When I first told my family that I had written
a novel, the news was met with some disbelief, followed by major confusion.
First, let's examine the disbelief:
Other than my cousin Peter and a couple of friends, no one knew I was working on I'm with Stupid. Only after I was done and it was picked up by a publisher did I call my mom. She was surprised and excited. "Really," she said. "You did that?" A pause. "How long is it?" I told her it was 322 pages. She became giddy. Later I talked to my dad. "How long is it?" he asked. I then talked to my brother. "Mom said you wrote a book. Cool. How long is it?" Only my mother asked what the book was about. My dad and brother seemed exclusively concerned with the length. Maybe they did not want to get excited for me if it turned out I was bragging about having written a pamphlet of some sort. Over the next two months I got the "how long is it?" question a good two dozen times from other people. When I mentioned the book many of them looked at me cautiously. Only after I offered up how long it was did I get congratulated.
Adding to my dilemma was the fact that I lacked a book to show. It would be months before the publisher printed physical copies. But people immediately wanted to see it — as proof, I guess. Not having anything to show started to make me feel like I was inventing the whole story. Some people could not have been more skeptical had I strolled up and said: "Everyone! Attention! I had a baby today! Sorry I didn't tell you I was pregnant. For nine months. But anyway, I can't wait for you to meet little Freddie. He has my eyes! You'll be meeting him soon, but not yet!!!"
One of my most vivid exchanges about the book occurred at a family party, where I was approached by an uncle.
"Where is this book?" he softly asked. He was staring deep into my eyes, as though trying to catch a glimpse of the insane person lurking behind them.
I told him that the book would be in stores in a couple of months. It was not in stores just yet. He took a step back. "You wrote a book or didn't you?" he asked, his voice rising.
I explained how publishing works. I nodded and smiled. "Yes, it's done," I enthusiastically offered. "It will be in stores soon!"
"Right," he said.
My smile faded slowly. I felt like a patient in the psychiatric ward, trying to convince my doctor that I am friends with little green Martians.
"It's really great!" I blurted. "You'll see!"
"Uh-huh," he answered.
I started telling him about the plot but he was not listening. He interrupted me. "How long is it?" he suspiciously asked.
And then there was the confusion:
Approximately 3 weeks before my novel was published I learned that my mom had been referring to it by the wrong title. Here is our phone conversation, transcribed basically verbatim.
Mom: "Tell me again what the name of your book is. I was talking with someone. There's been some confusion."
Me: "I'm with Stupid."
There was a long pause.
Mom: "I'm with Stupid?"
Me: "Yeah. What's the matter?"
Mom: "Are you sure it's called I'm with Stupid?"
Me, frowning: "Yes, I'm sure."
Mom: "You told me it was called I'm with Crazy."
Me, shaking my head and turning on the kitchen sink: "I never told you that."
Mom: "Was it called I'm with Crazy at any point? Did you change the name?"
Me, now cradling the phone against my ear while washing dishes: "No, mom. I did not change the name. It was always called I'm with Stupid."
Mom: "I thought it was called I'm with Crazy. Are you sure that is not what it's called?"
Me, dropping the sponge into the sink: "No. I mean, yes. Yes. I'm sure it's not called I'm with Crazy. It was never called that."
Mom: "Oh. That's strange. Well I've been telling people it's called I'm with Crazy. I have to go make calls."
÷ ÷ ÷
The next day mom called again. She was already laughing when I picked up the phone.
Mom: "You'll never guess what your father did."
Me: "What did dad do?"
Mom: "I was just in the yard with your father. Our neighbor came up to him and asked about your novel. He asked your father what your novel is called. And your father raised his chin with pride and said loudly: 'I'm Stupid.' I had to jump in and correct him. I don't know where he got that from! Isn't that funny?"
Me: "You know what else is funny? Yesterday, when you tried to convince me that my book was called I'm with Crazy."
Mom: "I am sure you told me it was called I'm with Crazy. But maybe I misheard."
÷ ÷ ÷
Last night, in anticipation of this post, I called my mom to verify that she finally had the title right.
Me: "What are you doing?"
Mom: "I'm watching America's Funniest Home Videos. I was watching the presidential debate but they kept saying the same thing, so I turned it off."
Me: "What's the name of my novel?"
Mom: "What?"
Me: "What's the name of my novel? What's the title?"
Mom, answering tentatively, as though reading from a piece of paper: "I'm with... Stupid."
Me: "That is correct. I just wanted to make sure you weren't still calling it I'm with Crazy."
Mom: "Oh, that was a long time ago. Besides, now I have the book. I keep it displayed on the coffee table, so I can just look at the cover when I need to."
My family is wonderful, and they truly crack me up. Material, material, material.
Let's switch topics. Politics? Fine by me. The last presidential debate was on last night (which, as you know, my mom turned off so she could watch America's Funniest Home Videos). For some reason the debate got me thinking about politicians' hairdos. We don't have a lot of great hair to choose from. The person with the funniest hair is Joe Biden. His is the most politician-y. Although I'm extremely alarmed by the length he sports in back. Have you noticed that? It's long enough that the ends curl. If he's not careful he'll have a mullet. I think Barack Obama should talk to him. Or ground him, or something.
So yeah, no great politician hair during this election cycle. The person I know with the best politician hair isn't running this year. He's Johnny, the son of my friends Renee and Chris. I think Johnny came out of the womb holding a comb and blow dryer. His 'do is always perfectly styled. It just falls naturally, perfectly into place — Renee does not have to touch it. At one point we laughingly started calling him John Edwards. (That is, until we learned that Edwards cheated on his wife. Now we hate Edwards and his cheating hair.) But back to Johnny.
When Johnny turned one, Renee took him to a professional photography studio, where he had his picture taken in a tiny suit and tie. The picture hangs on their living room wall. In it, Johnny's hair looks amazing. He is like a pint-sized governor. Now when I see him I sometimes get scared that he is going to raise my taxes. This morning I tried to get Renee to send me via email the picture of Johnny in that suit and tie. But, because it was professionally done, she does not have a digital version. Her husband Chri