Life As a Page-Turner

I’ve been spending beach time this summer reading memoir (I guess I should say “autobiography”, because technically a “memoir” is a book about a certain portion of your life, not the whole thing, although if you call it “memoirs” plural, you can probably get away with it). Here’s the tally so far, along with elements of each I could and should incorporate in my own future memoir(s):

Playing with Myself--Randy Rainbow

 

Randy Rainbow (real name!) grew up a proudly gay kid staging elaborate musicals in his backyard with the neighborhood gang, then progressed to making hilarious music parody videos in his NYC apartment which have garnered millions of views and several Emmy nominations. Randy became buds with Stephen Sondheim (the preeminent lyricist of his generation, who called Randy’s lyrics “brilliant—as good as anyone writing today.”) The great Carol Burnett is also a big fan. 

 

Note to self: Too late to change name to... “Elise Iridescent”? Sondheim may have passed away, but Lin-Manuel Miranda is still here! Send my knock-socks-off Hamilton parody as soon as I come up with one.

 

Going There--Katie Couric

 

Spunky, smiley girl next door Katie wrote an engaging book which really was just a rundown of her rather ordinary (!) existence. Listen, I watched the Today show too, and witnessed first-hand her many fascinating interviews, her effortless back-and-forths with Bryant and Matt, and for a while I wore my hair approximately the same way! Add that to my spunkiness and smiley-ness and you have basically the same person!

 

Note to self: Somehow re-frame my years as a church worker to reflect pre-dawn limo rides to studios where my makeup and wardrobe were completely handled. I did have a few pre-dawn (though makeup free) bus rides to catch planes to mission trip locations, so there’s that.

 

Bookends--Zibby Owens

 

Zibby is a well-known book blogger whose semi-charmed, ultra-rich NYC life is chronicled here. While she has had some personal tragedy, she also married her much younger tennis pro, went to Harvard Business School, and has four adorable children, plus homes on the Upper East Side and in the Hamptons. Her schtick is a series of podcasts and anthologies titled “Moms Don’t Have Time to…(Read Books, Lose Weight, Have Kids,") etc. 

 

Note to self: Too late to change name to… Zippy? And I could totally add “Moms Don’t Have Time to...Vacuum, Floss, Iron, Interview Maids and Nannies.” 

 

Happy-Go-Lucky--David Sedaris

 

Another wild trip through the funhouse that is Sedaris family life, this one anchored by the death of their very difficult 98 year old father Lou. David manages to make a beach house called “The Sea Section” sound almost normal. 

 

Note to self: Connect with David’s agent (he regularly tours all over, just reading from his books. ME TOO.). Make time to write incredible essays for The New Yorker, come up with several eccentric siblings, and live in an eccentric old house in France. 

 

My summer work is cut out for me!! NYT bestseller list here I come!! 

Mother Guilt

 

Mom and Little Me

I’m a DES Daughter. 

I’m a member of a club no one is clamoring to join: those of us whose mothers took a certain medication during pregnancy to prevent miscarriage, a medication which affected their female children later on. DES (Diethylstilbestrone) was widely prescribed during the 1950s and 1960s, hailed as a wonder drug for women at risk of losing their babies. This was also the era of that nightmare drug Thalidomide, which was used to treat morning sickness, but ended up causing horrible birth defects. By the time these were pulled off the market, a lot of irreversible damage had been done.

 

As a young woman, I was monitored carefully for cervical cancer and other issues which were beginning to appear related to DES (thankfully, I have had no serious problems all these years). A number of “DES daughters” had great difficulties becoming pregnant (clearly not a result with me). 

 

What I do recall about all of this was my mom’s feelings of guilt. Though there’s literally no way she could have known not to take DES, or reason to distrust her obstetrician, Joanie added this regret to a long list of other reasons to feel badly. 

 

Now that I’m a mom, I totally get it. Guilt, appropriate or not, goes with the territory. We stew for nine months, watching everything that passes our lips, making sure not to sleep on our sides (or was it our backs?). Then after our bundles of joy arrive, it’s all about reading to them to encourage optimal brain development, nursing them if possible (just long enough, though), rocking them to sleep/letting them cry it out (I tended to alternate these randomly, the worst of all possible parenting choices), reciting Dr. Spock’s advice from memory (until the meltdown when we encounter Dr. Brazelton and his rather different theories). 

 

For me, mental health issues are, first and foremost, what I hate to have passed along to my children. Why oh why did I “gift” them with tendencies to depression, anxiety, panic attacks? Deep down I know it’s not anything I did deliberately, any more than Mom taking DES was anything she did to hurt me. I think of the truly terrible parents out there (some of whom, ironically, have kids who adore them), and I realize I’m not Monster Mom. But still…

 

It helps to understand that it isn’t too late, not ever. We hurt each other, but we can also help each other heal. If some guilt is inevitable, it doesn’t have to define us. I was the best mom I knew how to be way back when, and, now that I know (a little) better, I can do better. Joanie, too, did her best, and only took that med because she so wanted to keep me. 

 

And by honoring her fierce love, the love I also feel for my children, I can try to let go of guilt, and, I hope, wherever she is now, Mom has let go of it too. 

Poetry in Motion

Image from Webb Telescope-- light from billions of years ago

Don’t know about you, but I’ve been waiting for the Webb telescope all my life. And today’s photos did not disappoint. After all, it’s not every day you get a glimpse of the dawn of time! What was truly incredible was the explanation that this first picture captured an area of the universe(s) so small that it was like a grain of sand held at arm’s length. Just wow.

So naturally I thought of the opening line of William Blake’s “Auguries of Innocence” (be honest, you did too): “To see a world in a grain of sand.” Lest you think I’m bragging, I don’t understand 99% of that, or any other, Blake poem, but I’m pretty good at recalling random verses of things.

 

While I have tried my hand at poetry at various times in my life (you know: puberty, the onset of mental illness, that stuff), I do not consider myself a gifted poet. My standout verses included the poem I wrote at age seven when JFK died (I’ll spare you the quoting), and the blistering parody of “O Captain My Captain” by Walt Whitman called “O Superjock My Superjock” that I wrote for my high school paper, and which immediately endeared me to football Coach Maloof (not). 

 

I once read a LOT of poetry, and had my faves (Gerard Manley Hopkins, Robert Browning, Edna St. Vincent Millay). In recent years, what scant opportunities I’ve had to read something deep and reflective, I’ve devoted to prose. But Evan has rekindled my interest, and so has Pat, my friend and yoga teacher. Ev writes terrific poetry, and is a connoisseur of great writing. Pat has assigned me the task of coming up with a weekly reading for the end of class (so I usually choose a poem). 

 

Guess what? There’s some seriously awesome stuff being written these days. I used to thumb my nose at “free verse,” thinking the writer wasn’t clever enough to tackle villanelles or sonnets. But I really enjoy more unstructured poetry now, and wonder if perhaps as I age I’m becoming a little less structured myself (nah). 

 

I love the “distilled” quality of a good poem: what would take me paragraphs, if not volumes, to say, is perfectly expressed in a few lines. It’s daunting, though, because with my blog, for example, I always feel I can meander my verbal way to my point within my prescribed 500 words, whereas haiku takes no prisoners. 

 

This is the summer of New Beginnings for me, and I’d really love to plunge back into the world of meter and rhyme. I’ve heard that poets make serious bank! (perhaps I’ve been misinformed?) Even if there’s no money in it, I’m going to give it a whirl and see where the syllables land. 

 

And who knows? Some distant day I might be quoted too, and thus achieve literary immortality, just like my good buddy Blake. 

 

“It was a dark and stormy night/I very nearly died of fright.” 

 

Maybe it needs work?

Moments of Truth

Took a COVID test yesterday, one of several I’ve taken since I was exposed 10 days ago. To my relief, the tests have all been negative. At this point, I am free to go about my business without fearing that I am Typhoid Mary, 2022 edition. 

As I sat waiting for the magic second stripe to (hopefully not) appear, I recalled the many pregnancy tests I’ve taken over the years. In most of those cases, I was rooting for a positive (and, “several” times, that result came to pass). For both of these types of at-home tests, however, I was well aware of all that hinged on the outcomes. With the one: was I infected, and about to become ill? If so, had I meanwhile been sharing the “gift” of coronavirus unwittingly? With the other: was I expecting? If so, was I prepared to be mom of (fill in the blank number)? While that was an exciting and mostly happy prospect, memories of my previous lengthy and excruciating back labors pretty much crowded out any incipient joy. 

 

Life is filled with these moments, isn’t it? When so much hinges on a single new piece of information, and all you can do is wait for it to be revealed? College letters come to mind (for my kids, not me. After high school I took a gap year, then enrolled in George State University, which in 1975 only rejected you, I think, if you misspelled the name of the school, and maybe not even then). But for my offspring, those fat envelopes held a significant clue about their paths forward. When Sheridan received his letter from Juilliard, he got on the phone with a friend who was super stressed, and they opened their acceptances at the same time (btw Sher ended up happily at Curtis). 

 

I’d like to reassure the legions of worried young people that it will be OK, no matter what the university letters say. After all, look at me! I didn’t even finish my degree, and I’ve had a fabulous career in neuroscience! 

 

Oh, wait…maybe that’s a bad example.

 

As for the other results, COVID has taught me to take every vaccine and other precaution (who WANTS to take their chances on a ventilator? Not me!) but then realize, as those infernal mutated variants continue to appear, that at some point I may get it after all. So a positive test wouldn’t be the end of my world. And the false alarms when I thought I was pregnant and wasn’t? Maybe it just wasn’t the right time for a child to be born. 

 

The course of our futures may hinge on a few pivotal moments (the job offer accepted, the house bid rejected), but our reactions to those opportunities and setbacks do make a difference. Whether it be “no” from Yale or “yes” from the sellers of a first home, the answers, and our responses, create the up-and-down, unique and precious adventures that are our lives. 

 

We got this, friends.

My favorite positive test results!