Terrible Mother

Miscellany: The And I Work Here? Grammar Edition

Capitalization:

Ike: Don't capitalize this title.

Me: But it's a proper noun and a title. And we've always capitalized it.

Ike: I know, but I want to call attention to the other title in the sentence, since it's more important. So capitalize that one but not this one.

Me: Capitalization doesn't work that way. And you can just reword the sentence if you want to stress one over the other, or join two phrases with a subordinating conjuntion to do it.

Ike: No one will understand that. This makes more sense, anyway.

Use of Adverbs:

Ike: You cannot end a sentence that way.

Me: Which way?

Ike: With "unanimously."

Me: What? Why?

Ike: You can't end a sentence with an adverb.

Me: Yes you can. You can end any sentence with an adverb. You're thinking of a preposition. And that's an old rule anyway.

Ike: I wasn't even talking about prepositions, but you can't end a sentence with those either. I'm talking about adverbs. You need to pay attention.

Me: Look, people end sentences with adverbs constantly.

Ike: Not correctly. And I don't want you doing it anymore*.

Use of the Past Perfect:

Ike: Why do you have all these "hads" in here?

Me: Where?

Ike: Here and here and here.

Me: It's the past perfect.

Ike: That's ridiculous. No one even knows what that is.

Me: Sure they do. It signals to the reader that the text is referring to something that happened before.

Ike: But it's already in past tense.

Me: I know, but sometimes things happen before that and you need to refer to them.

Ike: Everyone understands it happens before because of the context. You don't need to use them.

Me: Actually, you do need to use them. That's why we have them. To make it less confusing.

Ike: It's just some way for writers to make themselves feel smarter.

Me: No, I'm pretty sure it's just grammar.

*tm

*the rest of the day, I walked around saying things like "I am going to print these files....quickly," and "I have to go to the bathroom...slowly." Yes, I am that petty.

Miscellany: The End of Dating Edition

Me: I'm getting a lot of responses to my personal ad.

Fort Awesome: Yeah? What kinds of things did you put in there?

Me: Lots of the smart and funny. You know, like I tell that story about how Jon and I bought each other completely dissimilar Christmas gifts that one year.

Fort Awesome: You put that on a personal ad?

Me: Yeah. It's funny and punchy and I revised it a few times to make it work.

[pause]

I also wrote about that time you said my house was sponsored by the Dairy Council.

Fort Awesome: So basically what you're telling me is that you're using your MFA to construct the best personal ad ever?

Me: [thinking] Shit. I think I am.

Fort Awesome: That is a depressing commentary on our society.

Me: The fact that it takes an MFA to write a good personal ad or the fact I'm $60k in debt and all I have to show for it is a good personal ad?

Fort Awesome: [pause] Are those my only options?

*****

Two months ago, post-AWP:

Thing One: Are you crying, Mom?

Me: A little.

Thing One: Did someone break up with you again?

Me: No!

[pause]

Sort of.

Thing One: Was it The Nefarious but Adorable Poet?

Me: What?! I haven't even said anything thing about him!

Thing One: You showed his book to five people. You never show anybody's book to anybody.

****

Terrible Mother: Dating is a nightmare.

Friend Omega: Dating is fun. I'm having a blast.

Terrible Mother: It's awful! How anyone even procreates is beyond me!

Friend Omega: Well, you have three children. So if it's beyond anyone, you should not be the anyone.

Terrible Mother: Shut it, Omega.

Friend Omega: Okay. But really, I'm having fun. It's frustrating and annoying at times, but really it's fun. I get to tell my same tired, boring old stories to new audiences!

*****

Three words that would scare anyone right out of dating: Raw Food Guy.

*****

Friend Omega: I don't know, TM. Have you considered dating someone from the state of Oregon?

*****

Fort Awesome: that picture of you on the dating site is not ok.

Me: which one?

Fort Awesome: Are you wearing a cowboy hat?

Me: You don't like that photo? It's cute! Everyone loves that picture!

Fort Awesome: Are you wearing a COWBOY HAT?

Me: It's an ironic cowboy hat!

Fort Awesome: What, like an ironic swastika?

*****

Tim-Tim: Why do these people have to be smart to date you?

Me: Why? Because I fall into long-term relationships like saber-tooth tigers fall into tar. Or something like that.

*****

So all, after some really bad goings on (really bad; terrible, in fact, to the point I don't even know how to write about them) I've decided to officially Stop Dating. No more men. None. I will write and garden and knit and watch Buffy and Battlestar Galactica and not think about men.

Also, I'm thinking maybe I should change my tip jar title from "Will Blog for Food" to "Will Blog for Vibrator," but that might be a little outre, do you think?

*tm

The Comment Revue, 2006

One of the best things about *terrible mother is the readership. I've got loyal, smart readers here, and any blog which can sustain a lengthy debate regarding the sentimentality of the postmortem worship of Kurt Vonnegut has some kick-ass people commenting. So, as an ode to y'all, I'm posting my favorite reader comments of 2006.

First, the faux-frustrated at Terrible Mother posts:

you mistakenly called friend two by the name of friend one. multiple times. this is nearly unforgiveable. also, i don't have to buy you a drink at awp because i've already bought the hotel room. duh, you're beholden even if you don't sleep there. whore.

sorry, did i mention i was drunk?
-Friend One, to Miscellany, 11-2006

-----

Just a few notes:

1) When you asked me to deal with your wasp problem, you offered me a stick. I suggested the wasp-killer spray, and you apparently purchased it, but only after I'd already gone to deal with chickens. Granted, I'm man enough to take on a wasp nest armed with nothing but a stick, but I'm not stupid enough to do so.

2) If you give handjobs like you hold a pool cue, then I'm glad I'm gay. Not that you're offering or anything.

-Friend R to Miscellany, 8-2006

-----

Good god, woman. Stop braying about things you've brought upon yourself. Finish the test, ace it like you know you will, sleep for a day, and then fuck the life out of sweetboy.

I'm sorry to be the one to have to say it

-badfreak to It's Almost Over (and brought on by my complaining of the MFA Exam)

-----

What makes you think I don't already know about amputee sex?

Also, the fanbase thing? Seriously. Get over yourself.

-badfreak to What the Hell Is Love Anyway? (and brought on by my announcement of dating an amputee and declaring I had a fanbase. Let it be known that Freak took back the latter at a later date. Oh yeah, I think it was the post immediately following the one in which he told me to get over myself. Not that I'm keeping track).

*****

Second, the non-sequitur posts:

You say OCD with bathrooom stalls like it's bad thing.

-Kari to Miscellany, 8-2006

-----

handjobs difficult? maybe not. to do well? hmmm...

see, the thing with receiving a handjob from someone else is that it's moronic. when the recipient at one of these lame, sophomoric attempts at intimacy, i generally look down (literally and proverbially) with pity and sadness in my eyes.

sometimes, i remark that "baby, you're dealing with the master." trust me... i can do that quicker, better, and much more efficiently on my own. you're just embarrassing yourself. like emeril's mom insisting on making turkey at thanksgiving and it comes out all dry and gross and BAM! mom just let me BAM! make the BAM! turkey next BAM! next BAM! next year.

i think emeril has tourette's.

-Friend Omega to Miscellany, 8-2006.

-----

Terrible Mother's Favorite Haiku:

There's this guy I know.
He's a real fucking asshole.
Yes, that guy is you.

-Friend Omega, in Poem of the Week.

*****

Third, kid-related comments, which I big heart:

I love it when they dress like flatchested and relatively demure college freshmen. LOVE IT. Love the forays into accessorizing, glitter, hairties and wheeled sneakers. My own feral child asked me if she could use my deodorant the other day--she wanted very much to slide it onto her pristine underarm. I had to go into my room and laugh.

-Fatally Hip Single Mother to Miscellany, 9-2006.

-----

My kiddo is already worried about shaving, as in his balls. I kid you not!!! He has told me twice he does not want to grow hair on his balls, and I told him, "It's OK, honey. It won't happen for a while." (See I read him this book called "What's Happening to Me: A Guide To Puberty," which is a marvelous book, and we had fun reading it together, and it sparked a great discussion, and so I recommend it to other parents for sure) but ever since then my kiddo doesn't want to grow hair on his balls.

God, I know, it makes me laugh.

Anyway, so then he came up with the idea he'd shave his balls. Except ten minutes later he said, "But that might hurt."

So I told him, "Listen, honey, by the time you get hair on your balls you won't mind it. Trust me. You'll have other things on your mind by then."

-Alana, to Miscellany, 9-2006.

-----

I think that a book about a single mother taking a road trip with her three young children sounds like something I would never read, even should I live to be a hundred.

-Friend Omega, to Have Kids, Will Travel.

-----

This is the sort of thing they'll use against you when they're trying to justify sticking you in a home somewhere:

"Well, there was the story of my birth put out on the internet, so, yeah, let's go with the cheapest place we can find."

-badfreak to Happy Birthday Thing Two.

*****

Fourth, what I call Little Bumper Cars of Witty Repartee*:

I did NOT mean to suggest that you used your vagina to cook a turkey. I mean...it wouldn't really be warm enough to be safe from bacteria, would it? Not that you're full of bacteria or anything. Remember "The Accidental Tourist" 225 degree oven? I'm sayin. My body temp tends to run a little low. I could maybe pull off warm tapas olives and chickpeas.

And - a turkey's pretty big. Well, HUGE really, so there's that to consider. I'm not saying it couldn't be done. Someone's probably doing it right now. And maybe someday you'll figure out how to do it and show the rest of us.

Right?

-Pink-Haired Housewife, to ThanksEarly.

-----

I like Miracle Whip, the as-yet-unmentioned eye-patch sporting best friend who likes to put Miracle Whip on his fries.

-badfreak to Friend One Rules.

-----

"friends with money" is the second best film i've seen this year, after "thank you for smoking."

i didn't find it depressing. i found it very touching and beautiful. i like characters who are as empty inside as i am.

-Friend Omega, to A Gin and Garden.

-----

And you must read the entire the entry (and comments, natch) entitled Austin and Everything After, part II, which was only interesting because of the barbs Friend Omega and badfreak slung around.

-----

and, finally, perhaps my favorite comment of 2006:

david bradley thinks that he is the r. lee ermey of creative writing.

–Friend Omega to Former Incarnations.

*tm

*yep Fort Awesome, I totally stole that from you.

Poo-tee-weet

I read Slaughterhouse Five, the first time, when I was ten. I remember it clearly because I consumed the book more than anything: I had never read anything that so clearly used the style and conceits of science fiction while still being literary. I had also never read anything that so precisely captured the essence of war and the mechanics and grief of the kind of human suffering inflected by other humans.

It's a complicated book, a complicated work, and I can vividly recall curling into my father's La-Z-Boy to finish the last few chapters. It was summer, hot and sticky in Central California, and my brothers were outside playing in the sprinklers. It was a few years before things got terrible in my family, though the harbingers of those times were starting to show: worn edges of t-shirts and the too-empty freezer and the oil stains in the drive way from the cars we kept trading down.

And there was this book about war, but about so much more than that. It's about memory and loss and suffering. But like all of Vonnegut's work, it retains in it a simple, sad beauty so profound that, when I finished the book, I laid it down and cried. I didn't understand all of it, to be sure. I was ten, afterall, and even a precocious ten-year old is still just a ten-year old. But I felt something that went beyond all the books I had read before, and I felt it, even though it would take me 20 more years to be able to explain it the way I am now.

Kurt Vonnegut died Wednesday, April 11, 2007 at the age of 84. "When Hemmingway died he put a period on his life, old age is more like a semicolon," Vonnegut once said. He said this with a measure of bitterness; his own suicide attempt in 1984 had failed. I think, though, this is one of the few times Vonnegut had it wrong, and I can't help but think of the German farmer in Slaughterhouse Five, his voice calling out to the POWs he's given harbor to in his barn. In the doorway, he turns back to them. "Good night, sweet Americans," he says. It is quiet and it lingers. It's no period, certainly, not even quite the end of the book. But it's a kind of ending, all the same.

*tm

Unspeakably Awesome

You all can just start calling me Fort Anderson after this. As Omega said on his blog, this may be the single best commercial ever.

*tm

Miscellany: The Duh Edition

A conversation between Fort Awesome and I two weeks ago as we drove 45 minutes to hear Deborah Eisenberg read:

Fort Awesome: I liked that movie, but it reminded me of Ken Burns.

[long pause]

Terrible Mother: Who's Ken Burns?

Fort Awesome: Shut up.

Terrible Mother: What?

Fort Awesome: What the fuck is wrong with you? "Who's Ken Burns?"

Terrible Mother: What are you talking about?

Fort Awesome [voice rising]: Ken Burns! KEN BURNS! BASEBALL! JAZZ! THE DOCUMENTARIAN! THE KEN BURNS EFFECT! KEN FUCKING BURNS!

Terrible Mother: See, when you said "Ken Burns," I really thought "maybe 'Ken' is Mr. Burns first name."

[silence]

Terrible Mother: You know. From the Simpsons?

Fort Awesome: You cannot have a Master's degree. You cannot. There's been some terrible mistake*.

*****

An IM with Fort Awesome a week later:

Fort Awesome: I big heart Malcolm Gladwell- do you think he will marry me?

Terrible Mother: who is that?

Fort Awesome: holy shit

Terrible Mother: Oh God. I hate this game.

Fort Awesome: he writes** like every other month in the New Yorker!

Terrible Mother: I am now scarred, can't even begin to ask "who is that?" Because I know it's going to hurt when I don't know.

Fort Awesome: Can you at least recognize the name?

[long pause]

Terrible Mother: Yes?

Fort Awesome: Blink, Freakonomics***, The Tipping Point?

Terrible Mother: Are those essays he's written for the New Yorker?

Fort Awesome: They are books. Books.

Terrible Mother: Oh yeah. "Freakonomics." I think I read a review of that on Salon.

Fort Awesome: You're hopeless.

Terrible Mother: I'm not hopeless! I have a good memory for certain details! Conversations, for example.

Fort Awesome: Apparently no one you have ever known has talked about Ken Burns or Malcom Gladwell. Anyway, have you seen the preview for the movie based off So Much Water So Close to Home?

Terrible Mother: no

Fort Awesome: here

Terrible Mother: It looks fucking fabulous

Fort Awesome: please god tell me that's sarcasm

Terrible Mother: What? It looks good!

Fort Awesome: They've turned it into a thriller.

Terrible Mother: But I love Laura Linney****.

Fort Awesome: It's a dumb thriller.

Terrible Mother: But it's won awards. And all the awards have laurel leaves around their titles. I'm a sucker for the laurel leaf awards.

Fort Awesome: But it was this great quiet feminist story.

Terrible Mother: Really? Who wrote it?

[long pause]

Fort Awesome: Please stop talking.

Terrible Mother: Oh no. It's someone I should know isn't it?

Fort Awesome: Raymond Carver, TM. Raymond Fucking Carver.

Terrible Mother: I knew it sounded familar!

Fort Awesome: Ehud would kill you. If I ever want to be the favorite, I'll just email him this IM.

Terrible Mother: It's like the time I asked, "And who wrote The Seagull again?"

Fort Awesome: Please. Please just stop talking.

Terrible Mother: Done and done.

*****

Two years ago, at the end of a long conversation between Friends One and Two and me, I described a dramatic moment in class by saying "It was the epitome of dramatic. It was like that scene in The Karate Kid."

Friend One looked at us. "Which movie was that again?"

This caused Friend Two and I to look at each other aghast. Then we stood up at the same time. "You know, The Crane Kick," we were both saying, chattering over each other. And then in the middle of Allann Brothers Coffee, we started miming said Crane Kick. And all the while Friend One looked confused. "I'm not sure I've seen that movie before," she finally said, as Friend Two and I became more agitated, saying things out of order like "Sand the floors, Friend One!" and "Daniel-san!" and "Cobra KAI!"

I think we just confused Friend One more.

*tm

*And the entire evening of the reading, I kept asking people "Do you know who Ken Burns is?" trying to prove that someone else wasn't as lame as I was.

Did it work? No. It didn't. Not even a little.

** And he has a decent blog.

***Also, MG didn't write that book, which makes me simultaneously feel vindicated (Ha! Fort Awesome was wrong!) and lame (Oh. But that's the one I sort of knew about). It's like life. Only on a much smaller scale.

***Notice how I didn't get any credit for at least knowing who she is? See that? Shenanigans I say.

Miscellany: The Drama Edition

An IM with Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two concerning the break-up of Thing Two* and Cecelia:

Terrible Mother: Thing Two dumped Cecelia yesterday. Because she licked a marshmallow and gave it to Van**.

Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two: Dude, you just SLAYED me!

Terrible Mother: I know! It's perfect, right?

Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two: I'm laughing so hard right now I seriously considered writing "lol" even though I'm politically and morally opposed to that.

Terrible Mother: And the best thing is he's all adult about it: "I am not old enough to get married yet anyway. We are both way too young. And she should have given the marshmallow to me."

Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two: That last sentence just blew Thing Two's cover: "And she should have given that marshmallow to me. That faithless bitch! Toy with my heart, Cecilia! I'll show you who's the real man in this situation!"

Terrible Mother: The story slayed me. I nearly wrecked the car when he piped up with that from the backseat. And plus he was doing that adorable Thing Two-talk*** that he does. I nearly died.

Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two: Jesus Christ, that relationship was WAY WAY too old for both of them. They really shared a connection. I mean, it was dramatic and deep enough for 15-year-olds. Licked a marshmallow. I'm dying.

Terrible Mother: I know! It's like some strange mating ritual gone horribly awry or something.

*****

Emails from Stoic Writer which he sent upon finding out about the goings-on with the Nefarious But Adorable Poet:

Email one:

I think there might be a few things to think about. First, reassurance. Second, challenge him. Call him a chickenshit. Tell him that sheltering yourself from the world makes for a pretty miserable life. Third, Chekhov. Make him read that fucking story "Journey by Cart." And explain what it means.

Email two:

One more thing. If there's any writer who rivals the genius of Chekhov, it's Joel. Billy, that is. Play this song for him and tell him to listen closely to the lyrics. Only, replace "man" with "woman."
[Attached: I Am An Innocent Man.mp3]

That whole series of emails made my day. Christ, it made my fucking week. Is there anything better than thinking a relationship can be at all helped by sending someone a Chekhov story****? A Chekhov story along with an old Billy Joel song? Stoic Writer, you kick ass. But sometimes in a weird way. Like the time you chased all three of my children with a teddy bear. Yes. Just like that.

*****

A conversation with Friend One:

Friend One: So, I sent Fly Boy a text message today about being in a bad mood.

Terrible Mother: Oh God.

Friend One: I know, right? It was totally a test and he didn't even know it.

Terrible Mother: What did he do?

Friend One: He texted right back and asked if there was anything he could do. And then he asked if I wanted a cheese sandwich when I got home.

Terrible Mother: That's good, yeah? He passed right?

Friend One: Well, he passed the first part.

Terrible Mother: Oh no.

Friend One: Because if there isn't a surprise for me when I get home I'm going to be angry.

Terrible Mother: You know you're crazy, right?

Friend One: Yeah. But you're the one who puts men through something like the Dating LSAT, at least according to Friend Two.

[silence]

Terrible Mother: Well, you could at least have told him it was a two-part test! That there was the Section B! He doesn't know what he's up against!

Friend One: No, but he will. He will.

*tm

*I sort of hate the way some parents say their elementary-aged son is "dating" someone, which has always seemed to me a hysterical assertion of heterosexuality on par with buying boys camouflaged pants and encouraging them to shoot small animals with BB guns. But Thing Two legitimately entered into something with Cecelia, and that something including holding hands, sharing toys and craft supplies, and kisses (which would have both her parents and me yelling, "Cheeks! Only cheeks!").

**As it turned out, I think I got the story wrong because later Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two and I were told that Van licked the marshmallow and gave it to Cecelia who then ate it.

***Thing Two, being mildly autistic, talks in a kind of adorable monotone, brown eyes big and round, and almost completely without contractions (a side effect of spending 5 of your 7 years in speech therapy). It's so him that I can't help but think this story would lose something if another child were telling it.

****note to Omega: there's totally a set-up for a joke here, and I'm giving it to you. It's a gift. Take it, sir. Take it and run.

Miscellany: The Final Atlanta Edition

Favorite phrases from the conference:

“This is not just a mai tai. It’s the Mai Tai of Death!”

“If I have to make witty repartee with another mid-level editor or reader, I’m going to hang myself with one of these stupid t-shirts.”

“Anything said at 1:45 am is not to be trusted. And did I mention to you that we’re in a bar? Yeah, right. Just checking.”

“It’s all a house of cards, TM. A house of cards!”

“I feel strongly that the single mother shtick is going to get old pretty damn fast.”

“Fuck these stupid panels. Right up the ass.”

*****

It’s a long running joke amongst friends that funny things happen to me when I’m in the midst of some emotional upheaval, and the conversation I had at AWP with the poet was no different. Part of the problem was that there was literally nowhere to have a decent conversation either in the Hilton or immediately outside. There were no parks, no close coffee shops, nothing. It was like the anti-Portland*.

As we walked a few blocks from the hotel, I spotted a place with tables and benches outside an office building. We sat and commenced the serious discussion, whereupon I cried, as I am wont to do. And, yeah, I am wont to do**.

We were there maybe an hour total, and somewhere in the midst of it, I noticed a sign behind us that read “Georgia Department of Labor,” which, if you’re among those who know where I work, has a nice symmetry to it. There was also a security guard who walked in and out of my line of sight, but I dismissed that. However, as the poet left me metaphorically bleeding, and I tried to get myself together, I made the mistake of looking up. There, on the second floor of said Department of Labor, was a small group of people, perhaps five or six, noses nearly pressed to the glass, watching intently.

Even in the state I was in, I laughed. Perfect, I thought. This even rivals the balloon midget.***

****

A conversation with Friend One:

Me: I went to this panel today and this poet was on it, but I can’t think of his name.

Friend One: What did he look like?

Me: Well, he sort of had a shrunken head.

Friend One: A shrunken head?

Me: Yeah. Not terribly shrunken, but maybe shrunken like 15% of normal. God, his name is on the tip of my tongue!

Friend One: Okay. What else?

Me: He wore this suit jacket that was too long for his arms, and a little too big for his shoulders. Like it came down to his knuckles.

Friend One (nodding): Okay, that narrows it down some. Anything else?

(long pause)

Me: All of his poems seemed to be about, well…

Friend One: What?

Me: About cock. I think they all said “cock.” It was a little annoying.

Friend One: OH! Is it [Shrunken Monkey Head Cock-Writing Poet]?

Me: YES!

Friend One: Wow. That was not nearly as hard as it should have been.

Me: No. No it wasn’t****.

****

Walking with a friend on the first night of AWP, we ran into a group of other writers, one of whom knew the infamous David Bradley. We chatted, and this writer went on about David's affection for his own member carrying over into a particular panel discussion one long ago AWP. "It was like 'my dick this' and 'my dick that," he said. "I started to think his dick was his novel."

Then I smiled. "Oh no," I said. "It would be a novella."

It's probably horribly self-centered, and a little gauche, to give myself the title of Best One-Liner at AWP, but for that line, I'm doing it. And all you DB naysayers, know I dealt a hefty blow to the man's (cough) little (cough) man.

****

A conversation with Friend M:

Friend M: Why didn’t you put that whole people-staring-out-of-the-building thing in that one entry?

Me: Oh, it stretched the narrative arc of the entry out of whack.

Friend M: What?

Me: It didn’t seem to fit! What was I supposed to do?

Friend M: I dunno. Try not to make your blog entries art?

*tm

*Portland, Oregon has the best downtown of any big city I’ve known. It’s clean, pretty, with lots of benches and park blocks, a few playgrounds, a giant central library, a university, tons of shopping and places to eat, and three different modes of public transportation, all of them free within the downtown zone. So, yeah, Atlanta, not so much.

**I’ve decided that Crying Is Okay. In fact, I think it makes me a good reader, or rather, being emotionally available does. I’m the girl who, when reading Atonement, got so upset I threw the book across the room and said “I hate you,” to the air. This was because I knew McEwan was about to kill off my favorite character and I was not pleased, not pleased at all. It takes a rare book or poem to do that to me, just as it takes a tough conversation to do the same, but it’s possible. And I’ve decided to embrace that about myself. Embrace the Emotionally Available, people!

***Friend One, on the phone yesterday, said, “I think you find ways for these things to happen to you so you can put them on your blog.” That’s an ugly accusation, Friend One! And totally not true, since I could recount about 8 Angels Camp stories with similar elements, all of which occurred way before blogs were invented.

****I’ll send $5.00 to the first person who emails me with the correct guess of that poet’s real name. And a copy of Atonement. One guess only, people*.

*The infamous footnote of a footnote! Which is to add that anyone except Friend One can guess. Otherwise, I will have to call shenanigans.

Miscellany: The Atlanta Edition

Okay, first things first. Ativan? Miracle drug. I took one little tiny thing (So cute! So tiny!) 20 minutes before I boarded my first flight. Before I knew it, I was settled into my seat, smiling warmly as I looked out at the wing. When we took off, I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths, and was fine. Fine. At some point, I wondered how I might test the ability of the Ativan to squelch anxiety, and decided that I’d just think of my checking account, a pondering which has been known to make me nauseous. This time, at 36,000 feet, I smiled. Smiled.

*****

Friend One was annoyed about how much I flirted with the help, as she called it. One night, being seated by Nabil at the southern bistro in the hotel, I made some witty banter with him, and Friend One said, loudly, “Stop!” while the rest of us giggled.

She was just mad because the clerk who checked me in wrote his name on my keycard holder and said, “if there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

Yeah, yeah. I know. But let me have a little fun at least.

****

This was the trip where I made my very first room service order. After a day of no food and lots of walking, I decided on a giant hamburger and french fries, and even impressed myself by finishing it all.

****

I talked to tons of editors and got some good names, made some good connections. I talked to lots of writers as well, which is probably less useful but was about 300 times more interesting.

****

I decided to have a blast despite what happened with the poet. If anything, I’m a tough girl, and I think I knew what was coming, though part of me can be still counted among the walking wounded.

****

I lost my two favorite pairs of earrings in Atlanta. This makes me very sad. One was my good luck earrings, which I always wear when I fly (except for my two flights home), made of little jade turtles. I’ve had those things for years.

****

Among said fun events was the fact I got Friend One and myself into the exclusive reception on the top of the Hilton. Christian, the prick at the door, wouldn’t let us in despite the fact several invited guests wanted us there and were arguing with him. But I figured out a way in through the uber-expensive French restaurant next door, and Friend One and I stayed until they turned the lights on. At which point, when we walked out, I winked at Christian. He was not at all pleased. Not pleased at all.

****

I saw Dorianne Laux read with several other poets. While the others were decent, Dorianne read three poems, and rocked the audience to the point that, after she finished her third, the entire crowd erupted in wild applause and someone in the back yelled “Fuck yeah!”

Whenever a poetry reading ends that way, you know somethings gone right. Or horribly wrong, of course.

****

I met Hank, another poet (female), who has a book coming out in a few months. We roomed together with Friend One and another poet, Nat. Hank and I hit it off, both of us writers and single mothers, and we spent several nights in the crowded bar in the lobby, playing pool.

All in all, it wasn’t bad. I’m glad I went.

*tm

Miscellany: The Love Edition

December 2005:

Jon took me out for a birthday dinner and Christmas celebration where we had planned on exchanging gifts. I had picked my favorite Thai food place—the one with the complicated cocktails called “Thai Me Up,” and “Phuket Passion”—and we were both dressed nicely, happy to see each other.

For some reason, though, we decided to exchange gifts in the car before going in. Maybe we knew something, sensed something, because this proved to be a good choice. Jon gave me my gift first. That is, to say, he reached behind the seat and pulled out a stuffed animal (unwrapped!) then handed it to me. “Happy Birthday.” Long pause. “And Merry Christmas!”

It was a stuffed cheetah. With a garish pink bow around its neck. I momentarily considered tying it around Jon’s.

But before you collectively string Jon up, you should know that I then handed him my gift. Perfectly wrapped with thick blue paper covered with embossed silver snowflakes and tied with glittery ribbon, it made a pretty picture.

Then he opened it. I had given him two books. Two literary books. “These were my favorite books this year,” I said proudly.

One of those books was on the Rwandan genocide. Because you know nothing says “I love you, Merry Christmas!” like a book on the Rwandan genocide. The Rwandan fucking genocide.

We both sat in the car for a full minute, staring at the peculiar gifts in our laps, wondering at them like an archeologist might wonder at some newly discovered specimen of invertebrate.

Yes, it might have been a sign. Probably several. One of which is definitely that no one should ever have to date me.

*****

Today, on a marquee of an adult video store called Imagine That!:

“Back Door Outlet Store”

I nearly drove my car into the median.

*****

My high school sweetheart, Olney, and I regularly broke up during the three years we dated. Often it would happen right before a formal dance. Which seems rather suspect, especially as I go through the dances I went to, the dresses I bought, and I realize we never attended one together. Highly suspect!

Regardless, on one such occasion, my friends and I were planning an elaborate dinner party for eight before the dance when Olney and I broke up two days before. “This is crap,” I said. “I’m going to find another date.” My friends were incredulous, but I did.

I took the butcher.

The night before the dance, my friend Nicole and I were buying some complicated red meat product, when the butcher (who was 22 and cute) asked what it was for. We explained, he flirted with me, I flirted back (as I am wont to do), and once I explained my predicament, he offered to escort me to said dance.

I distinctly remember doing some sort of jump-for-joy in the cereal aisle of Fry’s afterwards*.

The night of the dance, though, all of my friends had convinced me, during the hours of hair construction and makeup application and shoe discussion, that there was no way The Butcher would show. But show he did.

The other guys were in the front room of my house (my parents had taken my brothers out so that we’d have the space to ourselves) when The Butcher showed up. They all made small talk while I sent the other girls out to do a little recon. “Find out what he’s wearing,” I said. “And what kind of car he’s driving.”

Nicole and Tiffany conducted said recon, then came back with the goods: He had brought a dozen beautiful roses and was smartly dressed in a new shiny suit (this was 1990 people). But there was one detail that was too much. When Tiffany whispered, “Camaro” to me, I was overcome, and yelled out “CAMARO!” with the same joy the anunciador yells GOAL at a futbol match. Sadly, at that exact moment The Butcher was telling the other guys: “I hate it when girls just like me for my car.”

Then they all looked down the hallway where we girls were whooping like we’d hit the lottery.

*****

This is the place where the secret blog entry would go. If I had a secret blog. Which I don’t. So there.

*****

Me: I need help.

Friend R: Okay. With what?

Me: Don’t laugh.

Friend R: It’s that bad?

Me: I want help buying underwear.

Friend R: What?

Me: I want help buying underwear. Picking out cute underwear.

(long pause)

Me: What?

Friend R: I was just going to ask if you really needed a support system for buying
underwear. But then I realized you did.

Me: Happy now?

Friend R: Yes. Let’s go. And I’m making you go to the sword store!

*****

In the car, a few months ago, as we drove through Salem near where Jon lives:

Thing One: Why did you and Jon break-up?

Me: It’s complicated, Thing One.

Thing One: Why is it complicated? Didn’t you guys love each other?

Me: Yes, but sometimes things just don’t work out.

Thing One: Why?

Me: You’ll understand when you’re older.

Thing One (gently, and with great care): Do you understand?

*****

Months ago, on a marquee of yet another adult video store:

“Now we have gift cards! Buy some for Christmas!”

Because, certainly if a book on the Rwandan genocide says Merry Christmas, you can say it about 10 times better with a gift card from a porn shop: “Let’s celebrate Jesus’ birthday! Here’s a gift card so you can buy yourself some glitter lube!”

*****

An email from Kari:

Every girl worries about the first date and all that. It’s natural.

And if she doesn’t, then I hate her already.

---

And finally, an old IM I found between Friend Omega (who became convinced that what I needed was a good sex rebound post-separation instead of dating anyone aka Jon) and I, circa 2005 about love, marriage, sex and fucking:

Friend Omega: Damn it TM why didn't you wait until you'd gotten dick like I said?

Terrible Mother: From whom?

Friend Omega: Anyone!

Terrible Mother: Well, I have been flirting with this grad student in the English department.

Friend Omegas: NO GRADUATE STUDENTS AT THE UNIVERSITY OF OREGON, TM!

Terrible Mother: I thought it was just for sex!

Friend Omega: NO!

Terrible Mother: And really, if it's a grad student, it doesn't count as sex. I'm pretty sure about this.

Friend Omega: Maybe, maybe, a graduate pharmacology major.

Terrible Mother: A pharmacology major?

Friend Omega: But English, Creative Writing, these sorts of things? No.

Terrible Mother: I'm not talking about marriage! I'm talking about SEX!

Friend Omega: I know what you're talking about. If you were talking about marriage, that'd be okay.

Terrible Mother: What? Why?

Friend Omega: Because marriage doesn't involve awkward avoiding-eye-contact moments until YEARS after the fact. Sometimes months, but months we can work with. Hours are tricky.

Terrible Mother: but you typically HAVE SEX sometime in marriage.

Friend Omega: No you don't.

Terrible Mother: I know this. I once had sex in marriage. That was a long time ago, though. I think The Spice Girls were still together.

Friend Omega: You had “married-sex.” You made love.

Terrible Mother: Shut up, Omega.

Friend Omega: “What are you making for the bake sale, TM?"
"Love."

Terrible Mother: I don’t see your point, frankly.

Friend Omega: My point is that one night of naked debauchery makes for awkwardness the whole year round, not just at holidays like marriage does. Marriage is sustained debauchery.

Terrible Mother: is that what you're calling it now?

Friend Omega: Marriage is bauchery.

Terrible Mother: I knew you were typing that.

Friend Omega: You knew because I hit "Enter" and it showed you. That's no trick. You're no David Copperfield.

Terrible Mother: Well, you're no Siegfried and Roy!

(long pause)

Terrible Mother: Oh. Well…

*tm

*Before Fry’s became the individually-themed-mega-computer and home store, it was a grocery store. In Lodi and Stockton. No, I’m not kidding.

Listened to "Chan, Chan" from the Buena Vista Social Club soundtrack while writing this.