The Many Lives of Adrian

Had he made a left turn instead of hooking up with me back in 1996, doubtless, his fate would have been storied.

Or maybe not. Maybe he'd be living in a crap apartment on the freeway with a mattress on the floor and no women anywhere and still buttoning up his polo shirt to the neck. There's a reason women like men who are taken - women tend to shine up their men - fashion-wise, especially -  so they can take them out without shame.

As it stands, he's got many monikers.

Eldest Son. Moonshiner. Dog-Claw Clipper. Remover of Slivers From The Hands Of Screaming Children. PC Geek. Motorhead. Reformed Felonious Motorcyclist. Veteran. College Football Fan.

He can rock the hell out of a man sweater. Rethread the drawstring in your hoodie when the tie gets pulled all the way out. Swap out the engine of a car. Laugh when baby diapers explode over walls or into full bath tubs, find humor when someone vomits profusely all over the shag carpet, and clean it up without needing a therapist later. Can cook almost anything. Sweet talks old ladies out of giving up their entire rhubarb patch, so he can make a cocktail he calls a Rhubarita. He has a very metrosexual side, too. He paints his toenails (to match his car) and gets very fussy about his shoes (though he usually owns just one pair at a time). Once he mowed the lawn, while wearing an apron - he'd been baking bread - and flip-flops, and smoking a cigarette, with zero sense of irony.

Even becoming a father to a child hasn't made him less spontaneous. If he walked in the door this afternoon and told me he was going hang-gliding in a few hours, I'd not be surprised. Once he ran for city council without bothering to tell me.

He has a quick temper - which doesn't just mean anger. His mood, too, is mercurial. He can go to vehemently opinionated to barely giving a shit in less than a minute. His people are known for their stridency on topics which they might not care very much about, or have anything to do with, really, either. I don't know what causes that. Some mix of Irish and Dutch? Whiskey and testosterone? Cigars and shotguns?

There was not much gentleness in him when we met. He grew up among too many loud, pushy boys for that to be valued. But we had a child and his tendency toward perfect competence in everything he attempts made him gentle with our baby Matilda. Made him gentler, perhaps, than he would normally be.

If he were a book, he'd be the box set of Foxfire survival manuals, those old hippie books that explain how to build your own smithy or grind acorns into flour. He knows how everything from bullets to diesel engines are made.

If I were a book, I would be a collection of nursery rhymes, mere entertaining frippery, useless as an opera written for the kazoo. I am a jester, pleasing the king with a turn of phrase, earning my keep with wit. How strange he married such a feminist clown.

Two days ago, he turned 38. I bought him a bathrobe and the DVD of Young Frankenstein.

What any of that shit means, I couldn't say.

When I Grow Up, There Will Be No Thanksgiving

Not that the food was bad. Or the laziness of sitting around with people was horrible. Or that it wasn't a switch to eat pumpkin pie for breakfast.

Just that, you know. I don't really need to be a glutton on purpose for three days running. Because how I feel after that? Is how I feel right now. Which is shitty. And tired. And ashamed of how much I spent at the goddamn Shopko.

Did I need to buy anything at the goddamn Shopko?
Did I need to eat pumpkin pie (and apple cake, and cheesecake, and dark chocolate) for breakfast?
Did I need to watch Daniel Craig like a lecherous cougar on the James Bond marathon while half in a food coma?

Of course not. But that's what Thanksgiving means to me. Which is supremely the opposite of the pious, humble gratitude-fest it's supposed to be, right?

The best Thanksgiving I've ever had was when my poor father blew out a disc in his back and I had to fly to Houston and help him and my mother out. People brought us some key Thanksgiving foods - pecan-crusted sweet potatoes and stuffing, for example - but mostly I lived off hummos, falafel and tabouleh from the Middle Eastern Market, while my dad took pain pills and hobbled around. Also, my mother took me to Hobby Lobby. And we had naps and watched TV. Also, it was like 65 degrees. And a gecko was living in the guest room, so I slept on the sofa like a loser the whole time, but it was brilliant.

No disrespect to this year's celebration. Wouldn't want to sound ungrateful. But that Houston Thanksgiving? Can we do that again sometime? Minus the blown-out back and the gecko?

from Rob Thomas' Rats Saw God, Pt. II

Standing on tiptoes, I reached for the rigid blue plastic casing of my Battleship game and pulled it down from the top shelf of my bedroom closet. I snapped open the cover and withdrew the three-inch pipe and sealed Baggie of marijuana stashed in the compartments that once housed aircraft carriers and destroyers. Stuffing the contraband in the front pocket of my cutoffs and throwing on a Dr. Zog's Sex Wax T-shirt, I traipsed out the back door and followed the trail through the dunes to the surf.

                          -- from p. 53 of Rob Thomas' Rats Saw God, Simon Pulse, 1996.


OH MY GREAT GREASY GOD THIS BOOK PLEASES ME


Q. Do I love this book enough?
A. No. No, I do not. I could love it more - I know it. But I'm waiting to buy my own copy. What I'd like to do this library copy is unseemly and possibly un-American.

from Rob Thomas' Rats Saw God

...Allison was significantly behind, or ahead of the times, depending on how you view fashion cycles. Her brown hair was pulled back and French-braided into a thick, shoulder-length ponytail. Today she wore a red-and-green tartan skirt with a knee-length hem, a plain, starched white blouse, white ankle socks, and tan-and-white oxfords. She looked like a schoolgirl in an AC/DC video - before the innocent hears Angus play.


             -- from p. 114 of Rob Thomas' Rats Saw God, Simon Pulse, 1996.

On Reading YA

Sometimes I get in a mood where I think I can't read young adult books anymore.

I think:  Do depressed and suicidal teenagers REALLY have that much energy to plan such elaborate posthumous revenge scenarios?

I think:  Does everyone's best friend in high school have to be a kooky sidekick with a wicked sense of humor/style/irony?

I think: Are you really going to spend your days killing demons and vampires and werewolves and making out with that stoic, rock-hard-abs guy eternally? Is taking off your bra THAT big of a deal? Second base? The sex doesn't really get any safer, kids. Just go for it.

But then someone'll knock it outta the park. And I'm back in love.

Like Rob Thomas' Rats Saw God. Damn. I wish I wrote that book so bad. There are million things I could quote from it that just rock me. That are so funny or spot-on or just baldly sad.

This is why I read YA. Something about the observations of that time of life that these authors make is just so satisfying. Some way of describing a first experience that makes me feel so lucky. Like I get to live extra lives besides my regular dumb one here in Vinyl Siding Chain-Link Fence-Ville.

Like, I can't wait to get my mitts on Kirstin Cronn-Mill's Beautiful Music for Ugly Children. And Geoff Herbach's Nothing Special. And Veronica Roth's Insurgent. And Steven Brezenoff's Brooklyn, Burning. And, yes, I can't lie, Cassandra Clare's Clockwork Prince.

I can't believe how rich it makes me feel, knowing all these good stories await me.

I Get Too Many Catalogs

Adrian wants a terry cloth bathrobe for his birthday. No, really. I asked him didn't he think it would be too bulky? Like, if he wanted to wear pajamas beneath it?  He said that would never happen. He will be wearing skin beneath it. I should buy him a Tony Soprano gold necklace to lay in his chest hair while he hunkers around in this towel-robe, reminding me of Jane Gallagher's creepy unemployed stepfather in Catcher in the Rye.

I do not like anything described as 'ribbed.'

The word 'quilted' as a descriptor isn't much better.

I adore toggles. On anything. Even the word 'toggle' is lovely.

I'm a fan of shawl collar sweaters, too.

I don't think I want any man who would deign to wear a velvet jacket. (Probably he wouldn't want me, either.)

Who wears turtlenecks anymore?  Besides the models in L.L. Bean, Eddie Bauer and Land's End?

Vests do not look nice on me.

I keep seeing dresses that I'd like, only to discover they are transparent lace or chiffon. CHIFFON. Seriously?

Whenever I see polar fleece, I just picture it covered in animal hair.

Bows on things? No thanks. Also? Ruffles, tucks, gathers, flounces and puckers? Pass.

Please, just call it a 'hooded scarf.' Not a 'snood,' which is probably one of the grossest words out there.

I Hate November

Things are highly meh right now. Everything is a bit off.

My desk is a mess and I've been out of my fitness habit and now my dog has been gone for two days so I've been talking to an empty house. Adrian decided to make applejack while I was gone last weekend and now our kitchen smells nasty, which he claims is normal.

It gets dark at 5:00 and I want to go to bed.

I'm waiting for some kind of lightning bolt revelation to come about this revision project. It's not coming. At least not as a lightning bolt. Just in bits. I wake up and think, Yeah, take that detail out. No one needs to know that. But only in bits will this kind of thing come. The most promising idea came while I was panicking on the airplane from Las Vegas. The idea of an approaching storm of sadness and uncertainty. How the night sky looked to me over the wing of the plane. How I feel anxiety to be, me just seconds ahead of my doom.

But even that was just a bit. I don't know the answers. I wish there was a goddamn handbook for this. How To Make Your Specific Unpublished Novel Really Good. And Done.

I wish I was in Las Vegas with my friend Melinda's dogs on my lap.

I wish I had five new pairs of jeans.

I wish somebody wouldn't go hunting this weekend and would stay home and paint the parts of the bedroom I couldn't reach and feed me.

I wish Pablo to heal up quick and fall in instant love with his plush dog bed which Adrian thinks is a waste of money.

More Clothing I Don't Want

Oh, hello, Fashion Industry. I've been hankering for new duds lately and have been perusing your websites to see if I should bother darkening your door. But I'm sad, Fashion Industry. It appears you have nothing but unflattering garbage for one such as me.

So, I'll sit this season out. Have fun trying to sell your:

- Retro flare TROUSER jeans.

- Peasant shirts. NO MORE PEASANT SHIRTS. Especially if they cost $50. Peasants don't spend $50 on shirts.

- Floral chiffon dresses that don't cover one's butt.

- Anything with a three-quarter length sleeve.

- Phony Navajo/Native American 'prints.'

- Swoopy-necked cardigan sweaters lacking closure mechanisms. I don't want to swan around like Liza Minelli, I just want to stay warm.

- Knit scarves and hats.  Especially ones that cost $75 dollars but feature four bucks worth of yarn. Fuck you.

- Ankle lace-up boots with wedgie heels. GROSS. And I'm too short. And we have ice in Minnesota. I don't need to risk my life and look like a slutty Laurie Ingalls simultaneously, thanks.

- All of the following:  turtleneck crop tops, high/low hem t-shirts, lace trousers, popcorn-knit sweaters, sweater-short rompers, jeggings, twig jeans, tweed evening shorts and satin palazzos.

On Smoking Cigarettes

I wake up craving them and my throat tastes like ashes.

I have to carry all this crap around. Keep track of things. The lighter, the matches. Is it windy? Does the car lighter work or has it turned into a cell phone charger? Do I have a glass of iced tea? My iPod? My notebook? What about a pen? Dammit, now I have to go back inside and get a pen. Do I bring my nasty cigarette into my pristine house?

I look like one of those losery sad people when I smoke in the car, with the window cracked, flicking ashes and blasting the air vents to get the smell out, just like I did when I was in high school and drove my dad's Chrysler around with all four windows down in the middle of winter. One time I flicked the butt out the driver's window and it came back through the backseat. That was fun.

I recycle my cigarette boxes. But first I take the plastic sleeve off. So many bits and bobbins to track, again.

Every portion of the day is measured out whether it can fit another smoke into it. When I finish this chapter. After I read this. Once I drop off the kids here. While I drink my coffee. Blah blah blah. It feels like shift work. No wonder so many nurses and waitstaff smoke.

Don't sleep with your nicotine patch on. Especially if you don't want to recall your 'vivid, disturbing' dreams.

I'm one of those hateful people who can smoke for breakfast. And who wants to light another one while she's still working on a lit one. This is why I'm always quitting.

Romantic Deal-Breakers

When it comes to romantic storylines, my gross-out button is very sensitive. Which doesn't mean I don't like romantic stuff - I do. I am probably the goopiest person alive.

 But the following set off my OH HELL NO alarm:

- References to boys' brief underwear or "Jockey" shorts. Where does one buy "Jockey" shorts? Do you need to get in a time machine and go back to when they were available for purchase?

- Principal characters playing  musical duets together. SHUDDER

- The insinuation that being in Band is cool.  I have in mind a Nameless Popular Book where Band serves as a backdrop for budding romance. I know that this world is an infinity of possibilities, and Band being cool is one of them. But I only went to high school once, where I learned that Band = Kingdom of Dorks. This is very hard to wash out of my brain.

- Boys singing. Or playing flutes. Or the piano. Or, as in Nameless Popular Book, the CLARINET. God. I have a thing about musicality and romance, apparently. I had this boyfriend who used to play his electric guitar when we'd hang out. He was very good at guitar, so it wasn't that. It was mostly that I didn't know what to do while he was doing that. Clap? Stare at him with adoring pinwheel eyes? I just wanted to make out with him, not be an audience. Is this so much to ask? Christ.

- The use of the term 'make love.'  SO. GROSS.

- Boys wearing leather pants or a poet's shirt. I AM NOT KIDDING; THIS HAS HAPPENED MORE THAN ONCE

- Also, easy on the poetry-quoting. I like poetry. (Okay, I don't really like poetry. I just always say I do, so I won't sound like a barbarian.) I just don't believe that teenaged boys quote poetry at girls. And if they do, it's icicles in the underpants. Sorry. If a grown-man quoted poetry at me, I'd fall over laughing. Because it's such a dressed-up horndog strategy. Join the 21st century, already, Young Byron.

- Any gimmick that causes one person to remove clothing, i.e. shirt drenched in torrential downpour or anything removed so someone can treat a bloody chest-region injury.

"Let me bandage this surface wound to your substantially-developed pecs."


"This tiny, tight halter top I'm wearing is making me shiver!  I will need your letterman's jacket to warm up my heaving cleavage body!"

Things That Baffle Me

- How to park a car and not scrape the front bumper against the little concrete hump thing in a parking lot.

- How to make a fried egg that doesn't look like it was an assault victim.

- Why people find Monty Python funny.

- Why people laugh when someone wipes out on a banana peel or various other physical misfortunes caught on tape.

- The point of a top sheet.

- How to clip a dog's claws without fainting or vomiting.

- Why anyone would want to work in a hospital, in any capacity, but especially an emergency room.

- Why people watch hospital dramas on television.

- How to hang a picture straight on a wall.

- Those cars with the huge collections of stuffed animals on the rear dash.

- How to cook meat or fish.

- People who discuss 'the taste' of whiskey or tequila in a sophisticated way.