An apple and a tree

My niece was visiting one day last week. She is six, and I am her favorite non-parent adult relative. This is not a boast, just a statement of fact that her uncles, her grandparents, and her cousins would all confirm. If six-year-olds had the vote, I would be an unstoppable political force in the United States.

Anyway, she and I were writing stories, which is what we do. She comes up with story ideas, I write the words, and we assemble and distribute our books to the reading public. We were in the middle of a page when my niece whispered to me that she had to go to the bathroom. 

"Go ahead, " I said. "I'll wait." I mean, we were working, but even highly prolific children's book authors on deadline need occasional breaks.  

A moment later, I noticed that she was still standing behind me, waiting for me to notice her. "Everything OK?" I asked. She hasn't wanted help in the bathroom for a long time, but she obviously needed something. 

She looked to her left and right, and then she leaned in. "I'm afraid to flush," she whispered. 

I kept a straight face. This, by the way, is why little kids love me. I take them seriously. 

“You’re afraid to flush?” I asked her. “Why?”

Eyes left and right again, like Mike Ehrmentraut at a dead drop collecting a brown bag full of cash: “What if it comes UP, instead of going DOWN?” “Up” and “down” were accompanied by hand gestures. 

I thought for a moment. “That is a valid concern,” I said. “Tell you what: you go and do what you need to do, and then tell me when you’re ready to flush. We’ll do that part together.” 

She nodded, skipped off to the bathroom (that is how six-year-old girls get around; they skip) and called me when it was time to flush. 

“OK,” I said. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Stand here.” I pointed to a spot just barely within arm’s reach of the toilet. “Reach over and flush, and then hop back really quick. I promise you that it’s going down and not up, but just in case it DOES come up, you’ll be ready, and it won’t get you.” She nodded, obviously satisfied with this solution. She leaned over, flushed, and hopped backward. As expected, the contents of the toilet went down and not up. We washed our hands, resumed writing, and produced our best work yet, a story about a little girl who really doesn’t want a haircut but then finally yields to parental pressure and submits to the scissors, and is really happy with the result. A bit of a roman a clef, if we’re being honest here. We can’t make EVERYTHING up.  

*****

My niece is actually not related to me by blood. She is my husband’s sister’s child. So in the debate about nature vs. nurture, the latter would have to prevail in any analysis of this child’s very strong resemblance to me, psychologically speaking. She is introverted but not afraid of people (though she used to be quite afraid of anyone she didn’t know well). She is a reader and writer. She’s very funny, though often unintentionally so. She loves swimming, shopping, and chocolate. And she has more quirky fears and anxieties than the psychiatric profession can shake a stick at. “What if it comes UP instead of going DOWN?” That is next level, as they say on the Twitter. 

*****

I mean, what if it DOES come up instead of going down? Then what? 

*****

I meant to ask my sister-in-law if they had had some horrifying plumbing disaster or if my niece had possibly seen or heard something that would make her think that a toilet might expel rather than swallow its contents, but I forgot. But maybe she conceived of the idea on her own. She is very imaginative, and very prone toward anxiety, much like her aunt. I imagine horrifying situations all the time, and then I worry about them until they might just as well be happening. 

What was that? You’re so glad you’re not me? Yeah, you have no idea. NO. IDEA. Sigh. 

*****

But even with my noted propensity to worst-case-scenario my way through every day of my life, I have never worried about a toilet flushing in reverse. Knowing me, though, this just begs the question: Why not? How could I have overlooked this possibility? How could I NOT have worried about this? After all, this is an old house and our kitchen sink has been known to back up, forcing my husband to snake the pipes with a very expensive machine that he bought for the purpose (money well spent, BTW - I can think of three separate times in the last ten years when without that machine, we’d have been at the mercy of the plumbing-industrial complex). What’s to stop the toilets from backing up or worse? Nothing, that’s what. Here I am spending 25 hours a day every day worrying about things that range from utterly impossible to very unlikely, and I failed to even consider the very real possibility of an ejection toilet. 

*****

And really, given the documented instances of snakes and alligators in toilets, upward flushing doesn’t even seem like the worst thing that could happen vis-a-vis toilets. So much to worry about. SO MUCH TO WORRY ABOUT. 

*****

My niece goes to school every day, and she goes to dance class and Girl Scouts and swim practice, and I know that she is frequently anxious and sometimes even scared. Sometimes she needs a pep talk. Sometimes she needs a friend to come along for the ride. But she overcomes the fear and she does what she needs to do. I wish I could tell her that when she grows up, she won’t get scared anymore, but it doesn’t always work that way. I don’t even know if overcoming the fear makes you ultimately stronger. I do it all the time and I don’t know that I’m all that strong, but maybe I’m stronger than I would be if I gave in and stayed home in bed every time I worried about impending doom or disaster, which would mean that I’d never get out of bed. 

I wish I wasn’t like this, and I won’t even pretend that I don’t. I’d much rather be a bold, fearless, adventurous person. But I’m not. I’m not a badass. I was born to be mild. It’s too soon to say what my niece will be like when she’s older. She’s only six, after all. But I see a lot of myself in her, and when she gets older, she might also wish that she was different. 

But we do what we have to do. We speak at the meeting, or or we drive to fucking Tyson’s Corner in rush hour Beltway traffic, or we flush that toilet. We show that toilet who’s boss, I tell you what. So I’m giving us credit; not for bravery, but for getting over it and pretending we’re OK even when we’re not and for showing up every gosh darn day. There’s a lot to be said for showing up. 

Proscrastination

A few days ago, I wore a dress that I hadn't worn in a long time. Any time I wear something old, I end up receiving a compliment, and that is exactly what happened. And just like 90% of nice middle-aged ladies, l can't just accept a compliment with a simple "thank you." I have to explain myself. I explained to the nice young Navy officer that I hadn't worn the dress for months because it had been missing two buttons, and I hate sewing buttons more than almost any other chore. And then I finally sewed the stupid buttons back on and wore the dress and received a compliment from the very first person I ran into. She laughed politely and went on her way. I thought, not for the first time, that it would be nice to have a uniform. But it's too late for me to join the Navy.  

*****

About a week or so ago, I received a letter from the Office of the Victim Advocate of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. I couldn't make myself open it, and so it sat in my desk drawer for the next ten days, give or take.

Finally, I opened and read the letter, which was, just as I expected, a notice that the man who raped me many years ago was approaching his parole eligibility date and that it I had any comments or concerns, I should content the Victim Advocate immediately. The word "immediately" was in bold type, because of course it was. And I didn't know what to do, so I put the letter back in the drawer and ignored it, thinking that I would just wait for it and the entire situation to go away. It’s just like that dress. Maybe I thought that the dress would repair itself, that the buttons would just magically reappear in their proper places. This approach always works very well for me, very well indeed. 

*****

The man has been in prison for a long time. If I could make myself call or write to the Victim Advocate, I think I would tell them that they should recommend him for parole. But I can't seem to make myself pick up the phone or even write an email. I can’t make myself even think about this. Yes, I’m writing about it, but I’m not thinking about it. I’m thinking about how not to think about it. I’m writing about not thinking about it. 

*****

The thing is, it's complicated. Everything is complicated. It’s been a long time, and I go for days, sometimes WEEKS at a time without thinking about the rape, and now it’s back, trying to get into my head again, and I don’t want it there. 

On the other hand, I know that the Office of the Victim Advocate means well. They’re doing their job. And on the face of it, the idea that a victim should have some say in decisions regarding the person who violated her is, I suppose, a good one. It’s empowering, right? Who doesn't want to feel empowered? 

Well, me, maybe. Maybe this is that one instance in which I do not want too much empowerment, because empowerment comes with responsibility, and I'd rather not be responsible for what happens to this man. I mean, the dude broke into my house at 3 in the morning and attacked me, and then I had to go to the hospital and suffer through the indignity of the rape examination, and then I had to tell the story over and over again to the police and the state’s attorney, and I had to go to fucking therapy and spend weeks and months and years healing and recovering and trying to get the memories out of my mind and body. Have I not been through enough? Have I not already contributed enough to this crime? I did the victim part, right? Should I also have to pass judgment? Should I also have to assess the penalty? Isn't the criminal justice system supposed to make these decisions? 

I mean, do I have to do EVERYTHING around here? 

JESUS. 

*****

Oh, and did I mention that he also stole my bike on his way out? How is that for adding insult to injury? I mean, really. REALLY. 

The bike theft was actually a good thing because that is how they caught him. My bike was pink. It was pink and it had a red basket attached to the handlebars. He wasn’t hard to spot, riding that ridiculous thing around the Main Line at 5 in the morning. They arrested him, arraigned him, assigned a public defender, and he confessed to the whole thing. I attended his sentencing hearing, but there wasn’t a trial. Later, the police offered to return the bike to me. I declined that offer. 

*****

I finally responded to the letter. My options included appearing in person (yeah right), videotaping a statement (lol), calling them on the phone, or sending a letter or email. So at least one decision was easy. 

This man has been in prison for a long time and trust me when I tell you that he belonged there, at least at first. But I don’t know what he is like now. I don’t know what he was like in prison. I don’t know if he’s sorry for what he did. He apologized to me at the end of the sentencing hearing, but I don’t know if he meant it. But I guess that he has probably suffered quite a bit. I don’t wish him any further suffering, and I asked the Victim Advocate to recommend him for parole assuming that he hasn’t been violent in prison and with the condition that he never try to contact me in any way. I don’t wish him any ill. But I don’t want to see him or hear from him or really even think about him ever again. 

It’s 12:30 in the afternoon on a beautiful sunny Saturday, and I feel like I need to go back to bed. That was exhausting. Any other clothing in need of repair is going to wait at least six months. I don't have the energy to go through that again. 

On the road again

It's Saturday morning and I am sitting in a huge conference room at the Westin Hotel, Tysons Corner, Virginia. A Tysons hotel conference room with a giant screen displaying the first slide of a PowerPoint presentation screams 8 AM on Wednesday not 10:30 AM Saturday (IYKYK), but I'm not here for work. It's Machine Aquatics Parent - Swimmer Day, and I am a Machine Aquatics parent. My swimmer is sitting next to me, examining his Machine Aquatics gear, which includes two t-shirts, a cap, a car magnet, and a bag tag, all packed into an orange nylon and mesh Speedo bag. It’s a pile of swag, and he’s pretty pleased with it. I’m thinking that two grand is a lot of money to pay for a drawstring bag and some t-shirts, but it’s early for a Saturday and I’m a little salty. 

Why am I salty? I mean, it’s not that early. And the money is not a big deal either, lucky for me. I’m salty because I had to drive to Tysons Corner, which means driving the Capital Beltway, and I really hate driving the Capital Beltway. 

*****

Last week, I had lunch with some coworkers, one of whom regaled us with stories of her side job as an Uber driver. People, I tell you. The stories. One by one, our other coworkers chimed in with reasons why they could never be Uber drivers. One person could never be an Uber driver because she's very particular about her car and would not want to allow strangers to sit on her upholstery. “I don’t know where these people have been,” she said, shuddering. Another person couldn’t drive for Uber because she’s heard horror stories about people getting robbed and beaten by their Uber passengers, and she would fear for her personal safety. Another said that she couldn’t drive for Uber because she gets lost even with voice-narration GPS. 

That last one is true for me, too. But that’s not the real reason why I can’t drive for Uber. Well, the real reason is that I just really don’t want to be an Uber driver. Should circumstances ever demand that I take a second job, I’ll do it without complaining, but I won’t be driving for Uber. Maybe I’d be a barista. That might be fun. Or I’d work at the front desk of the aquatic center because I’d like seeing all the kids coming in for swim practice. Happy memories. But let’s say that I wanted to drive for Uber or that I was at least not unalterably opposed to the possibility of doing so. I still couldn’t because I am just not a very good driver anymore. 

This is why I hate driving the Beltway. It’s because every time I get on 495, I am once again reminded that I was once a good driver, and now I am not. This is one of any number of things that are true even though I wish they weren't.  

*****

The Beltway was fine on Saturday. We got to the Westin on time and without incident, and I found outdoor parking, which is always my goal. I never used to mind driving the Beltway but I have always hated subterranean parking garages and now I hate them even more, because dark, cramped parking garages are no place for terrible drivers. Anyway, we arrived safely, and we returned home in much heavier traffic, and I kept a grip, literally and figuratively. My hands were white-knuckle clinging to the steering wheel at 10 and 2 like barnacles attached to the hull of the gosh darn Andrea Doria, but my demeanor was calm. If you didn’t notice how tightly my hands were clamped to that steering wheel (they still hurt), then you would have mistaken me for a reasonable person who didn't have a care in the world. People mistake me for a reasonable person ALL THE TIME. 

*****

All’s well that ends well. I got us from Point A to Point B and back again, all in one piece, and no one knew that I was terrified the whole time and it seems to me that both of those things represent victory. For now.

*****

 

Transitional

School year 2022 - 2023, my youngest child’s senior year, is underway; and although I’m not thrilled that summer is over, back to school and back to a more predictable routine is not such a bad thing. I won’t get to swim in the evenings anymore, but I also won’t be cooking dinner at 8:30 PM only to find that no one is planning to eat at home anyway. 

Last Thursday, I attended my very last MCPS Back to School Night. I almost skipped it altogether. Weather conditions were ideal for after-work swimming on one of the last pool nights of the year, and my son has only one teacher whom I had not met already. He is in the second year of his IB program and has most of the same teachers he had last year. The one exception is a teacher my older son had as a senior. So I wouldn’t have missed anything important. But I went because I’ve never missed a BTS night and it was likely the last time that I’d ever visit a classroom at Rockville High School. I’ll be back for band concerts, but I’ll probably never walk through the school again beyond the auditorium. 

As much as I hate back to school, I really like Back to School Night. The place was crackling with energy. Several of my son’s friends, who were volunteering as Ambassadors, greeted me as I passed them in the hallways. Band parents and baseball and swim parents waved and shouted hellos. The classrooms were spotlessly clean and colorful, decorated with posters and student art and homey little odds and ends. All of the classrooms were cheerful and welcoming and one or two were downright charming. I paid my Booster Club and PTSA dues. I avoided buying any more gosh-darn t-shirts and water bottles and car magnets. I slipped out before the last class period (this is my eighth year as a Rockville band parent, so I know the drill for music students) and escaped the parking lot before the mass exodus. It was rather a nice way to spend an evening. I’m a little sad that it’s the last one. It’s the last year, and I’m not ready. 

*****

According to the calendar, we still have about two weeks of summer remaining. But the calendar is wrong. Yesterday was Labor Day and the pool is closed for the season. When children are back in school and the pool is closed, summer is over, no matter the temperature. 

As much as I hate Labor Day and everything it stands for, it was kind of a perfect LDW, and Labor Day itself was delightful. The weather forecast was not promising, so I swam early in the day lest the threatened thunderstorms forced the pool to close early. At 3 or so, the sky darkened and the breeze picked up and I finished swimming and went home, thinking that this was it for the summer. And it was fine, really. 

The previous day, my neighbors and I had agreed that we’d meet at the pool pavilion on Monday at 5 for a slapdash, half-baked, no-rules potluck. No sign-ups, we agreed - we’ll just see what shows up, and that is what we’ll eat. We further agreed that the potluck would happen rain or shine and that if it was raining too hard to sit in the pavilion, then we’d move it to someone’s house. 

I came home and made some chicken, and although the sky was ominously heavy and gray, there was no rain. I wrapped up the chicken, grabbed some napkins and plasticware and a bucket of ice, and we all gathered under the pavilion for the last time this summer and ate what turned out to be a very good dinner. People showed up, as they say on the Twitter. People understood the assignment. We had more than enough food for everyone and we were able to feed the lifeguards and all the other random kids who were getting their last few minutes of summer at 6 PM even as cloudy skies and cool breezy temperatures reminded us that October is around the corner and winter is right behind it. 

We finished dinner and walked down to the pool deck to stand and watch the kids playing their last round of pool games until next May. And the pool looked cold and dank and gray. But then we adults decided that we also needed one last swim. Some of us had already brought suits and towels. Others ran home to change. And one by one, we slipped into the dark gray chilly water, for one final swim. The pool was a wide-open watery space, the lane ropes and  barrier ropes gone. 

For the last two weeks, the pool has been amateur hour, crowded with casual visitors who never bother with the pool until zero hour, when they suddenly realize that summer is almost over. But on Monday, the dilettantes and daytrippers were gone, and only the hardcore, dedicated pool rats remained and the rules no longer applied. Kids were jumping off the lifeguard chair into the deep end. Kids played football and basketball and water polo, all at once. And the handful of adults swam through and around them. It was a damn free-for-all. It was glorious.

But it was cold, and as it grew dark, the adults, myself included, were too chilled to continue. And so we exited the water, one by one, the way we came in, and we stood on the deck, wrapped in towels and hoodies, watching the kids wring every drop of fun out of summer's last few moments. And then, the whistle blew for the last time, and it was time to go. The sky, by then, was inky dark blue. The air was chilly and we could feel autumn. We could smell it.

*****

It's Friday now, and summer already seems ages ago. It's time for fall things, fire pits and brisk walks and jackets and Halloween candy and avoiding PSL. It's transition time.

God Save the Queen

I'm not a nostalgic person. Or maybe it's more accurate to say that I am occasionally, selectively nostalgic. Sometimes I miss places that no longer exist. Sometimes, I miss having little children. But most of the time, I am clear-eyed and unsentimental about the past. Things change, as they should. Time marches resolutely on and that's mostly to the good

I'm especially not nostalgic for the 20th century; at least not for most of my life during the last half of that century. But I miss a shared frame of reference. I miss the feeling of a solid foundation beneath my feet. 

For my entire life, my understanding of the world included knowledge that across the ocean Queen Elizabeth reigned over the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth. Her reign began years before I was born, and continued sometimes eventfully and sometimes quietly but constantly either way for the next five decades. The Queen was part of the landscape. She was a structural element. She was, almost literally, an institution. I'm an American, through and through, and even I feel disoriented and a little unmoored today. I'm sorry for England's loss but it's our loss too, a little bit. It's a loss for everyone in the world who doesn't remember or who has never known a world without Elizabeth Il. God save the Queen.

Vacation reading

It's been a while since I wrote about books, so I'm going to tell you all about last month’s vacation week reading. It's a mixed bag, as always. 

*****

We rented a beach house for a week in August, and I like to try to read a book off the shelf in whatever beach rental I end up in, and I did that this year, too. Most of the books on the bookcase in the sunny corner of the bedroom of our 2022 beach rental were pretty much trash but I found a copy of Colm Toibin's Brooklyn amid the dreck, so that was my beach novel for the week. Brooklyn is one of only a very few books whose movie version I prefer. That is not to say that it's a bad book because it's not. The writing is really beautiful. But novels are about characters for me, and I liked Movie Eilis (Eilis, pronounced “eye-lish,” is the main character) and I didn't much like Book Eilis. Movie Eilis is reserved and the viewer understands that this is because she is homesick, introverted, and just a generally quiet person. Book Eilis is also reserved, but that’s mostly because she’s a bit of a snob. Lace Curtain Irish, my dad would have called her. 

This is not a compliment. 

After her return visit to Ireland, Movie Eilis clearly comes back to her American husband Tony because she loves him, not just because terrible Miss O'Brien blackmails her with a threat to expose her secret marriage. Book Eilis seems only to return because she has to. But let’s be fair to Book Eilis. Movie Tony is obviously very lovable, and Book Tony is a bit of a cipher. There’s nothing wrong with him, he’s just not a particularly compelling character. He could be any reasonably nice guy. Still, the bitch married him. 

*****

Did you come here looking for sharp and cogent literary criticism? How many times do I have to tell you not to do that? 

*****

After Brooklyn, I read another beach book, this one a purchase from my favorite store, a used book shop called Barrier Island Books. I should write about the store because I’m clearly not capable of writing about the books. Note to self. I’ll get to that later. Anyway, the book that I purchased was Carrie Fisher: A Life on the Edge, by Sheila Weller. I am a Carrie Fisher super-fan, and so this book told me practically nothing that I didn’t already know, but I didn’t read it for information. I read it because I wanted to revisit a world that Carrie Fisher was still part of. Carrie and her mother Debbie Reynolds were both American archetypes (the rebellious and spoiled but neglected Baby Boomer Hollywood child and the Midwestern no-nonsense up-by-her-bootstraps tap-dancing, singing, smiling never-not-working movie star mother) AND absolutely individual and different from anyone else of their time or any other time. They were living proof that people are like snowflakes and fingerprints: no two alike. There will never be another Carrie Fisher or Debbie Reynolds, God rest their souls. 

*****

If you’re still reading, you just learned a little bit about Carrie Fisher and pretty much nothing about the book (it was good, BTW). I’m 0 for 2 on the book reviews, aren’t I? Well, you were warned once, and if you’re still hanging, then that’s on you, isn’t it? Caveat emptor, know what I mean? 

*****

I’m a very big fan of Christopher Guest movies, especially "Best in Show." And as anyone who reads this blog knows, I am also a very big fan of Nora Ephron. And if you draw a Venn diagram with Christopher Guest movies in one circle and Nora Ephron’s entire oeuvre in the other, the intersection will absolutely contain Parker Posey. When her book You’re on an Airplane popped up in my Kindle recommendations, I did not hesitate. Plus, I love quirky memoirs. This one is premised on the idea that you and Parker Posey are sitting next to one another on a long flight, and she tells you stories about her life. The premise is good though the execution is not consistent. She drops the airplane theme for a bit in the middle, and then in a late chapter, she ends a paragraph with a sentence that goes something like “Oh thank you, I’d love some peanuts.” I had no idea what that was supposed to mean and then I remembered that Parker and I are supposed to be on an airplane together, and the flight attendant is offering us a snack. 

Not long ago, I read Chuck Klosterman’s The Nineties (which requires a whole separate post and I don’t know if I’ll ever get around to that) and he didn’t mention Parker Posey even one time. This is a serious omission because if you want to understand nineties pop culture, you can do no better than to consider the very existence of Parker Posey’s movie career. No other decade before or since could possibly have produced Parker Posey, movie star. Parker Posey has lived an interesting life, and she is, not surprisingly, a very good writer. I recommend this book. 

*****

OK, I’ll give myself ½ credit for that last one. And yes, I would love some peanuts too, thank you. 

*****

I used to read a book in a single day all the time. Now, between legitimate busy-ness, eyestrain, and ever-worsening adult ADD (I assure you that this is a thing), it often takes me a week or more to finish a book. But I can cram a ton of reading into a vacation week. I almost forgot about this last one (really the first one), because I started it a few days before I went on vacation and finished it that weekend. 

Emma Goldberg’s Life on the Line: Young Doctors Come of Age in a Pandemic is a book that I would never have read on my own, but the medical students were reading it as part of orientation week activities, and so I read it too. Goldberg writes about six young New York doctors who begin their residencies several months early during the first months of the COVID-19 pandemic. I won’t tell you any more than that (oh, you didn’t actually expect me to review this book, did you?) except that reading this book dragged me right back into the middle of 2020, which is a time that I do not care to revisit right now or likely ever, and yet I still really liked it. 

******

Brooklyn is the only one of these four books that has earned serious literary recognition (though I’m betting that Life on the Line will eventually win some prizes). I think it was even a Man Booker Prize finalist. And I’m not saying it shouldn’t have been because it is a very fine book. But I rank it fourth of these four, and it’s not even close. If you haven’t seen the movie, then you might like it better than I did. Just don’t read it expecting Saiorse Ronan, Emory Cohen, Jim Broadbent, and Julie Walters (who is absolutely hilarious as Eilis’s landlady Mrs. Kehoe). 

You know what? Just watch the movie. I almost never like movie versions of books and I really NEVER like a movie better than the book on which it is based, but never say never, I suppose, because here is one case in which the movie really is superior to the book. 

*****

And another thing. I AM going to write about The Nineties. I’ve already started, in fact. And it’s no better than this hot mess. Fair warning, as always. Watch this space.