I am looking at hairstyles online when Paul finally gets off the phone.
He's always so happy after talking to Kevin. "How is he?" I ask, and Paul smiles and moves his hand in a curve over his belly.
"Kevin got fat?" I ask, and Paul smiles again and shakes his head.
"Ryanne's pregnant again." His smile is the smile of a proud uncle, of a proud brother. And I put on the smile I wear to match his, the smile of a proud aunt, the smile of a barren woman grieving something never lost.
"That's so great!" My voice sounds canned to me, like a recording.
"Wow," I say, "wow."
I walk into the bedroom, and I sit on the orange rocking chair I got Paul for our anniversary. I look out over the rooftops. Before my empty uterus reached up and smacked me in the face I was thinking about doing my Spanish homework, but it is impossible for homework to exist amidst so much pain.
This is stupid, I think. I am happy, I am happy, I am happy. I repeat the words over and over as tears blur my glasses.
There was a talk in General Conference a couple of years ago and it was all about how the Lord remembers us, how we need to hold on, to have faith that we will be blessed. And he quoted the scripture about Rachel, about how God remembers her and she conceives Joseph. I sit in the orange rocking chair and remember that talk. I want for God to remember me, too.
I want to believe that the Lord is preparing something amazing for me, that this is the reason so much time has passed, that this is the reason I am sitting in the orange rocking chair wiping mascara streaks from my face.
Paul walks in, stands beside me, places his hand on my hair. "Are you sad because Ryanne is pregnant?" He asks this in the voice he uses when he is ready to listen, but I remain silent.
He stands beside me for a long time, not pushing my silence.
I don't have an answer to speak, at least not one that's necessary. Paul has been a witness to my waiting. The cat climbs on my lap, and shoves her cold, tiny nose against mine. Paul rubs my neck, and walks back into the living room to watch T.V.
And I sit, in the orange rocking chair I gave Paul for our anniversary. I make a list in my mind of the work to be done, work meant to be done today that I will push to tomorrow. And I give myself this time. This is the time when I can feel the pain. Tomorrow I will tell myself enough now, and I will wash my mind clean of it.
I move from the chair to bed, where I remove my socks and change into my pajamas. As I look up, I can see Paul in the doorway, watching me.
***I wrote this just to witness what I experience, but I really, REALLY want all of you mothers to know how genuinely happy I am for you when you produce a new life. I am especially thinking of my wonderful sisters-in-law who are expecting. Waiting to be a mother is challenging for me, but I never want any of you to feel any guilt on my account. Nothing is better for me than to see women rejoicing in their motherhood.***
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
society as we know it breaking down
Paul: Can you put more soda in that thing?
Andrea: That thing? Do you mean THAT GLASS?
Paul: Yep.
Andrea: That thing? Do you mean THAT GLASS?
Paul: Yep.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
so deliciously figurative
You can make the scrambled eggs your own.
That's a sentence I heard uttered in my Fiction and Personal narrative course on Tuesday.
I was delighted.
It is, of course, true. You can make scrambled eggs your own. You can do this in a literal and delicious way, and you can do it in a figurative way, which is the way we were discussing in class, because in a Fiction and Personal Narrative course most everything is figurative. Figurative and delicious.
On the first day of class I had the moment I have at the start of any writing class which is the moment where I wonder IF I REALLY BELONG THERE.
I wondered that because I seemed to be the only one who hadn't spent the summer doing immensely important things like backpacking through southeast Asia or living in a commune in Russia or teaching English to orphans in Germany or the like.
And when it was my turn to tell how I had spent my summer months and I proudly bellowed "I WATCHED REALLY BAD SUMMER TV!!! ALSO I HAVE CATS AND I LOVE THEM!!! ALSO A HUSBAND AND I LOVE HIM!!!" that's when I had it, the moment of wondering IF I REALLY BELONG THERE.
But that doesn't really matter, does it? I AM THERE. I am there because I wanted to be there. Because when the girl who spent her summer at the commune in Russia talked about the piece her friend wrote about scrambled eggs and the professor was like "that's so great, because unlike some huge dramatic issue, you can make scrambled eggs your own" I immediately wrote the sentence down, and simultaneously laughed and pondered.
It was figurative and delicious. And I suddenly find myself famished.
That's a sentence I heard uttered in my Fiction and Personal narrative course on Tuesday.
I was delighted.
It is, of course, true. You can make scrambled eggs your own. You can do this in a literal and delicious way, and you can do it in a figurative way, which is the way we were discussing in class, because in a Fiction and Personal Narrative course most everything is figurative. Figurative and delicious.
On the first day of class I had the moment I have at the start of any writing class which is the moment where I wonder IF I REALLY BELONG THERE.
I wondered that because I seemed to be the only one who hadn't spent the summer doing immensely important things like backpacking through southeast Asia or living in a commune in Russia or teaching English to orphans in Germany or the like.
And when it was my turn to tell how I had spent my summer months and I proudly bellowed "I WATCHED REALLY BAD SUMMER TV!!! ALSO I HAVE CATS AND I LOVE THEM!!! ALSO A HUSBAND AND I LOVE HIM!!!" that's when I had it, the moment of wondering IF I REALLY BELONG THERE.
But that doesn't really matter, does it? I AM THERE. I am there because I wanted to be there. Because when the girl who spent her summer at the commune in Russia talked about the piece her friend wrote about scrambled eggs and the professor was like "that's so great, because unlike some huge dramatic issue, you can make scrambled eggs your own" I immediately wrote the sentence down, and simultaneously laughed and pondered.
It was figurative and delicious. And I suddenly find myself famished.
Monday, September 13, 2010
the glamorous life of cats
One time in high school I was in my psychology class and we were supposed to say what animal we would be if we had to pick and I totally picked a cat because they they live so luxuriously, you know?
I mean, eating, sleeping all day, being groomed, fed, stroked, and, if you happen to be our cats, having your glamour shot taken....
I can explain. (Should I feel like I have to explain?) I needed a headshot for work, so our buddy Jake (who also did my blog design and is kind of a genius) did me a solid and took my picture. And then he took pictures of our cats.
And when Jake emailed me the pictures I totally went "GHAAAAAA OUR CATS ARE SO CUTE!!!", totally not realizing that I had just uttered the secret password inducting me into the Crazy CatLady Club and this morning I woke up wearing a sweatshirt screenprinted with their faces.
I'll be much more careful next time I get emailed pictures of our cats. Words are powerful things, you know?
Thursday, September 2, 2010
a changed woman
I'm growing my hair out.
Again.
I do this every couple of years, this hair-growing-out thing. I mean, I love short hair and all, but something just comes over me, this immediate and all consuming need for a luscious blanket of hair that can be tied back or braided or pulled up or left swinging down my back.
And so I decide to grow my hair out.
Again.
The thing is, I'm a compulsive hair-cutter. And just as surely as I will feel the need for a ponytail, I will also feel the need to CHOP CHOP CHOP.
It's a vicious cycle.
Paul's been so patient. Deep down he's a long hair man, but he puts up with my ever changing locks like a champ. Every time I announce my intent to become a Rapunzel, he dances a jig, and every time I come back from Reagan's salon with an adorable short 'do he tells me he likes it, even though he's never understood my compulsive need to CHOP CHOP CHOP.
But this time is different. I'm a changed woman, I swear. I'm on my knees here, with flowers and chocolate and a jar full of mea culpas and stuff.
You're probably wondering why you should believe me. And I don't blame you. The thing is, Reagan has been given strict instructions not to CHOP CHOP CHOP. And Paul has been advised as well. And I have thrown away all my scissors and I'm strictly forbidden to look at cute short cuts on InStyle and WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME, PEOPLE?
Geez. I said I'm growing it out already, alright?
Oh, uh, sorry. I get so cranky when I'm going through hair-cutting withdrawals.
Again.
I do this every couple of years, this hair-growing-out thing. I mean, I love short hair and all, but something just comes over me, this immediate and all consuming need for a luscious blanket of hair that can be tied back or braided or pulled up or left swinging down my back.
And so I decide to grow my hair out.
Again.
The thing is, I'm a compulsive hair-cutter. And just as surely as I will feel the need for a ponytail, I will also feel the need to CHOP CHOP CHOP.
It's a vicious cycle.
Paul's been so patient. Deep down he's a long hair man, but he puts up with my ever changing locks like a champ. Every time I announce my intent to become a Rapunzel, he dances a jig, and every time I come back from Reagan's salon with an adorable short 'do he tells me he likes it, even though he's never understood my compulsive need to CHOP CHOP CHOP.
But this time is different. I'm a changed woman, I swear. I'm on my knees here, with flowers and chocolate and a jar full of mea culpas and stuff.
You're probably wondering why you should believe me. And I don't blame you. The thing is, Reagan has been given strict instructions not to CHOP CHOP CHOP. And Paul has been advised as well. And I have thrown away all my scissors and I'm strictly forbidden to look at cute short cuts on InStyle and WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME, PEOPLE?
Geez. I said I'm growing it out already, alright?
Oh, uh, sorry. I get so cranky when I'm going through hair-cutting withdrawals.
Monday, August 30, 2010
sunday looks like this
Yesterday in nursery was awesome.
Two words:
Toilet.
Naked.
Yep.
So, our adorable Ella has graduated to the world of toilet-trained humans (an achievement worthy of fanfare, to my mind)and after snack time she proudly announced that she had to, um, go.
So, she went.
We have a little bathroom in our nursery with a kiddie-sized toilet. And I think this must have been Ella's first time using it, because the minute she closed the door she yelled out "HEY GUYS THIS TOILET IS JUST THE RIGHT SIZE!!!"
Which was fantastic.
I mean, spread the word, right?
And then later it was time to color and so I handed out papers and was like "Okay, you can draw a picture of anything! Maybe make it something you're thankful for, like your family, or something like that...."
And as Ella carefully selected her allotted two crayons she stated "I AM GOING TO DRAW A PICTURE OF MY MOM NAKED."
Which was fantastic.
So, Ella drew a picture of her mom, naked. And when her dad came to pick her up, just to make sure he appreciated her artistic vision, she said "THIS IS A PICTURE OF MOM NAKED."
I. LOVE. NURSERY.
Friday, August 27, 2010
friday loverly
Hey, guys!! Today I am so excited for you to meet my good friend Katie, who is without a doubt one of my favorite people I've met here in NYC. Katie is brilliant, hilarious, and CRAZY SUPER TALENTED when it comes to writing. As soon as she gets a job at The New Yorker, I'm signing up as her first groupie. Check out her blog, Long Story Short, at http://www.katemcneil.com. Take it away, Katie!
I'm really flattered (and slightly embarrassed!) that Andrea wanted to feature me on her blog. Here goes nothing:
1. You've got an incredible ability to capture the humorous/ridiculous in such a witty way. What's your writing process like? Are you immediately struck with an idea for a piece, or do you need time to review a day's events?
I try to find humor in the everyday. (Jerry Seinfeld is my hero in that regard.) Most often an idea will strike immediately. You know what I'm talking about: you're in a bathroom stall, buying flowers, or singing a song on the radio and you think, "Oh, this is so blog worthy." When that thought pops in, I'll whip out my phone and jot down the idea in a "to blog" note. If it's a really good idea, I'll start writing sentences in my head. Often inspiration comes late at night too. I never, ever write just because I feel a nagging need to update my blog. Those posts are always so obviously forced and sterile. But if you're not taking life too seriously, you'll always have something funny to write about.
2. You've got a hilarious husband. How does being married to Cameron influence/inspire your writing style?
Not a day goes by that I don't laugh with Cameron. And with 4+ years married, that means a lot of material! His easygoing attitude is the perfect balance to my neuroticism. Some of my favorite posts about Cameron are the one about the swimsuit issue, the one about his fleece jacket, and the one about the little league world series. I love that guy.
3. Guilty pleasure?
Candy, sleeping in, YouTube-ing French bulldog videos, following Internet memes on The Daily What and Buzzfeed while working, never leaving Uniqlo without buying something, and last but not least, Don Draper! The thing is, I never feel guilty about doing any of this.
4. What was teenage Katie like? I was nerdy girl, so....would we have been friends? Or would you have been totally making fun of me for my navy blue wide-leg shorts and hair-sprayed bangs?
Teenage Katie was very shy and insecure and some of that still lingers into adulthood. I didn't have my first kiss until I was 17! Reading back through my journals I was pretty angsty and confused and often wrote about the pressure to measure up to my siblings. I gained confidence through sports (volleyball) and writing (school newspaper). I was really lucky to have some very, very close friends that stuck with me through high school.
If I wasn't at volleyball practice, you would probably find me in front of a computer, downloading songs on Napster or chatting on AIM. I always loved the Internet. My shyness never hindered my online personality. I could be creative and witty through chatting and emailing in ways I could never be face-to-face. To this day I feel much more myself writing an email or blog post vs. talking on the phone or in person.
5. Strangest New York sighting?
So many! I saw a pirate walking out of the new Trader Joe's in Chelsea just the other day. One time I saw a homeless guy eating paint on the subway to get high. Literally, white paint dripping down his mouth and beard. That was really sad. I saw a chicken cross the road in Brooklyn. I've seen lots of public urination. A guy wearing a thong and heels at the Village Halloween parade. Countless old women with crooked drawn-on eyebrows and lipstick extending almost to the base of their nose. Lots of lap dogs in strollers. Rats, rats, more rats. New York = more blog fodder you could ever need!
I'm really flattered (and slightly embarrassed!) that Andrea wanted to feature me on her blog. Here goes nothing:
1. You've got an incredible ability to capture the humorous/ridiculous in such a witty way. What's your writing process like? Are you immediately struck with an idea for a piece, or do you need time to review a day's events?
I try to find humor in the everyday. (Jerry Seinfeld is my hero in that regard.) Most often an idea will strike immediately. You know what I'm talking about: you're in a bathroom stall, buying flowers, or singing a song on the radio and you think, "Oh, this is so blog worthy." When that thought pops in, I'll whip out my phone and jot down the idea in a "to blog" note. If it's a really good idea, I'll start writing sentences in my head. Often inspiration comes late at night too. I never, ever write just because I feel a nagging need to update my blog. Those posts are always so obviously forced and sterile. But if you're not taking life too seriously, you'll always have something funny to write about.
2. You've got a hilarious husband. How does being married to Cameron influence/inspire your writing style?
Not a day goes by that I don't laugh with Cameron. And with 4+ years married, that means a lot of material! His easygoing attitude is the perfect balance to my neuroticism. Some of my favorite posts about Cameron are the one about the swimsuit issue, the one about his fleece jacket, and the one about the little league world series. I love that guy.
3. Guilty pleasure?
Candy, sleeping in, YouTube-ing French bulldog videos, following Internet memes on The Daily What and Buzzfeed while working, never leaving Uniqlo without buying something, and last but not least, Don Draper! The thing is, I never feel guilty about doing any of this.
4. What was teenage Katie like? I was nerdy girl, so....would we have been friends? Or would you have been totally making fun of me for my navy blue wide-leg shorts and hair-sprayed bangs?
Teenage Katie was very shy and insecure and some of that still lingers into adulthood. I didn't have my first kiss until I was 17! Reading back through my journals I was pretty angsty and confused and often wrote about the pressure to measure up to my siblings. I gained confidence through sports (volleyball) and writing (school newspaper). I was really lucky to have some very, very close friends that stuck with me through high school.
If I wasn't at volleyball practice, you would probably find me in front of a computer, downloading songs on Napster or chatting on AIM. I always loved the Internet. My shyness never hindered my online personality. I could be creative and witty through chatting and emailing in ways I could never be face-to-face. To this day I feel much more myself writing an email or blog post vs. talking on the phone or in person.
5. Strangest New York sighting?
So many! I saw a pirate walking out of the new Trader Joe's in Chelsea just the other day. One time I saw a homeless guy eating paint on the subway to get high. Literally, white paint dripping down his mouth and beard. That was really sad. I saw a chicken cross the road in Brooklyn. I've seen lots of public urination. A guy wearing a thong and heels at the Village Halloween parade. Countless old women with crooked drawn-on eyebrows and lipstick extending almost to the base of their nose. Lots of lap dogs in strollers. Rats, rats, more rats. New York = more blog fodder you could ever need!
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