peevish mama

1. About three days after my knee surgery, all hell broke loose deep down in my guts. Frantic calls were made, hasty plans drawn up, and copious amounts of overtime were doled out in the frantic construction of a patience factory. This factory, while built under duress and fly-by-night circumstances, has been churning out brand new patience at top speed, and although the quality has been less than consistent, the very existence of this heretofore unknown commodity has been both a blessing and an improvement. 

2. I am actually looking forward to stepping back into my life and doing all the things that, a few weeks ago, I felt were chores especially designed to wear me down into a nonsentient nub: groceries, laundry, cooking.

3. My children, Devil Baby included, no longer rely on me for every little thing.

4. The love I feel for Doctor Dash has swelled to weepy, hormonal, postpartum proportions when I would look at him and look at my new baby and think thank you for helping me do this. Dash, thank you for helping me do this.

5. Because of some really sweet people in my community, I have a new understanding of what it means to be aware, to be kind, to follow through. I will never again assume someone is OK. If I have an inkling I could help, I will help.

6. My knee is going to kick ass.

Yesterday, in a rare moment of solidarity, Saint James and Supergirl stood in front of me, grinning secretively with their arms hooked around each other’s necks and asked what I wanted for Mother’s Day. I practically had to clap my hands over my mouth to stop the words from tumbling out – Nothing, I don’t deserve anything. What? WHAT? Have I gone insane? Have a mere four weeks of disability basically annihilated nearly nine years of mothering? Just because I haven’t cooked them a meal, met them at the bus stop, washed their clothes, made their lunches, picked up their rooms, bathed them or gone to the supermarket in weeks, doesn’t mean I’m not still their mother and deserving of all the love and attention and little kid handcrafted goodness they choose to shower me with! I still clip their nails, read to them, fold their laundry, chat with them, drive them to school, watch their soccer games, but what? Is that not enough? Apparently not for this fool.

Consistently through out this recovery process, I have been confounded by what a mind fuck it has been. The physical upheaval does not begin to approach the mental. I thought I was just feeling humility slash humiliation at having to depend on others for everything. I thought I was just feeling guilty for leaving so much work for everyone else to do. I thought I was just feeling foolish about boohooing my own situation when other people have it so much worse. I thought I was just feeling angered by my physical limitations, with my inability to work out my excess energy, angst, and emotion by moving my body, by sweating. I thought I was just feeling lonely, with only Legasus as my friend. I thought I was just going crazy from the stillness, the introspection, the time in my head. As it happens, that’s not all. I was also losing my identity.

I am floored by this. It turns out that motherhood is more a state of doing, than a state of being. It sounds like crazy talk, but stripped of my “jobs”, I feel useless, superfluous, more like a coddled visitor than the beating heart of this family. I know that’s not true with my head, but I can tell you that in those seconds my kids stood in front of me, half dressed for school, my heart felt undeserving and that’s just sad. And unnecessary. 

So I collected myself and said what I always say. I would love it if you wrote me a story.

Photographer Kevin Trageser features these haunting photographs found in an album near a flooded home in the Ninth Ward. I imagine he took pictures of the pictures, stepping in to preserve something that is visibly vanishing by virtue of moisture, heat, chemical processes. Looking at these photos, it’s as if the reverse of developing is happening. The images are receding, reverting to the primordial ooze from which we came. The members of this family, who once stood proud and still for the camera, are slowly being swallowed up by the same water that inevitably soaked and ruined life as they knew it. I am struck by the quirk in the decomposition process that rendered the couple above ironically festive in a yellow party hat and flirty teal hair ribbon. And the couple below – were they cutting their wedding cake? If you look carefully, you can see a glass of white wine at the edge of the table. Did she ever remember to pick it up after she set it down in that vanishing moment?

Disquieting. Beautiful. And so very sad. Check out the rest here. 

Today I stumbled upon this very cool grass roots movement to preserve independent local businesses and am feeling halleluia grateful that there are people out there who are thinking what I’m thinking, but actually get off their fat asses to do something about it. I think this is a beautiful, inspired idea and although it’s something a lot of us feel on an amorphous, gut level, it’s helpful to have it all boiled down to the nitty gritty.

In Minneapolis, we are blessed with countless galleries, clothing boutiques, restaurants, book stores, coffee shops, ice cream shops, hardware stores and garden stores tucked away into our neighborhoods like aces and queens in a deck of cards. That’s why we Minneapolitans are all still here – paying more money for less house and putting up with the airplane noise. We stay so we can see more blue signs than red during election season, for the privilege of having the lakes belong to all of us, not just the lucky few with houses around them, and because of our neighborhood businesses. We’re here because we have sidewalks, which means there’s a designated spot for chatting with neighbors and, um, walking and hey, we actually have somewhere to walk to!

Within walking distance of my house I could purchase a pair of antlers, a bat skeleton or a dried Manzanita branch at Leuhmann, a card, a Laguiole wine opener, a diary or a baby gift at Patina, a chocolate shake and a burger at the Malt Shop, a glass of Prosecco and a Walleye Po’Boy at Blackbird Cafe, or sauteed Australian sea bass, parsley puree, parsnips and creamy mussel foam with a side of pappardelle with black truffles at Heidi’s.  And that’s just one corner! Also at that intersection are an eco-luxe home design and furnishings store called Casa Verde, an upholstery shop, a bird supplies store, and the very sweet dry cleaner we go to. If I walk the other direction I can get to the library, my supermarket, a massage and acupuncture place called Praxis, and a cute new yoga place called Sigh.  

We’re all busy and trying like nobody’s business to multitask – to crank out those errands in the two and a half hours the kid is at preschool. If I’m at Target and I need thank you notes, I’ll probably save myself the trip to the neighborhood card shop and just pick them up. The 3/50 Project is a good reminder to stop and think about where else I could be spending my dollars. Where will they do more good, be more enriching for our community, and sustain the kind of diverse and colorful businesses I want within walking distance of my house? 

It’s not about spending more money – it’s about being smart about where we spend our money. It’s about not taking our little businesses for granted.

Here are the three businesses where I plan to show a little love this month. And please, oh please, tell me yours. We all love a hot tip.

Grand Cafe – my friend Lady Doctah K swept me and my knee away for a little lunchy on Friday and I have been kicking myself ever since that I don’t go Grand Cafe every single damn day. It’s been far too long and how, but how could I have forgotten how charming and perfect this little place is? Here is an example of a place that I love which could die for lack of attention – like a plant – and then I would spend the rest of my days moaning about how much I miss Grand Cafe while secretly (and rightfully) feeling wretchedly guilty. But it’s not too late! It’s still cool and unfussy inside, in that Parisian, worn wood, tiny booth, big kitchen stuffed in the back that turns out miracles on white plates kind of way. I had the polenta with a spinach, caramelized onion and artichoke sauté in a beautiful pool of Romesco sauce and it was heavenly. The polenta looked like two huge scallops and was light, nutty and the perfect sponge for the sweet, peppery, almond-crunchy Romesco. Lady Doctah K had a beautiful potato parsnip soup with a swirl of smoked almond picata and a delicious looking Caesar salad which came with a crispy piece of pancetta sitting on top of it like a jaunty hat. I tried the pancetta and it was like a succulent pig and a crispy potato chip shattered all taboos, defied their families, fell in love and had a beautiful saltydelicious baby.

Cliché - my friend Lady Canada (I’ve decided everyone from book club will be a lady), who also happens to be a personal style consultant, told me about Cliché and although I hate to give away my secret gems, I must and will for the greater good. I love this store. It’s totally quirky, hip and edgy yet lady-like. Husband and wife team Joshua and Delayna Sundberg feature lots of local talent and manage to make the store seem casual and almost homey. Cliché’s selection perfectly dovetails with my mix it up, high low, frilly butch, fashion ethos. Doctor Dash bought me a really cool bag there for Christmas by a local designer named NIKI – it was reasonably priced, beautifully made and cooler than any IT bag out there for quadruple the price. Lovey. Love. Love.

Uncommon Gardens - There are a number of lovely garden stores around here, so it’s hard to pick one, but I like Uncommon Gardens because the owner, Peggy Poore, and all of her staff are very nice women who know their stuff. They’re willing to help but equally good at backing off when you need a little space to screw up your face trying to get a mental image of your side yard. There are a couple of cats roaming around, which amuse Devil Baby, and it’s compact enough that I can let the kids wander while I shop. She specializes in hard to find plant varietals and cool, out-of-the-ordinary garden decor, so you could go nuts if you were a real garden geek. I am not, but I’ve always found everything I need and more. I happen to love this garden maven’s beautiful space and I would like her business to thrive like a robust (insert appropriate geeky plant simile here).

Share the love. For more info on the 3/50 Project.

Saint James scored his first header goal today in soccer. It was gorgeous. Be still my beating heart.

So there’s this Mighty Girl. I don’t know her, but I feel like I do, having read many many of her lovely and funny words. She has this list of things she would love to do in her life, which is not only a very cool idea, she pretty much throws open her arms and says Hey, I want to see your Mighty List too! She appears to be crossing stuff off her list at a good clip, but in no way does her list seem to have been construed for ease of crossing-offness. And neither will mine be. Here’s to dreaming.

1. Run with the bulls of Pamplona (from a terrace perched right above the action, with a cocktail in hand and a red flower behind my ear).

2. Learn to love sake. (Maybe I need to get off the drinks here).

3. Shake my booty at Carnival in Rio (O.K., not quite yet – Caipiriñas?)

4. Write a book.

5. See the Red Hot Chili Peppers perform live.

6. Hike the Inca Trail and watch the sun rise and set over Machu Pichu.

7. Go to a soccer game in Buenos Aires with Saint James.

8. Go to yoga classes with my daughters because they want to.

9. Touch the spine of a book I wrote in a real book store.

10. See the Grand Canyon.

11. Have a dress tailor made for me by a tiny seamstress with an accent – the dress would be the color of sapphires or rubies. Hell, make it one of each.

12. Go to India.

13. Take a cooking class in Italy or Vietnam.

14. Finish learning how to snowboard.

15. Go snowboarding out west where I can carve for hours.

16. Take a humid road trip through the South for Gospel, Blues and barbeque and drink a tall, cool glass of lemonade in the shade of a Southern Magnolia.

17. Learn to meditate.

18. Learn to nap.

19. Visit farmers markets in at least twenty five different cities, near and far.

20. Learn Italian.

21. Learn to garden.

22. Go on a yoga retreat somewhere beautiful.

23. Go on a writing retreat somewhere beautiful.

24. Find my faith.

25. Smoke pot with my mother. 

26. Find work that I love.

27. Eat a lunch of bread, cheese and red wine, which Doctor Dash and I have pulled out of bike paniers.

28. Go on a horse pack trip in the Andes with my family.

I purposely stopped at 28, because it will force me to keep contemplating and adding to the list. Check back from time to time. Better yet, sit down and write one for yourself. Feels gooooood.

You stopped me dead in my tracks with this:

“The look scared her, the body slant. He walked through the apartment, bent slightly to one side, a twisted guilt in his smile, ready to break up a table and burn it so he could take out his dick and piss on the flames.”*

I would love to believe that there aren’t any meaningful difference between male and female writers. This proves that there is a difference – that there should be. Hats off, dude.

*Lianne thinking about her ex on page 104 of Falling Man.

Adventureland’s soundtrack got me thinking about music and how for me, it used to be a really tactile, physical thing – both literally and figuratively, in a way it just isn’t anymore. In 1987 we were listening to music on cassette tapes. Plastic, durable, stackable, bulky tapes with scratched cases. I can still smell the ribbon and feel the anger in my throat when it got pulled out and chewed up by a rogue tape player or a little brother. I remember spooling it back in with a pencil, holding my breath, hoping it would still play. Taping songs off the radio, making mixed tapes, it was a manual thing – you had to get the timing right, you had to listen and press RECORD and STOP at the perfect moment.

When you went to the record store and plunked down nine dollars and change for a casette, you were taking it on faith that you were going to like all the songs as much as you liked the one you bought the tape for. You listened to the whole tape as soon as you got in the car. It was cumbersome to fast forward to a particular song, although it’s a skill we all honed. Doctor Dash was exceedingly good at this, though he had had many years of practice by the time we started roadtripping together.

Music was experienced by album back then – not by song – so there was a depth of familiarity and listening that I’m not quite getting anymore. We used to listen to our tapes over and over until we wore them out. Now I flit around, clicking and dragging, making playlists, dismissing songs I don’t like in the first ten seconds. Truth be told, there’s so much music on our computer, I haven’t even listened to a lot of it. Music is an ocean now – vast, unknowable – I feel I can’t do much more than sail along on top of it.

When I was young, I would very specifically and deliberately associate certain songs with certain times or people. A song was like plastic wrap and you would wrap it around a memory and there it would stay forever. Packaged, accessible, easy to hold in your hand daydream fodder. Lionel Richie’s Hello offered direct access to the one and only time I danced with Danny Voss – hunky, blond, turquoise-sleeveless-t-shirt-wearing, cousin-of-a-girl-I-hated, Danny Voss. Talk about yearning. Talk about visceral. This song made my stomach do flip flops for months on end.

At the beginning of law school, I sat on my fire escape and cried because someone was having a party at a house nearby and loud snatches of Uncle John’s Band kept floating over to me. The late afternoon sun, the Dead, the smell of beer and pot – that was college and I missed that life so much it hurt.

Blister in the Sun by the Violent Femmes? High school dances – unfettered Molly Ringwald dancing. I Melt with You by Modern English? Also school dances – spinning, dizzy, swallowed up in the music, wishing I had a boyfriend.

The Reflex by Duran Duran was the lip synch contest at camp. A girl from another cabin peed on stage. Pee and nervous laughter as she pretended to play the keyboards. Darkening concrete beneath her feet.

U Can’t Touch this by MC Hammer was the lounge at school. Girls in uniforms dancing on the coffee table.  

Brass Monkey by the Beasties was Fourth of July fireworks. I was really really tan and my hair was really really big. I was wearing Levis, rolled and tapered at the bottom, a pink tank top and opalescent lipstick. Hot shit.

And if there’s any woman my age who can’t hum the song from the Sixteen Candles scene pictured above, I’ll get a spiral perm tomorrow.

Do kids still do this? Lock in music to moments? Or is that something you only do when you can fit all your music into a shoe box? When the rate of discovering new music is directly tied to weekly rides to the mall? Is there too much music now? Is our capacity to make music our own finite and ultimately being diluted by instantaneous and unmitigated access? Is the very fact that I’m posing these questions, proof positive of my old lady status and that I just don’t get it?

And then there’s irony, which creates even more distance between the gut and the song. A friend was complaining about how her high schooler was listening to Phil Collins, whom she had never liked and liked even less now that her daughter and her friends had discovered him. I can’t say I disagree, although perhaps I find myself softening on Mr. Honey Tones and Thinning Hair as the years pass. On second thought, Sussudio really was unforgivable.  Maybe I was uniquely unjaded when it came to music, but I always took it as it came. I certainly didn’t listen to music with any sense of irony. I do now. And kids now seem to as well. Is it their loss?

I hope not. I hope that when Saint James is 35, he can pick out a handful of songs that send him shooting to his teen years, to specific moments in time when he couldn’t breathe for laughing so hard or being so smitten, to driving with friends with the windows open and the wind on their teeth, to playing foosball in smoky basements, to wrestling in the snow because he and his best friend were both being dicks and it was the only way to work it out, to pressing a finger onto a girl’s sunburnt shoulder, watching his print recede and doing it again.

Which songs did you wrap around your memories? Do tell.

I’m not sure what the appeal of Golden Girls could have been for a young teen, but I loved it. Maybe it was the fact that my parents had banned me from watching Laverne and Shirley as a child, their reason being, and I quote: They are cheap ladies! Cheap ladies! No further explanation necessary, apparently. Perhaps the Golden Girls seemed like cheap ladies disguised as old ladies. They were certainly as sassy and brassy and funny as Laverne and Shirley. Perhaps, despite their age (which seemed ancient to me back then), it was clear to me that their female friendships were as compelling and enduring as my own. Perhaps I enjoyed them because both of my grandmothers lived in Argentina, and it was a bit of an old lady fix. Or maybe I just watched a lot of TV. 

I don’t remember any particular plot lines. Just a lot of robes, house dresses, pastel pantsuits, wicker furniture, lanais, whipped white hair and cheesecake. Their Miami condo, decorated in 80’s tropicalia, probably smelled of powder and perfume and I fantasized about all the sweet creamy confections they might have in their refrigerator, about falling asleep on the mauve couch printed in sage palm fronds. I fancied I might be welcomed there – fawned over, even. Bea Arthur was a classy lady with a great voice and wit. She could move laugh tracks with a mere look of exasperation or a raised eyebrow. I’m sad to see her go.

You know that feeling the first time you kiss someone you really like? You feel like you’re falling, right? Adventureland is, hands down, the sweetest movie I’ve seen in a long time and taps right into that dizzying free fall – that vertiginous, dangerous, utterly perfect last three inches before your lips meet.

Jesse Eisenberg plays James, a likeable if slightly uptight protagonist who wears his heart on his sleeve. He’s smart, he’s sincere and he’s stuck working at a cheesy amusement park in his hometown of Pittsburgh instead of traveling around Europe after college as planned. He ends up falling in love with the beautiful and troubled Em played by Kristen Stewart. Eisenberg is perfection – he is authentic and restrained and brings us all the angst, yearning, butterflies, sharp pangs and small humilations of young love with total immediacy and subtlety.

The movie is set in 1987. This is my era – I was 17. The soundtrack is full of ridiculous gems that make you chuckle (Your Love – The Outfield) and that hit you in the gut (Don’t Want To Know If You Are Lonely – Husker Du, Pale Blue Eyes - Lou Reed). Nostalgia tends to make me slightly queasy, but since this movie so deftly sidesteps sappiness, it was easy to just relax and indulge. It’s a coming-of-age flick with brains and heart.

Doctor Dash and I picked this movie because we just wanted to escape and laugh a little – we didn’t really want to have to think. The last thing we expected was to feel. And remember.

Yesterday, before my adventure with Red Vogue, I was feeling shitty. Sad and shitty. After dropping the kids off at school, I drove around the lakes boohooing and feeling sorry for myself. I called my college friend, Tartare, in Seattle and left her a pitiful, weepy voicemail, apologizing and blubbering and apologizing some more for being so pathetic. I know I sounded absolutely over the top melodramatic, but I couldn’t help myself. The tears just kept coming, pooling in the bottom of my Kanye sunglasses.

Tartare called me back and bless her heart, without a lot of verbiage and fuss, she managed to gather up all my cards that were strewn over the floor, shuffle them, cut them and set them in a neat pile in front of me. She may be far away, but her powers are mighty. Like this.

                                                       Photo by Helmut Newton

My friend, Red Vogue, saved me today. She spirited me away to June, a beautiful vintage clothing store she recently discovered. I didn’t take much convincing. You’ll love it, you can just sit in the big chairs and I’ll bring you things to try on. It’s totally you. Beautiful store, beautifully edited, something something something . . . bustier with feathers . . .  

Feathers? Feathers. Now you’ve got my attention, lady. 

I’ve said it before, but normally, the change of seasons gets me all a dither about clothes. Not this spring. Right now it’s thermal tees and yoga pants every day. Totally boring. Completely utilitarian. No beauty. No creativity. No edge. No frilly. No feminine. No flirty. No nothing.

It felt so good to be out, to try on beautiful clothes, to finger dainty evening bags and chunky cocktail rings. I got to sink into a cushy chair and page through fashion photography books while Red Vogue emerged through red velvet curtains from time to time in different pieces. Why haven’t I shopped with her before? She used to be a model for Christ’s sake! Her legs are impossibly long and she carries herself with the insouciance and languid grace of a crane. Clothes look amazing on her. Not to mention scarves – she rocks scarves like a second skin – like the French.

We both scored. She got a gorgeous pencil skirt and black kitten heels. I got a sweet teal dress and a sexy 70’s inspired cover up for the pool this summer. I think my Visa might have squealed when it saw the light of day after all this time.

Then we went to Liberty for custard. And then home. A perfect afternoon. Jesusmaryjoseph, I needed that. I feel like I got to exhale for the first time in weeks.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, Red Vogue emails me the Helmut Newton photo above. Slay me now. I will look at this every day until I’m off these wretched crutches. 

Merci mille fois, Red Vogue.

I think my friends are afraid of me. I think they think I’m really really feeble right now. Scary feeble. Feeble. Forlorn. Frightening. There’s nothing specific that leads me to believe this. You could say I’m simply being given wide berth. Time to recover. Get my shit together. I think they’re afraid.

I can’t say I blame them. It’s spring. It’s life. Everyone is skipping, stretching, going about business as usual and then some. I’m just the beat up orange pylon tipped over on the side of the busy road.

And let’s face it. Injury. Illness. It makes us uncomfortable. It renders the other less easy to predict, less easy to understand. Is she up for a visit? Is she tired? Does she want to be left alone? Is she hurting? Is she angry? Is she tainted? Is she different than before? All fair.

I would avoid me too, if I could.

Yesterday Dash and I snuck out for a movie. As I navigated the sloped, carpeted aisle with my crutches, my sunglasses slipped down my nose and I had to leave them. The fact that I had them on at all in a darkened theater is ludicrous enough, but such is the dilemma of a person on crutches. You can walk (sort of) but you can’t use your hands. And if you are using your hands, you can’t walk. Hands or feet, but not both.

I spotted a handicapped seat. Actually it was a big spot for a wheelchair and a handicapped companion seat. It is entirely possible that there was more leg room in that seat, but I didn’t want it. It was an irrational, visceral and entirely immature reaction. I am not handicapped. Those seats are not for me. Those seats. Who am I kidding? 

It’s temporary, but I am indeed handicapped. I can’t move with anything approximating grace or speed. I can’t hold anything in my hands and change locations at the same time. I even spend most of my day in a contraption. A CONTRAPTION! How about that? It’s a machine, a Continuous Passive Motion machine, that bends and extends my leg over and over. I’m supposed to use it for six hours a day. Sexy times. The harness that supports my leg is covered in a pearly gray synthetic wool substance, like the fleece of some superfly celestial sheep. I’m obsessed with this faux pelt because when I mentioned to Doctor Dash that I was glad they changed it between patients, he gave me look that I can only describe as a heartbreaking coalescence of dubiousness and pity. The machine itself is total Miami Vice – turquoise, fuscia, white and yellow – made from the same plastic as Crockett and Tubb’s speed boat.

And the best thing, the best thing about my knee bender, joint juicer, flexor-in-crime is its name: LEGASUS. As if I will soar to the heavens once I’m done with this penurious convalescence. Whoever thought that up deserves a certificate. Maybe even a ribbon.

We all feel the sap rise in our veins when it’s spring. I know I do. I feel lusty, antsy, frothy, a little bit wicked, almost adolescent. This is a bad time of the year to be hobbled. My trusty minivan is my only ally. I cruise around, windows open, my hair dancing in wild wips, listening to Hip HopNation waaaaay too loud. Thank God for satellite radio. Slim Thug, Lil’ Wayne, T.I., Young Jeezy, Jay Z, Fiddy, Diddy, Kanye, Dre, Snoop and my girl M.I.A. I drive around, my van fulla my homeys, warm breezes and bass. Spleefs and 40’s passed around, the windshield a movie, the soundtrack our own.

Except. Except. Not.

It’s just me and the music and the wind. I pull into the driveway, my ears ringing and the yearning in my chest only slightly abated.

Damn you spring.

There are 142 crutch steps from the physical therapy office to my car. Not that many. Like a girl with a heavy bag of pennies, I am underwhelmed once I count them out. It is a disappointingly paltry number which belies my pounding heart. But 142 crutch steps take enough time for plenty. Enough time to break a sweat. Enough time to be passed by an old woman with a cane. Enough time to receive a kind smile from John Denver. I know JD is dead. But this was him. Denim, little glasses, bowl-cut of straw. I am not sure why, but he smiled at me today. And I almost lost count.