the pieces of my life

I had my first iced latte of the season, after a nine mile run this morning, and it was heavenly. Which is a good thing because it’s about as close to heaven as I’m going to get today, if there is indeed a Rapture. Us Jews don’t make the cut. Once again, they’re keeping the Jews out of the country club. Don’t mind, this time, though.

I figured I’d write a final post to all my friends who will be playing harps or lounging on clouds or dining with virgins or whatever it is that happens in heaven, but then I realized, it’s really only about one or two of you. I’m pretty sure the rest of my readers are heathens (hi, Dad!).

For those one or two, have a safe trip. Don’t forget to wear a helmet while you’re learning how to use those wings. Try not to spill crumbs on those of us left here on Earth.

And for the rest of you, I’ll see you back here in a day or two. I’ll bring the martinis.

I attend parties in Dubai. I pick up after weddings, especially weddings where the bride and groom have trouble lighting the unity candle. I fly from London to Salt Lake City. I take Musical Theater and/or Dance Fusion. I’ve rented cars in Dallas. I’ve put down deposits on apartments. I receive recipes, offensive e-mail forwards, and pictures of total strangers’ kids.

Why? Because my name is common. And while I myself am not doing any of that stuff, somewhere in this world is another Jenny Brown doing that stuff. Or, rather, many Jenny Browns doing that stuff. Because my gmail account—which I’ve had to more or less abandon—is full of e-mail that was sent to me by mistake. I thought I was so clever getting to gmail fast enough to get jennybrown at gmail.com. Little did I know it was one of the dumbest things I’ve done on the Internet.

I keep the account because I use it as a way to back up my writing. I have a program that syncs up my computer every now and then with some offline computer (I picture something very 1960s, a room full of computers spewing out punch cards), but I find it helpful to e-mail myself my work in progress as a safety measure. Also, because I can access gmail from any computer, I can get to my work in progress from anywhere.

About once a month or so I go in there to clean out my account, to see what the other Jenny Browns of this world are up to. A lot of them shop, because I’m forever getting store notices for places they registered at. And apparently a significant number of Jenny Browns are British, because I keep getting things that are priced in pounds. I’ve gotten receipts. I’ve gotten notifications of plane tickets. What would happen if I showed up and took one of those flights? My name would match that on the ticket, after all.

When an e-mail comes from a person, I try to do the right thing and let them know that they have the wrong e-mail address. Sometimes that bites me in the butt.

This is an honest to goodness exchange I’ve had on my gmail account:

Someone replied to this e-mail, which was sent from a Jenny Brown who has an initial in her e-mail address.

Hello Troop Leaders,

Best,
Jenny Brown

Someone wanted to reply. But instead of hitting “reply,” the responder typed in the e-mail address, leaving out the “D” so it came to me:

Hi Jenny

Martine

Feeling kind, I responded: You have the wrong email address. Looks like you forgot the d.

She replied: Thanks. What does D stand for?

Me: I don’t know as I’m not her.

E-mailer: Now you’ve got me completely confused!

I spelled it out for the poor woman: I got your original email by mistake. You sent an email to [address] instead of [address], which is where the original email came from. I don’t know Jenny D. Brown and I don’t know you. Hope that clears it up.

I prefer it when they get belligerent, like this one from today:

e-mailer: The only flight that will get you […long explanation of flights]
me: You have the wrong email address.
e-mailer: What is this Jenny? I have been using this email address for some time. I started with grandmann and swathed pjsieger once you knew my name.

I don’t even know what that means! And that would have been the end of it, except that last night, there was another e-mail. After getting it, I had to ask Adam, “Is he for real or is he putting me on?” I honestly don’t know at this point:

Hi. my love

Your price for life Paul

My favorite, though, is the guy I e-mailed that he had the wrong address and he responded:
No, I don’t. You told me not to e-mail you at your work e-mail.

Of course. If you do want to reach me, the best way is that e-mail address on the side of the blog. Otherwise, you might be waiting a long time for a response. And it might come from another Jenny Brown.

You guys were all disappointed by that post on writing the other day, weren’t you? Because I know what you really want to know. I know what keeps you coming back here. You want to know, nay, you can’t sleep till you know…

…what happened at the school dance.

Let’s see. They served Oreos and popcorn. Which I like because the boy is incapable of eating an Oreo without leaving a trail of chocolate around his mouth. “Stop eating Oreos!” “I’m not—mumble, mumble, chew, chew—eating Oreos!” Don’t need Colonel Mustard in the library with the wrench for this one!

The girl found her friends. And was gone. For the night. I got one dance with her before I was ditched for the A-list crowd. Which apparently does not include me. If I make L-list, in her world, I think I should be excited.

True to his word, the boy gave me a dance. Well, not quite a dance. More like three swivels of his hips, when a lovely girl in a red dress from his class tapped his shoulder. He took one look and ran. She ran after him. The rest of the dance was spent with him attempting to break dance until she spied him, at which point, it was really more a 5k than a school dance.

And the best part of the dance? It’s every child’s worst nightmare. A mother with a video camera! You can see the action yourself:

I’ve always been a fan of Pomplamoose (their “Single Ladies” cover rocks!), but this just seals the deal:

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One thing about being a writer is that when you’re not actively in a project, you feel unmoored. I had been feeling this way since I turned in the revision of my novel to my agent. Sure, I got a lot done. I co-chaired Teacher Appreciation Week with Beetle. I’ve been writing for our town’s overide, the Yes for Arlington campaign. I organized the spatula drawer in the kitchen. It’s a great spatula drawer now, by the way: quite pretty and crumb-free.

But none of these were a worthy substitute for the high you get when you’re lost in writing. I actually thought, “That’s it. I have nothing left to say. Maybe I’m a one-book author.” (Which the other three novels in my bottom desk drawer would belie; the novels I wrote but deemed not worthy of being released into the world.)

But then, one thing led to another. I re-discovered the album Red, Hot + Blue on iTunes, which put me in a Cole Porter state of mind. I began playing around with Ancestory.com, which put me in a historical state of mind. And on my runs, I let my mind go into free fall, refusing to make my to-do lists or sort out the day’s calendar while I ran.

And it happened. I got an idea. I got an idea I really liked. I don’t believe in talking about story ideas before the book is complete, but I will say that it’s a historical novel (taking place in the 1930s—if anyone has any good research materials on this period in New York/New Jersey, let me know!). As fate would have it, I was looking at the Grub Street web site and they were offering a class called Encountering the Past: How to Research and Write Your Historical Novel. Fate, no? With Adam’s blessing (blessing required because the class was for a full 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. on both a Saturday and a Sunday), I signed up for the class.

That’s it, right? Now my head is spinning. I’m starting my research. I’m becoming immersed in 1930s New York. I’m finding books at the library, buying issues of magazines from the 1930s, finding people to interview. I’m taking a class that’s helping me expand my research ideas. I’m so in the mindset…

Until. Always an until. Until I get an e-mail from my agent: “While I’ve got your manuscript, maybe you want to start on the other components that I’ll want from you… I’ll want a brief synopsis, about the author, reading group guide, marketing/publicity and comparable titles.”

Nothing like a dash of cold water to jolt you from your writing reverie. Don’t get me wrong; I’m excited to be working on this. I’m a writer! This is real stuff! But the thing about noveling is you immerse yourself so completely in the world that sometimes you look up and are surprised to find your real life around you. My novel (which is titled, at the moment, Continuity, but that’s subject to change) takes place in the world of Orthodox Jews. To write the novel, I read books, both fiction and nonfiction, newspapers, blogs, articles. It also has a strong film element. So I watched movies. Like crazy! I scoured IMDb for movie tidbits. It’s about adoption. I read adoption blogs, researched how adoption works, how it affects children and parents. I listened to the music my characters would listen to. I tried to think as they would think. I was completely in that world. And now I’m in another. But I need to take a vacation from the 1930s and head back to Yiddishkeit.

I’m not sure how this will work, jumping from world to world. How do other writers manage this? And readers’ guides? Marketing plans? My palms are getting sweaty just thinking about it!

If I seem a little scattered the next time you see me, just give me a moment to catch my bearings, figure out if I’m in an Orthodox shul, a 1935 Newark apartment, or 2011 Arlington. And if I look truly befuddled, just hand me a martini and back away slowly.

The boy went outside in his socks, no shoes, after being told not to. I told him he could go out in shoes or barefeet, but not in just socks.

A pair of socks coated in mud appeared mysteriously on the front porch.
Me: Are those yours?
The boy: Yes.
Me: After I told you not to?
The boy: I couldn’t help it! Tab and Nevada stole my shoes!
Me: And you couldn’t get your socks off, too?
The boy: No! The took my shoes and then held me in place so I couldn’t get my socks off.
Me: Wait, I don’t understand. They took your shoes off while you were standing?
The boy: No, I was on the ground. But then they stood me up and held me so I couldn’t get my socks off.
Me: Whatever. You owe us $3 from your spend jar for new socks.

Later:
Adam: What’s with that present for me on the front porch?
Me: Present?
Adam: The mud-coated socks.
I tell Adam what the boy did.
Me: I told him he has to pay us $3 for new socks.
The boy: Noooo!
Adam: He shouldn’t have to pay. I’ll just teach him how to do laundry.
Me: No! That’s just cruel and unusual punishment.
Adam: Just because laundry ruined your childhood doesn’t mean we shouldn’t ruin his.
Me: No, no laundry.
The boy: Why’s that?
Me: I’m allergic to laundry.
Adam to the kids: I blame Nana and Peter for your mother being allergic to laundry.

I apologize to whomever ends up marrying either my daughter or son. Neither one will be able to do laundry. I plan on making sure of that.

I yell, “Time for lacrosse!”

The girl runs to the car. I gather my stuff and follow her. She’s buckled into her seat.
Me: Do you have your stick?
Pie: Mmm… No.
Me: Do you have your water bottle?
Pie: Nope.
Me: Do you have your goggles?
Pie: No.
Me: What do you have?
Pie: Um, I have my snack! [She looks down and shakes her feet.] And my cleats! But they’re not tied. You need to tie them.

I sigh, tie her cleats, get her stuff.

Me: What don’t we do in lacrosse?
Pie: Cry. No crying.
Me: What if your goggles hurt?
Pie: I deal.
Me: What’s the family motto?
Pie: Suck it up.

We get to lacrosse. Coach says, “Where’s her mouth guard?”

Pie looks at me, opens her mouth, and then quickly thinks better of it and runs onto the field sans mouth guard.

She’s playing. There are no tears. And we may have a huge dental bill this afternoon.

At breakfast, I’m puttering in the kitchen, very casual-like.

Me: So…
Boy: Yeah?
Me: Who do you like these days?
Boy: Huh?
Me: Who do you like?
Boy: You mean like like?
Me: Um… Yeah.
Boy, with a deep exasperated sigh: Mom, I told you, I’m not discussing it with you!

First, let me tell you, the sheet is still on the front porch. It’s moved a little, from the swing to the ground, but it’s still there. At this point, it’s just kind of blending in with the scenery.

Second, I’m feeling a little adrift because my revisions are in, Teacher Appreciation Week is over, Daisies are done for the month, and I haven’t yet started a new project. I have some ideas, but I need to get cracking. A writer who isn’t writing is, well, not a writer. See, if I were a writer, I would have been able to come up with something much more clever there.

Third, I had intended to start a new project today, but as I sat down, I noticed a flagged e-mail (flagging is my useful way of saying, “Hey, remember to do this!”). When I looked at it, I saw that summer camp forms were due… May 2. Oops. (In defense of the flags, I did remember eventually! Without the flags, the forms never would have been done.) So I spend half the morning tracking down immunizations and insurance cards and looking up phone numbers and that sort of exciting stuff, because if I don’t, I’ll have a summer of, “What can I do? But what can I do? No, what can I dooooo?”

Fourth, the ants are back. I was most disturbed when I saw Adam just crush one in the middle of the kitchen. “What are you doing?” I asked him. “Killing ants.” I demonstrated how we lovingly catch the ants and then take them outside to live free among the grass and trees. Adam looked at me like I was crazy and then stepped on another ant.

Fifth, I cannot figure out this blog. I’ve tried to make changes, move things, add things, make things pretty in my side bars. But it foils me. Having a self-hosted domain (as opposed to a blog-hosted domain) really screws you. It’s frustrating me. To the point where I’ve decided the only way to reclaim my photo blog is to go back to Blogger and simply use a blogspot address. So it’s there in the sidebar (that I could do), and I now have the ability to update it from my phone the old-fashioned way. Not that anything you can do from a phone could be considered remotely old fashioned, but I think you know what I mean.

Sixth, I have no sixth. But I do have a…

Seventh, there’s a school dance on Friday. A school dance! Who has a school dance for elementary school kids? Granted, it’s being billed as a “family dance,” but as you all well know, I dance no where sober unless it’s my kitchen and I’d say it’s a good bet there will be no bar.

Eighth, which leads me to the very important question, which I ask just about every year: Why do I still not own a flask? (Hey Adam! Someone has a birthday next month! Hint, hint!)

Ninth, why does my second-grade I-hate-girls want to attend this school dance? I will be taking him—and his sister—but I fear I will live to regret it, as I’m guessing it either means he has some devious scheme to set off a stink bomb in the cafetorium (yes, it’s called a “cafetorium”) or he’s going to eye the girl he has a crush on from across the room and then leave in a grouchy fuss when he doesn’t talk to her at all. Note: I’m not completely sure about that crush thing, but I have a very strong suspicion that the boy has a slight crush (or rather,in second grade parlance, he “likes likes” someone) on a girl we know, but of course, it’s not a subject I’m allowed to even think about, never mind ask him about. I’m not sure which of the outcomes is the more scary; I think a flask would solve whatever problems may come up.

Tenth, well, I would have told you the tenth, but the girl is being dropped off from ballet and she’s whining about a hurt leg and she’s hungry and can’t she wear a party dress to synagogue tonight because it is Israel’s birthday!, so I’ll have to leave you all wondering what the tenth thing was going to be.

Every Passover, we celebrate the freedom of the Jews, that Moses led us out of slavery. We remember that we will never be slaves again. It’s a joyous holiday, with storytelling and singing and wonderful food.

Yet, in the midst of this celebration, we recite the plagues that were sent down to Egypt and, for each plague, we dip a finger into the wine and put a drop of wine upon our plate. The idea is that we take some of the wine away, diminish some of our joy, in remembering the suffering of the Egyptians, the despair they went through as they suffered through the plagues, their fear, their death as they drowned in the Red Sea.

I, like everyone else, feels—well, something, relieved, maybe? worried? uncertain?—in the death of Osama bin Laden. I can’t help feeling, someone died. We can feel avenged. We can feel vindicated. But I don’t think we should be rejoicing. Too many on all sides have suffered. And I can’t help but feel like we’ve just cut the head off of the Lernaean Hydra, and I fear what will come in its place.

Last night we lit a candle for Yom Hashoah. Holocaust remembrance. An odd coincidence, no?

I don’t normally blog about serious things here. I like to stay out of politics, unless it’s a matter of mocking my husband for his Republican ways. I like to keep things light and fluffy. But given that one of my very first posts, back in October 2001 when my blog was still searching for a voice, was about a woman who died in 9/11, I feel that it is something I should address. I feel as if things have come full circle. If I were looking for an excuse to end this blog, this would be it, although I still have stories to tell, so I’ll stick around.

Last Friday, I let Pie get up early and watch the royal wedding before school started. Today, I wrestled with the decision, but ultimately let the boy get up early to watch CNN. Both things they’ll most likely remember for a lifetime; the two eliciting such diametrical emotions.

On the way to school, I asked if the boy if had any questions. He didn’t, but he told me much of what he learned. At one point, he said to me, with a twinge of concern in his voice, “I guess I should be careful. They said Americans should be on their guard.” For the first time in a long time, he held my hand as we walked to school.

I nodded. And I said to him, “I’ll tell you what. You don’t have to be on your guard. I’ll be on guard for you.”

With that he gave me a smooch (a block away from school, where we won’t be seen) and ran off to school.

I don’t have an end to this blog post, no nice and neat wrap up. Because we can only wait and see what happens next.