Category: Writing

Twice Submerged

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The first time the basement flooded, the twins were babies and sleeping unpredictably. The second time the basement flooded, the twins were toddlers and doing everything unpredictably. The first flood felt like a natural disaster; the second, a betrayal.

Before the first flood, the basement was mine, a chamber crowded with paused ambitions and ghost versions of myself. Then came the water, the local infrastructure unable to keep its promise. The basement transformed into a mausoleum of academic endeavors, professional files, suspended projects, mementos of a me I barely remembered — proof of a time before my job title was “Mama.”

Movers sent by the utility company kept a reverential silence as they engaged in a liturgical removal of my ruined things, including a waterlogged notebook filled with the minutiae of early parenting — eating, diapers, naps — entered and never referenced again. They lowered their eyes as I peeled the boys’ first ultrasound image from the ruins of a sodden cardboard box.

There was shame in the mess and the loss, in the casual way I’d let things slip. I’d intended to archive everything, a task perpetually deferred. Sleep-deprived months had messed with my memory, threatening to make me my own unreliable narrator. I needed to cache my life. But I was tired, and the basement’s separation from the daily hubbub allowed me to postpone the task.

The first flood washed away the luxury of later.

New carpet, new drywall, a serious dehumidifier, and the basement soon once again housed all my somedays and speculations. Scribbles, fleeting notes, seedlings of ideas jotted down and shelved for when the twin-induced chaos settled.

Then a frozen pipe burst, unleashing a second deluge vindictive in timing and intensity. Water pooled in the ceiling and came out through the light fixtures onto my notebooks and shelves.

This time, there was no help. I faced the wreckage alone, sorting and tossing debris. With every wet, heavy shift of weight, the floor let out a slow, desperate squelch, causing the boys to giggle uncontrollably.

The twins, now toddlers and agents of chaos in their own right, tried to help. I’m sure I made a “two-by-two” joke to my husband as we lugged things and monitored the boys. They swept through the first floor in their own tide of arms and legs and wild purpose.

We relocated my work-and-dream space to something far from the basement, smack-dab in the middle of the rough-and-tumble of daily life. I have since been constantly accessible, perpetually distracted, and witness to all goings-on.

But at least it’s a dry chaos.

Squeaky Curds, Surging Back, and the Twerpiest, Torque-iest of Months — July 2024! Month in Review

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What comes to mind when you hear “JULY 2024!”?

This?

Or, if you’re from the USA, this?

Ok. But nope.

July 2024! was the temporal equivalent of the playground merry-go-round. Dizzying, uncomfortable, and with an unshakeable sense that some punk ran up, grabbed one of the bars, and whipped this fun/hell contraption into a breakneck speed. Some people flew off, some clung with all their might to the hot metal. Almost all of us wanted to puke.

Torque. It’s not for the faint of heart.

Neither was JULY 2024! if you’ve paid attention to anything at all. It’s been a fire hose of information, no matter where your radar dish is pointed. That’s the wonderful horror of being a writer. Like it or not, we pay attention. Perhaps we write because we pay attention, or perhaps we pay attention because we write. Either way, the writing-attention bond is embedded in the very grooves of our ink-smudged fingerprints.

Things seep in. It’s spectacular. It’s a lot. We write to figure out how we think and feel about these things. When we’ve been at it awhile, we learn what to pay attention to and how to hold the attention-prism up to the light.

But oof. JULY. Basta.

I spent almost half of July sick, as I do every year. Something low-grade, with unearned exhaustion and a sense of being perpetually stuck in finals week, leaving me just enough energy to get through the day but not enough to conjure up my own special brand of goddamned delightfulness.

The two weeks of corporeal slowdown triggered or at least coincided with something excellent — my brain seems to have returned from whatever hiatus it’s been on for the last couple years. Writing no longer feels like trying to breathe while encased in a giant Jell-O mold. Whatever Roto-Rootered my noodle, I’m grateful and am scraping out remaining sludge while putting this refreshing spray of thoughts into words.

But next time my brain takes a sabbatical, I’d like to hitch along for the ride.

In times like JULY 2024!, you twerpy month, all we can do is either hold on for dear life or tuck and roll off, then stare at the sky until the wooziness passes and we recalibrate.

Mostly I clung to small comforts in JULY 2024!, especially those in carb form. (Confession: I am also in carb form.)

And also screamed JULY like this:

Here are some splashes of marvelous from July 2024

  • Someone I love dearly sent FOUR PINTS of Jeni’s ice cream and also some dog ice cream (for the dog, not dog-flavored). They are now my favorite person. (All apologies to my husband, but he had a good run.)
  • I’ve hit that age where I understand the technology but am tired of keeping up with it like I’m the third dog in the sled team. My kids run my tech now. Despite their help, I still can’t get the Target app to work at the checkout line. My offspring are polite enough to keep from howling with laughter until I’m out of earshot, but that’s because they see how devastated I get catching a glimpse of myself in the checkout camera. Despite that, this Target commercial shows they (generally) understand their customers, even if they overestimate our enjoyment of the checkout camera.
  • Sometimes you dream of going to a certain place. A dream you’ve dreamed for, oh, your entire marriage. SOMETIMES DREAMS COME TRUE!. Ladies and gentlemen, the Mars Cheese Castle. Squeaky Curds! Whey (probably, and if not, there should be!) T-shirts! Kringle! Pickled mushrooms! Pants! Cheese hats that we refused on principle! Beer! What more could you want?
  • OMG when is the last time you heard this? Too long, I’d guess.
  • Talk about honesty and balance. 
  • This reaches far beyond writing. We only have each other: 
  • Perhaps July was just an illusion, but a necessary one as Oliver Sacks points out in this passage. 
  • I came across this as I sorted through papers in my office. It’s one of those pieces that, like the merry-go-round, is dizzying and thrilling. 
  • Writers (and some normal people, probably,) form nearly-unholy-yet-mutable bonds with writing instruments and notebooks. I use Sharpie S-gels and 5-Star notebooks for novel writing, glitter gel pens and fun notebooks for journaling, colored pencils for planning, and whatever pen is on hand to put stuff in my second brain. We’re one scratch-and-sniff sticker away from teleporting here:

Someone tell Mars Cheese Castle to get on an aisle like that.

  • Oh no, I just went down this rabbit hole. DO I WANT THESE?

What delights popped up in your July?

Spanx for the Memories and Absolutely No Other Puns but Maybe a Couple of References to Pie 

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May 2024 Month in Review

Greetings, fellow snarklings.

Does “I was tired” count as a review? Probably not, but it does explain why my recommendations this month are as thin as a caffeine-free latte and mostly limited to “Get some sleep.”

Normally I feel a small weird panic if these reviews don’t magically appear* within 48 hours of the month ending. As if reflections have a cosmic expiration date. As though if they’re not served fresh, they’re compost. Four or five days into the month feels like the Ides of June (not these guys), which means it’s practically autumn, and wait, am I writing this from the future, circa 2027?

*as if I don’t have to write them

How we’ve conditioned ourselves to immediacy. Time is an unforgiving overlord. Here you go, Time, take the wheel. Knock yourself out.

This is all just to say that it feels like we’re functioning in the interstices May grudgingly doles out.

Let’s get into it, even if I’m a few days late. Maybe time is a poet, sweetening like a fine wine, sharpening like a cheddar, chunking up like old milk.

(Time may be a poet. I am not. Unless you want a poem about old milk.)

Anyway, here we are, tardy but with all the juicy details:

This time of year is a cocktail of achievement, exploration, wrapping up, recognition, and proving oneself. It’s a whirlwind of scope, sequence, pace, and sugar highs. When your whole family feels burned out by May 2nd, you know it’s going to be a long month. The world was like an angry blender — whirring and sharp and loud. AP tests, finals, placements, end-of-year celebrations, countdowns, more tests, competitions, nationals, baseball, track meets, concerts, performances, meetings, and good grief! It was a family endurance test, and my role was mostly snack duty and stress management.

Note: “You’ve got this” is less appreciated when accompanied by an inadvertent spray of half-chewed Ritz crackers.

This seems an appropriate time to give a hearty HALLOO and THANK YOU to all the adults in the kids’ lives who guided them to this particular finish line. You are excellent and I hope you can spend the next few months living in something other than 42-minute stretches.

Looking forward to a moment’s respite before the summer fully grabs us for a good do-si-do…oh wait, no. Just got an email with the subject line “Are We Doomed?” Better return my tray to the upright position.

Here are some splashes of marvelous from May 2024

(i.e. things I enjoyed that you may also enjoy or possibly not if you are feeling contrarian and cross.)

  • I got to be helpful this past year, a little bit, in places like my boys’ school and other community organizations. I can only hope my kind of help wasn’t the kind Shel Silverstein poked at, presented here from the Free to Be You and Me album for our first pie reference and also to meet our recommended daily requirement of Tommy Smothers:
  • I’m sneaking a family wedding into this month’s review, even though it technically happened in June (but the rehearsal dinner and travel were in May.) I visited Kansas City for the first time. Quite an excellent place. The rehearsal dinner was held in Union Station. Is there anything more filled with all the big human emotions, history, and excellent ceilings than a train station? I dare say, no? I DO DARE. The wedding itself was glorious, thoughtful, and beautiful. Maybe someday I’ll share more once the happy couple gets to tell their story first. (Guys, they sent us home with some of this barbecue sauce. IT’S AWESOME. I may or may not have been sticking my pinkie in there to get every last bit. Ok, I may have. I totally may have.)
  • Dr. Pepper Strawberries and Cream is turning me into a 12-year-old. That’s fine.
  • Shopped for the aforementioned wedding. Needed blue — not navy — heels. These shoes came up in the search. Alas, I did not get them, but I really want to get to know the person who does.

I already know the type who wears these:

(It’s me! Ask me about my neuroma!)

  • The best thing I can say about The Super Mario Bros. Movie is that it tapped into wellsprings of antipathy I didn’t realize I had. Except for Jack Black. I’m no monster.
  • Speaking of being behind, I’m watching Gilmore Girls which somehow escaped my attention the first go-around. Now I’m catching up and enjoying it along, apparently, with the rest of the world. Go Team Zeitgeist!
  • I need to accept that my husband does not take good photos of me. Maybe it’s the height difference, or maybe I operate under the mistaken belief that I do not look like a bridge troll. Or maybe I do in fact look like something out of Neil Gaiman’s nightmares, — in which case, excellent photography skills, honey. And if any of you jokesters are thinking of asking to see said photos, I SAY NAY.
  • Losing Alice Munro was a blow to writers and readers everywhere. Having her words still with us assuages the ache. Here’s an interview.
  • This is perfect and also a little flaky.
  • I leave you with this, someone who needs neither introduction nor Spanx. Probably. I can’t be sure.

Klappe zu, Affe tot, May. I’m off to look for some rhubarb to start on one of these: