself was great. People mingled. All of the ribs were eaten. All of the sangria was drunk. Thanks to our guests, we had enough desserts to keep the kids on a sugar high for the rest of the month. The kids disappeared. For a while, they were playing a game called Prisoner, which involved locking kids in the shed under the stairs. And you know what? Not a single parent minded. The girls under the age of 7 all disappeared into Pie’s room within minutes of arriving. We heard shrieks. Loud shrieks. Rather ear-piercing, but as it was the Fourth of July, the more noise the better. At one point we turned the sprinklers on for the kids in the backyard, while the parents drank in the front yard.

Little people would run in and out, and hands would grab things from the front table and disappear. As I saw my son take his umpteenth Pop Rocks cookie, I yelled, “Have you had any energy food today?” He did a U-turn without even looking at me, grabbed a plain hot dog in one hand (the other held cookies), and shoved it his mouth as he continued running to the back yard. Dinner accomplished.

About 30 minutes later, I’m sitting in the front yard, contemplating whether I should have any energy food. Despite the large plate of veggies and fruit, all I’ve had is the aforementioned sweets and an awful lot of chips and (homemade) onion dip. Oh, and beer. And sangria.

The girls come squealing by. The boy runs up to the front porch. He approaches the food table, but looks momentarily confused. He turns around, on the front porch, not 6 inches from the garbage can, and proceeds to vomit up every bit of sugar he’s had that day. Right there. In full view of everyone.

And what do I do? I sit in my chair and laugh. And call for Adam. Because on the list of “I don’t do,” in addition to laundry, is basically anything having to do with bodily functions. Adam comes and cleans. The boy has the nerve to turn around and look back at the desserts.

“I don’t think so!” I yell. “Go inside and brush your teeth!”

“Why?” he had the nerve to ask.

“Because you threw up!”

He shrugged, went inside to brush, and then went right back to playing. Could not have cared less. I asked him later why he didn’t run into the bathroom or, at the very least, move a couple of inches over to the garbage can. “I dunno,” he said.

And he recovered enough that we all headed over to the school playground so he and Adam could shoot off his own model rocket, our little tribute to the Fourth of July as Boston fireworks don’t start till freakin’ 10:30 p.m. and we have not, not one single year, managed to have the kids stay up late enough for it.

So, while we’re a little belated, happy birthday, America! We celebrated in style!

My hair was a mess. It really need a good dye job. My gray roots were showing. “I look old,” I told Adam.

“No, you don’t,” he assured me, because he had to assure me because it was my birthday, I had agreed to go to his 20th high school reunion, and there was no cake. What was he going to say? “Besides, everyone at the reunion is going to look old. I saw some of their pictures on Facebook. Old!”

Guess what? No one looked old. Well, except for me and Adam.

Adam has one high school friend I really like. Correction: Adam’s high school friend is okay and all. Adam has one high school friend whose wife I really like (if you read this, high school friend, nothing personal). I asked Adam what to wear. I confused and flustered him with my question. He said he was wearing a blazer. So the wife (and I’m going to go ahead and call her by her real name, as she’s a blogger who writes somewhat sarcastic things about her kids and is therefore fair game. She’s Jen! Do you hear me? Jen!) and I conferred on what to wear, and I settled on jeans with no holes and a nice shirt. Ugh. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was completely overdressed. Borrowing Doodles’s Bruins jersey would have been the way to go.

The evening started off oddly when we walked in and I went to fill out a name tag. “Guests don’t wear name tags,” I was told. Welcome to you, too! I then had a moment of panic when I looked at my phone… no service. “Do you have AT&T?” Jen asked me. “Yes,” I said. She laughed at me. “Welcome to New Hampshire!”

My birthday. No cake. And no tweets? This was going to be a horrific night… but I was saved by wifi. Thank God for sports bars with wifi.

We had two drink choices: beer and a funky cold medina. (Which proves that math is not the school’s forte; “Funky Cold Medina” is from 1989. This was a class reunion from 1991. Yes, Adam is young. Yes, I robbed the cradle. Shut up already!) I chose beer. Jen chose the funky cold medina. One was wiser than the other (name the poem that line comes from and I’ll… um, I’ll be impressed). I’m pretty sure her drink was simply grape juice and vodka. My beer, happily enough, was all beer.

The best part of the night was watching Adam struggle. All of the name tags had folks’ high school pictures on them (note to self: educate Doodles on “unibrow” and “waxing” well before his senior year of high school). The minute we walked in, some guy covered his name. “Hey, Adam!” he said. “Guess who I am?”

Hey, guy! Guess who has no idea!

Adam couldn’t get it. He looked at the high school picture. Still couldn’t get it. The guy uncovered his name. Adam still had no idea who he was.

For fun I started a drinking game. I took one swing every time Adam was completely unsubtle in saying, “Hi”—eyes drift to name tag, he squints at name—“so and so!” I drank two swallows for every time Adam said, “Long time!” I got very drunk, very quickly.

I finally got to meet a high school friend of Adam’s whom I’ve heard a lot about. She sends a lovely newsy Christmas card every year. She gave me a big hug, chatted with Adam, and in 3 minutes 23 seconds gave us the lamest excuse to not talk to us anymore. Something along the lines of “Oh, you know what? I think I left my hat in my car! I better go check.”

The music was fun. The tweeting was good. And all of an hour and 12 minutes into the event, Adam said, “Okay, I’ve had enough. Let’s go.”

“I’m doing fine!” I assured him. Despite not being done with the beer I had, Jen shoved another beer in my hand so I was literally doublefisting. It was just like 1991!

“Yeah, but I’m done. I’ve talked to everyone I wanted to talk to. Let’s go.”

We walk out of the bar. Outside, a guy walks up to me, puts an arm around my shoulders. “Adam married you?” he said. “Wow. Who would have thought he could get a woman like you!” I’m liking this guy already! “Let me tell you,” he said, “your husband and I have known each other since kindergarten. We went to school together since kindergarten all the way through high school.”

“Hey,” Adam said. “Long time.”

We get to the car. “That was cool running into him,” I said.

“I have no idea who he is,” Adam told me.*

For that I didn’t get cake?

*Thirteen hours later, sitting at breakfast at The Friendly Toast, appropos of nothing, Adam shouted out, “I know who he is! We did go to school together starting in kindergarten!”

Let’s start by saying there was no cake. Yes, last Saturday was my birthday. No, there was no cake.

At lunch.
Me: I’m ready for cake!
Adam: Uh, there is no cake.
Me: What do you mean?
Adam: We were supposed to leave for Portsmouth right after breakfast! So there wouldn’t have been time for cake! Did you want cake for breakfast?
Me, to Doodles: Would Mommy want cake at breakfast?
Doodles: Yes.
Me, to Pie: Do you think Mommy would eat cake at breakfast?
Pie: Yes!
Me, to Adam: Your kids know me well.
Adam: grumble, grumble, grumble.

So, no cake. What did I get instead? Why, I got Adam’s 20th high school reunion! Which I will blog about shortly….

Boston is famous for its drivers. We even have a special term for them. They’re called Massholes. For me, personally, though, the word uttered most frequently while driving is “a$$wipe.” I don’t know where the word came from. I don’t know why I say it. I never use the term outside of my car. But inside the car, the a$$wipes fly freely.

Today for example. Driving home from Cambridge. At rush hour. One car cuts me off, another stops at a yellow, and another hangs out in the box.

Me: Godd*amn, motherf&%$* a$$wipe! Freakin’ a$$wipe drivers.

The boy: Why do you call them that?

Me: Because they are. Every freakin’ last one of those drivers out there is an a$$wipe. All drivers are a$$wipes.

The boy: You’re a driver. So you’re an a$$wipe.

Me: Not me. I’m not an a$$wipe. Every other driver is an a$$wipe. And you shouldn’t be saying “a$$wipe.”

The girl: Daddy drives.

Me: Yeah, and he’s an a$$wipe when he drives.

The girl: Are you saying Beetle is an a$$wipe?

Me: No. Well, unless she’s driving. Then, yeah, I guess she’s one too. I don’t think you’re understanding. Everyone who is not me behind a wheel is an a$$wipe.

The girl: Beetle says that her husband is a crazy driver!

Me: Probably is.

The girl: So is he an a$$wipe?

Me: I really don’t think you should be saying that word.

The boy: Yeah. You should say “jacka$$” instead.

Me: No, not that either.

The boy: Why not?

Me: People tend not to like it when you say “a$$” anything.

The boy: What about a$$ idiot?

Me: Yeah, not that either. “A$$” is pretty much out.

The boy: Oh.

Guy freakin’ cuts me off again.

Me: A$$wipe!!

The girl: Mom!

Me: I’m a grown-up! Leave me alone. I’ll give you sugar when we get home.

I’m practicing my parenting speech as I type…. (And how many readers did I lose with this post?)