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by Stephanie Klein, June 6, 2008 10:46 AM
"I know this girl, and she'd be perfect for you," I said to a single man-friend, "except, she has a cat." Normally, I'd never include such information, but I've wised up and realize today's man, as eager as he might seem to settle down, is still full of excuses not to. "What do you mean she'd be perfect for me? If she owns a cat, that's impossible. Even if she were willing to send the cat back where it came from, like Hades, the fact that she took it in to begin with says enough." That she has a big heart and loves to cuddle? "It says she's not for me, or any other normal guy. A guy who admits to liking cats is just not right in the head." "Robert DeNiro, in that Ben Stiller movie, you know Focker." "Meet the Parents, and let me stop you there. That was a line in a movie. He was paid to say that crap about cats making you work for their affections, that dogs are easy. The truth is, cats are stuck up and have a sense of entitlement, and the people who like them are worse. And I don't believe those people who say they love both. If they have a cat and dog in their house, it's always because the spouse forced them into the cat. It's like those people who like cilantro. It's just one of those things. Either you love it, or you hate it. There's no middle ground." "Forget it, then. I don't know what I was thinking. I bet she takes baths, too." I knew this would really set him off. "I bet she has incense in her house, and one of those holders for it, like mini-skis." "And she listens to Sade on repeat and puts too many pillows on the bed. And she's into needlepoint. I get it." "She better have incense. Cat litter and all." "Seriously, you really don't want to meet her just because she has a cat?!" "You just don't get it, do you? It's because you're a chick. Women with cats are their own kind of crazy. It's like you half-Jews. Yeah, yeah, I know, you were raised Jewish, can read Hebrew. But you know what? Every single halvesy I know is nuts, but they're all good in bed, so you can put the knife down." You're either a bath person or a shower person. That, I get. You might do both ? a shower out of necessity, even though you'd favor a bath. I'm not much of a bath girl, but I love the idea of soaps, of soaking the dead skin off, rolling it from beneath my nails as I scrape it off. Push back cuticles and grate all your calluses off. The big ideas come in the bath. The night after the conversation with my friend, I took a bath. I didn't light a candle or play music, but liquid soap was invited. I watched the runnels of cloudy water, streams, really. They looked like a village, the kind you see from up above, or in a video game, where you'll soon need to pick your best players and armor to fight a Cyclops. Then the water looked like ocean cream, and the peak of my breast poking out was an iceberg, the great mass of me underneath the water, unforeseeable. It's nice to sometimes see yourself that way, as a ringer. When I dried off, I dialed my friend. "I didn't mention that she's quite stacked." I expected that he'd say, "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" Instead he replied, "It's like I told you, it doesn't matter how much she's got going for her. It's too much to handle a woman with two pussies." Then I took a
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Guests
by Stephanie Klein, June 5, 2008 10:23 AM
Growing up I was the fat girl; the kids at school called me " Moose." I eventually lost weight, thinking thin would improve things, most noticeably my confidence, and I mistakenly carried this notion into adulthood, believing each man I dated would want me more, want me longer, or want me back, if he learned I'd lost a few pounds. Once I realized my appearance wasn't the key ingredient to true confidence, I committed The Little Engine That Could to memory, got a new antiperspirant, and learned to only look at myself in skinny mirrors. The truth is, I think the older we get the less tolerance we have for BS. That ability not to care, to be confident no matter what anyone else thinks, that's self-esteem. I recognize that my time here is limited. I played by my parents' rules as a child (and adult), made nice in the political work arena, sent my share of thank you notes for things one would be thankful to be rid of (hello, reindeer sweater), and I got to a point where I realized I could continue to live their lives or I could stop worrying so much what others thought or expected and finally start to live my own. I think that's what confidence is, the ability to appreciate and trust yourself. And that takes practice. So it makes sense that being prepared, as much as we're able to be, breeds confidence. I'm often asked, "How do you find the courage to publish such personal stories about your life? In print, on the web. Forever!" This of course ties into confidence, but I also believe by putting myself out there and sharing my deepest thoughts and insecurities, I'm able to feel more connected with the world, and I know in doing so, it helps others feel less alone. Just the same, sometimes there are things I'm still trying to work out in my life, so I turn to my bedside handwritten journal and write it all out, knowing it's just for me. I let it sit. Sometimes I return to the diary and decide that in publishing it, it might help someone else feel better about their own life. When I write in my journal, I'm completely free to write what I want, what I really need to say, keeping that panicked exacting editor voice of mine at bay. I write as if no one will ever read what I have to say because the moment I worry about the responses of others ? what my mother will think, my boss, or spouse ? is the moment I stop being honest. When we begin to edit and play it safe we stop being authentic
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Guests
by Stephanie Klein, June 4, 2008 10:13 AM
I forgot one of my best friend's birthdays. If I were living in New York, there'd have been an evite, or at least talk of how we'd be celebrating come the weekend. We'd detail where she'd be eating with her husband, what she was planning to wear, even. And then I'd ask about all the things she bought in the name of, "Well, my birthday is coming up, and I totally deserve it. So, why not?" And I'd get to see said purchases. But now that I live in Austin, TX, it's just not the same. With all my friends in other parts of the country, we aren't able to love one another in detail anymore. Broad strokes love is there, the deep kind that makes us all feel safe, that we can take for granted because we're certain it will always be there. With remarkable ease, we can say we're "pick-up friends" ? friends that pick up just where we left off. And it's true, we swing right into our back and forth, asking the right questions, getting to the heart of things. But, still, we miss the sidelines. And it sucks. I want to know what my friends are fighting about with their significant others ? not in the way you recount an argument a week later, in breezy, "Yeah, but we worked it all out" generalizations. I want radio announcements as it's happening. I want to hear the excitement in her voice, to know what the next step is with her job. What she's thinking of getting him for the holidays. Instead, phone calls are cut short by the lives we're living across the country. And the details are shared with the lives lived closer to where we are. With new friends, different friends, friends closer to where we are in our lives, situations and proximity. Even via IM, knowing the friend is so far away, we're less apt to discuss plans. There's very little "What are you up to tonight?" because as far as we're concerned, every night is the same, and it's lived without us in it. When you're in the same city, you get windows, unexpected opportunities to see each other. Other plans fall through, work lets out early, oh, and there's such lovely drinking to be had. "What's up tonight?" allows for, "Maybe we'll grab dinner." Or, "Come over, and let's bake and play Christmas music and sing like muppets!" But across the country it becomes, "What's new?", which is never answered with details. It only asks for the general. One friend used to Instant Message me for wardrobe brainstorming before a party. It's harder now. I don't get to see her as often, no longer know which are her best pants or shoes. I no longer get the dish on my friends' dishes, dates, or dramas. I get the broad strokes. The panicked phone calls, the big news, the "we need to catch up already!" And I miss the unimportant and ordinary in my extraordinary friends. I miss ping-ponging phone calls, the: "Oh wait, that's him on the other line now. I'll call you right after and tell you what he says." When the grandparents are able to spend time with my fifteen-month-old twins, I notice they all take pride in observing. They feel more connected with Lucas and Abigail because of what they notice. "He rubs his ears when he's tired." When they can speak of their grandchildren in details, it makes them feel like they know them, like they're closer than they really are. They can watch on the nanny cams we have stationed in the playroom, so they don't miss out on the little things. "He took twelve consecutive steps today and seems to absolutely love the yellow car. Is that a bath toy?" All of us feel more intimately connected by what we know about others. And when we see it for ourselves, it's tenfold. Left with outlines, we get less to love. We miss the nuances, the everyday dramas, and in turn, the friendship we had. I fiercely love my friends and know they love me just the same. But it's still different. I know each of them would drop everything if I needed them, and they know, I too, would schlep my dimpled rear across the country for them, kids in tow. And there's comfort in that, but it doesn't come with
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Guests
by Stephanie Klein, June 3, 2008 10:48 AM
As a young girl, my father gave me this valuable advice: TELL THE TRUTH OR SOMEONE ELSE WILL TELL IT FOR YOU. So I became a memoirist. Today, a lot of people come to me and say, "But you're too young to have written a memoir already." And I correct them ? actually, I've written two. As much as I find it both therapeutic and rewarding to write about my life, sometimes I feel restrained and need to shake the stale out of my writing. That's when I rely on writing exercises ? just about the only exercise I actually enjoy. I mostly look to fiction writing prompts, replacing "two characters" with "two people" in the instructions. Sometimes the fictional activities free my writing up, and I'm able to tell a truthful story of my past with an improved creative structure. Here are some of the books I've used; the list is not expansive.
Sometimes I'll pluck a word or phrase from a book of slang and try to weave it into a fictional exercise. The phrase faute de mieux ? which Crosby, Stills, & Nash turned into "Love the One You're With" ? led me to write from the perspective of Ibsen's Nora on my blog. I find that some of the prompts in the first two books I've mentioned are helpful because they limit how much time you should spend on each exercise to a few minutes. They aren't supposed to be sensational works of art, but instead are vehicles to get your brain lubed up. It's why I laugh when anyone comments that I could "try harder" on my blog. I think people forget that I don't TRY to put my best foot forward when writing my blog. They forget I'm working on writing two other books, that I'm raising my twins, and picking my nose. These things take time. I blog for fun and see my site as an online space for me to dump my days. It's my "today I..." place. When you think about it, it's really a writing exercise of its own. Except, it's one that writes back. Here's my take on faute de mieux: I'm with you, but I prefer him, especially now. Now that you've revealed you, now that we're past polite and I see and live with what lives behind door number two. You weren't my first choice; you were my downfall. We had a rhythm, a cadence between us; something you and I don't have. Won't have. I hid with him, under the lip of a sheet, and I could stare at him for days. His perfect face, the crinkle of his eyes. He sweats when he sleeps. "You smell like sick," I told him. Or was it, "you smell like dead." It doesn't matter. I saw his flaws. I could live with him. Forever. Vacuuming the floors of our house, the one we may never have because I chose wrong. I'm here with you, instead of in bed with my likeness. Listening to his music, the stuff he played me on his iPod, and then kept asking if he'd ever played it for me. I could listen to the way his mind works and want to drink it. I loved his body. I want you to hurt. I can't sleep. He can't either. I have an unspoken insomnia with him, where we know, without speaking, we're in each other's thoughts. I cheat on you with him in sleep. When you come to me, sleep marks still on my hands, impressions on my face, you can see him. "Give me a kiss," you say, your breath a rancid blanket, and I want to tell you, you're not my husband. I kiss you quickly and feign a smile. You're not the life I should be
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Guests
by Stephanie Klein, June 2, 2008 10:21 AM
When my family first moved into our house on Long Island, New York, I was told there were girls my age who lived across the street. I didn't know their names, or that they were two years older, or that it would even matter that they were two years older, so I stood in our front yard and yelled in a sing-song voice, "New neighbors, new neighbors, come out and play!" But they didn't. It wasn't because my lungs were underdeveloped. They'd heard me just fine. In fact, they'd sometimes peep their heads out from behind their screen doors and repeat the chant back to me in an exaggerated whine, "New neighbor, new neighbor... no." Then the sound of their front doors slamming. I eventually came to meet Janene, a girl my age with whom I'd fight over unfair games of Monkey In The Middle. But in all of two days, we'd forget what had come to pass earlier in the week. We were like middle-aged men that way. I'd sometimes go to Janene's house, six houses down the block from mine, and we'd visit her neighbor, an elderly woman with breasts that hung like longtail weasels. Her neighbor ? who incidentally was also my neighbor, though to this day, I've never considered her so ? had thick slices of glass for spectacles, and when she spoke, I'd sometimes be in a position to see through them, a warped disproportionate world. I'd only ever been invited inside her kitchen, which smelled not of a restorative chicken broth, but of cat. I didn't know if it was cat piss, or breath, or litter I smelled, but I knew, for certain, it was a cat house. Or a guinea pig. Still, no one but school-aged children borrowing from their kindergarten class had a guinea pig. Maybe she had a caged rabbit somewhere. I couldn't be sure. She served us Coca-Cola from a glass bottle and mixed it with whole milk. I leaned my cheek against the cool plastic place mat as I watched the contents of my glass, the meeting of two sides. It was a cloudy mix of black and white mingling as if a wave had just crashed and the currents were sorting things out. Who belonged where. No, you, you there, you go up there. That's it. I imagined each bubble resisting the milky enzymes, rising to the top in struggle. And she wanted me to drink this? Milk?! It even sounded thick. It's why I called milk "blulka" as an infant. I remember wincing when the concoction was offered, telling Janene privately, "that's so grossatating" in a very hushed tone, fearing I'd hurt the old woman's feelings. Just the same, I accepted the woman's offer with a smile, despite her need to pat at my head. Why did Janene suggest coming here? I wondered. Couldn't we run now and go play Register at my house? But I just sat there, at the kitchen table of an elderly neighbor, holding my cola gumbo, straining to get a glimpse of a cat she claimed not to have. "Do you like your drink, dears?" I nodded as if I were auditioning for a Jell-O commercial. Considering my tendency to be a bit of a ham, I suppose I even licked my lips. She seemed so pleased, as if she'd just hailed us the moon. I couldn't imagine refusing her. It was bad enough that she didn't have any grass in her yard, which is not, incidentally, a euphemism. She called the front of her house her "garden." Which is just creepy when said by an old woman. Mystical, perhaps, if there were a trellis and actual leaves. Foliage. A decorative bench, some bird feed, pansies, and shrubs. Herbs, even. Perhaps a gaudy statue with overbalanced testicles holding a watering can while flexing. But it's downright creepy when your garden consists of cement. "Rock" and "Garden" really shouldn't be permitted to mingle. And in the remembering, it now comes to mind that it was Janene's plan all along. She liked to visit with this neighbor because she offered her cola and milk. This was the lure for her. It wasn't a necessary task, an insistence from her own mother to visit with the elderly as a good deed. A chore that needed to be crossed off a list. It was probably done in spite of her mother's insistence that she keep the hell away from the lady with the rocks in her head and yard. And it just goes to show, there's no accounting for taste, or the friends we choose to
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