the pieces of my life

What is it about the Strand bookstore that the moment I walk in, my mind turns to mush. I’ve got plenty of books on my Amazon wish list, but the minute I’m confronted with the rows and rows and rows of review books, my mind goes blank and I can’t remember a single title that I want to get. I am therefore forced to roam the aisles and discover completely new books to buy, thus increasing my pile of to-be-reads into an unmanageable state. In a state of shock, I just idled through the labyrinth piles of books. I did show some restraint and only picked up Abandon by Pico Iyer (because NPR gave it such a great review), Advanced Sex Tips for Girls: This Time It’s Personal by Cynthia Heimel (because Cynthia Heimel was Carrie Bradshaw long before there was a Carrie Bradshaw and she’s funnier and I think she’s missed out), Her by Laura Zigman (for no other reason than it looked fun), Enough About You: Adventures in Autobiography by David Shields (David is a former professor of mine and I love his writing style–he’s the one who got me interested in writing creative nonfiction), and Love Works Like This: Moving from One Kind of Life to Another by Lauren Slater (I’ve read her book Lying: A Metaphorical Memoir, which both annoyed me and intrigued me at the same time, which I think makes for a really compelling book. But my image of her as a person is rather scary so I’m repelled/fascinated by the idea of her entering motherhood. You’d have to have read her previous books to know what I’m talking about.) (Ugh, and as I’m writing this, I realize I forgot to get the new Milan Kundera book.) Adam managed to walk out with just one book, which serves him right as I wanted to hit the road early, but he said we should go to the Strand, and therefore can’t complain that I walked out with too many books I just don’t need (although really, isn’t every book a necessary book?).

And that was the perfect way to end our New York weekend.

A billboard in Connecticut that read: “Keep taking my name in vain. I’ll only make your rush hour longer. –God”

I had one of those days when things just weren’t clicking. I have two stories that I had to have finished today: one article is supposed to be 700 words and the other 900. My drafts on these came in at 795 and 1014. After begging the designer for more word count and getting laughed at, I spent the afternoon cutting them both down, only to discover that I ended up with 840 and 1026 words respectively. I think this is why I’m not the one in business school: never did grasp that addition vs. subtraction thing.

Off to bed, because tomorrow morning we’re going to wake up early to head down (yes, down) to New York for the long weekend. So you may not hear from me for a few days.

My thanks to Diana for sending me the article about Harvard funding education for those going into public service. Diana assured me my “standing in the CWITs should remain untouched by those do-gooders striving for careers in public service.” Absolutely, especially given that none of the money will go to people in the business or law school because “departing students are typically offered large salaries.”

Interesting. So instead of encouraging law students to become public defenders or prosecutors (please note, that the starting salary for public defenders in the state of Massachusetts is $35,000 a year, which according to my last calculation, means you could pay off your student loan in… um, never?) or helping business students to work for nonprofits, we’ll just assume they’ll go into big businesses and make megabucks. Seems to me that this is a vicious cycle. Charge so much that students have to go to work for big business, then don’t give them any money because they are going into big business. Why not have a program like ROTC for business schools? We’ll fund half your education (or whatever) and you commit to four years of work in a nonprofit after grad school. All those folks who would be going into nonprofit anyway would jump at it. And those who wanted to go into big business and earn those megadollars could just keep on moving.

Now, please don’t think I’m defending MBAs in anyway here. I just think that a valuable way to make better, more responsible MBAs is being passed by.

My mother accuses in my comments section (for those of you who don’t read comments sections): “AH HAAA! Your mother tried to teach you to sew on buttons, but no, you said you were going to be chairman of the board of IBM and you would hire someone to do that for you….”

This is incorrect. I, at no time in my life, ever wanted to be chairman of the board of IBM. What she may be referring to is those years between the ages of 14 and 18 when I thought being the president of Chase Manhattan Bank, after a nice career as an international banker in Geneva, might be the thing to do. Tons of money, a penthouse apartment in Manhattan with a view of the city, fancy schmancy furniture that the full-time maid/chef kept clean, and a string of handsome boyfriends also came with that package (but not husband–never husband. The idea of husband didn’t enter my mind until I hit my 30s).

What, didn’t everyone know that at one time, my aspirations went beyond CWIT? There was a time when I wanted to have a CWIT? Yes, folks, it’s true. I spent my freshman year at the University of Texas and on my application when it said pick your school, I checked off the box that said “business.” (Ah, Texas. The only school that required no essays, no real application form. Just a bunch of check boxes. I, apparently, check boxes quite well.) Two semesters of calculus (As in both) and two in economics (Bs in both) made me realize how much I hated business. So I ran away and joined a film school.

(And for the record, it was my dear mother [yes, the artist] who said–when I told her I was going for my MFA–“Oh, an MBA! That’s a great idea!” I corrected her, “No, an MFA. In creative writing.” She replied, “What the hell are you going to do with that? An MBA is much more practical.”)

My eyes are just tiny slits this morning, barely able to open up enough to see the screen. Last night was my first sewing class and as anyone who knows me knows, I am not an evening person. Normally, right here, right now in the glorious a.m. hours are my prime time. So as I was falling asleep in my lemongrass shrimp dinner before class last night, I said to Adam, “Not going to make it. Need caffeine.” The fact that the lovely weather was one of those “15 degrees, feels like 4” (which it is right now), didn’t help a whole lot (that weather simply screams for a warm bed. You thought it was the wind, didn’t you? Nope. It was the screams of the weather). So off to Starbucks we went where all I had was a tall nonfat latte. Just a single. No big deal. Except that I’ve been off of caffeine for a long, long time. It did the trick. I was up and alert in class. And after class. And when I got into bed. And as I tried to fall asleep. And at 3 a.m. Seems to have lost all of its effect now. But then, caffeine raced through my veins like it was Dario Franchitti and I was the Monaco Grand Prix. (Okay, I have no idea if Franchitti actually races the Monaco Grand Prix, but he’s the only race car driver I know of–and only because he’s married to Ashley Judd–and the Monaco Grand Prix is the only race that came to mind.) (Another digression: Want to marry a celebrity but want to do away with all the nasty stalking? Just create your own marriage certificate and vows and tell everyone you’ve married Judd Nelson or whoever your famous love happens to be.)

So (Sew?) was it worth it? Yep. I know how to thread a sewing machine. Big step for me. The teacher is a trip. She’s an attractive Russian woman in her, I’m guessing, 40s, who is very no nonsense. “You don’t like the projects we are doing? No I won’t change them. This is my class. This is what we do.” She went around the room and had us tell our sewing background (mine is I can sew on a button in a pinch, but not very well), and whenever anyone mentioned that they knew someone who knew how to sew, she would bark out, “And why did they not teach you!” On one hand, very accusing, but on the other hand, just too funny. She was very concerned about why people were taking the class (“Are you taking this because you want to learn? Or because your mother wants you to learn?”). She also told us she would be very offended if we drop out of the class. So I guess I better stay in it. Besides, next week is buttons, hooks and eyes, and snaps. How can I pass that up?

I’ve been giving more thought to the partners working the admit weekend. I’ve decided I should submit the following “A Female Partner’s Perspective” for next year’s edition of the student handbook. You all remember how much I liked last year’s, right? A conversation with a to-remain-nameless CWIT recently just reinforced all of this (yes, this is better than working on the novel):

You will be graded on a scale from 1 to 3, with 1 the highest and 3 failing. This is a forced curve, so not all of you will pass. A rare few of you who are outspoken (in the right way) and who excel in all areas will become Cook Scholars, which entitles you to a lifetime of nanny services. After all, business school is all about winning. And not only is Harvard not the exception, it is the epitome. You are no longer you. You are an HBS spouse. And at HBS, we take the CWIT (corporate-wives-in-training) program seriously.

Rule 1: You no longer have your own name. Even if you did, you are now your husband’s appendage. “I’m Joe’s wife.” Taking your husband’s name doesn’t earn you points, because that is a given. If you kept your maiden name, well, you lose three points right off the bat. On your name tag, write in big letters, “Cruella Snodweiner, wife of Herbert Snodweiner the Third.”

Rule 2: Be friendly, but not too friendly. Remember, your new friend’s husband may one day be the investor your husband needs for his new venture capitalist firm. So be helpful to the other CWITs, but always maintain the upper hand. Say, “Oh, what a darling hair cut. I know just the place in town where you can go to get those roots taken care of.” Say, “What an unusual shade of lipstick!” Say, “Has it already been six months? Losing baby fat is harder than it seems, isn’t it.” Earn 10 points.

Rule 3: Did you just ask where the male partners are? Ha ha ha ha. You get two points for making the fellow CWITs laugh, but you lose 5 points for asking such a ridiculous question.

Rule 4: Receive 1 point for every section social function you attend. Lose 2 points if you actually try to engage a non-partner in a conversation that lasts more than .75 minutes. Safe topics: the weather, what they think of the Enron case study they are reading, what their job was before HBS. Unsafe topics (immediate failure): what you think of the Enron case study that you read while your husband was playing golf with his professor; the inspections in Iraq; what your job was before HBS.

At the end of the two years your points will be tallied and your class participation will be measured against that of your fellow CWITs. After these scores have been carefully tallied and analyzed, gauging for future party-throwing potential and the ability to realize maximum profit when your husband divorces you for his prettier, thinner, blonder wife, a final ranking will be determined. And in a ceremony that occurs the same morning your husband graduates with his MBA, those numbers will be tossed out and the coveted CWIT of the Future Award will be given to the woman with the best manicure.

I am waiting to be struck with inspiration. I muddle along, reworking my novel from third person to first person (wondering all the while if I shouldn’t also be putting it in the present tense, but I simply can’t decide if I like the present tense), waiting to be hit with a smack of inspiration that says, “Yes! Yes! I’ve got it! That’s where the novel is going!” But alas, the skies are clear and no great ideas are falling from it. Of course, perhaps it would be better if I dedicated actual solid chunks of time instead of just dabbling here and there. But still. It’s too enormous for me to wrap my brain around it. Maybe I just start a new novel… No, no. That’s how I got into trouble in the first place.

Adam and his father spent the day yesterday (his last day before going back to school, which means I’m losing my houseboy) putting insulation in the upstairs, so I wouldn’t have to complain constantly that I’m cold (which I always am) and crank the heat way up. The timing was great as I just paid last month’s heating bill, which was absolutely outrageous. So they worked dutifully the entire day and I did the only sensible thing: I left the house. I met up with Wendy for lunch and then we went to explore the Fogg Museum and to do a little shopping. I got to tell you, some women may have felt guilty, going out while their husbands are slaving away, but not me. Nope, not one bit. And the bonus? When we woke up this morning, the room was lovely and toasty.

I’m reading this book called The Frog King: A Love Story and on the cover is a quote from Bret Easton Ellis that reads, “Probably the funniest young-guy-in-New York novel since Bright Lights, Big City.” So I think to myself, “What an ass, comparing this book to his own book and who does he think he is calling his own book funny and yadda yadda yadda.” I’m really inappropriately annoyed at Ellis, until as I’m brushing my teeth, I think, “Ooohh! Ellis didn’t write it! Jay McInerney did!” So I owe an apology to Bret Easton Ellis. Although it’s really his own fault: all of them–Ellis, McInerney, Tama Janowitz–they all pretty much wrote the same novel, didn’t they? Not that I haven’t enjoyed them. And it’s not any different than what I’ll say in another five years about all those authors who wrote that collective Bridget Jones’s Diary knock-off.