Friends, Romans...

Did you know that it's Memoir Week at Slate? Well, it is. The memoirists are tackling the issue of how they told their family and friends that they've written about them in ways that may or may not be flattering. I haven't read all the essays because I'm saving it for next week when Caleb's on spring break. I like my online reading to be punctuated by requests for food and pleas to look at accomplishments on the Gameboy.

I've always referred to my book as "narrative nonfiction," which is a sure way to get people to look at you as if you're making things up. I had a conversation with my fabulous editor Jackie early on, in which we talked about what kind of book this is. "Yeah," I said, "where is it going to be shelved in the bookstore?"

("Well, let's hope right up front," she said, which is one of the many reasons I heart the woman.)

As it turns out, Practically Perfect is going to be called a memoir. But reading these essays on Slate, it's pretty clear to me that my book's not a memoir, at least not in the same way. For one, I never tackled this issue of how to tell the people, because I showed the people--Brandon, my mom, my sisters, one friend in particular--as I was writing it. My story is not one that relies on a certain type of portrayal of my people.

There's that, and also that I'm a little bit of the chickenshit.

The only person I'm apprehensive about reading the book is Caleb. Not that he'd be allowed to right now; there are too many f-bombs, too many admissions that I'm not always sure what I'm doing. But someday ... someday he'll have opinions about my publicly stated opinions of being his mother. I suppose I'll do the only morally responsible thing then. I'll take him aside, show him how to set up his own Blogger account, and let him have at it.

I'm kidding. If he wants to do that, he can figure out how to set up his own account, just like The Olden Days.

Pull You Close and I Drink You Up

It is time now to turn to the univeral language. Love.

Here's a fun bit of research from PPIEW: In happy romantic relationships, Partner A will see all sorts of wonderful traits in Partner B that neither Partner B's friends nor Partner B himself see. In unhappy romantic relationships, Partner A sees all sorts of faults that are likewise invisible to Partner B and Partner B's friends.

In my case, "Partner B" stands for "Partner Brandon." And he really is either as fun, smart, hot, kind, and generally awesome as I think he is, or I'm in love with him. So, it's a win-win, as they say in the old country. ("Partner A," you'll note in this case, stands for "Partner Alienating Her Readers With the Mushy Talk.")

Today is our ten-year anniversary, and as much as I love him, I've been unable to find Brandon a suitable present to mark the day we made our sweet love legal. Ten years is traditionally the tin, or aluminum, anniversary. You'd think that might be helpful, but alas it's not.

I called my mom yesterday afternoon and told her about the aluminum or tin. "The only thing I can think of is wearing some aluminum foil pasties," I said.

"Or you can have Krissy up," she said. Tin is Krissy's nickname, as in Kristin.

"Yes," I said. "Here, Brandon. I got you my sister for our anniversary."

"No, I just meant that you could take her out with you."

"Here, Brandon. I got you the younger, slimmer version of me."

"Maybe Krissy could wear the pasties," Mom said, laughing. "That would be fun!"

"For whom?"

We laughed. Tin and aluminum. Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha! Ha. Aah. I got quiet.

"Are you going put this in your blog?"

Sorry, Mamasan.

*
Confidential to the Befuddler: There will be a cold aluminum can of beer waiting for you. And ... other things. Happy decade, babe--here's to decades more of people helping people. I love you!

(Don't) Steal This Post

You might find it hard to believe, but I am not all happiness and light.

Yesterday I was pissed off for a good five hours. I was talking to Ruth, who heads up Brain, Child's advertising and marketing. We were chatting about some of the calls she gets, and she mentioned that she got one from a P.R. person who wanted our media kit (which is basically a little package that tells potential advertisers about our demographics, ad rates, blahdee blah.) This caller represented a "very successful" online magazine for mothers that was getting ready to become a print pub. She was also wanting the tips on becoming a successful print magazine.

Huh. Kind of weird, in a Single White Female way.

Then we looked at the online magazines for mothers, and it gets weirder. There's a website that is indeed moving into print. Its fare does not look tempting. But its mission statement does.

Or not so much tempting as... familiar.

Here's a little something Stephanie and I wrote in some promo material about Brain, Child: "Our philosophy is pretty simple: Motherhood is worthy of literature. And there are a lot of ways to mother, all of them interesting. We're proud to have published articles and essays that are smart, down-to-earth, sometimes funny, and sometimes poignant. Take a peek at our current issue to see what we mean. Or read our mission statement to get the full-blown manifesto."

From the editor of this website: "[Redacted] features unique writing by mothers on the ups and downs and many challenges of motherhood. We seek writing that is vivid, complex, intelligent, and down-to-earth. ... Our philosophy is simple: Motherhood is always worthy of literature. We are a literary magazine for mothers with something to say. We're proud to have published essays that are poignant, smart, raw, and sometimes, humorous."

Woman? It's called plagiarism. Look it up.

On Being an Athletic Supporter

I'm not, and have never been, an athlete. I was the only girl who didn't do gymnastics in elementary school. I once got socked in the head with a softball when my sister Erin and my dad were practicing; I was sitting in the grass reading a little Nancy Drew at the time. In high school, I sprained my ankle not on the balance beam, but near it.

So when Caleb first started Little League, I didn't know what to expect. Because in addition to the sensitive, the athletic are another category of folk that I'm not sure I know how to handle. And I certainly didn't know what to make of the parents of the athletic. There's a certain reputation that you may be familiar with.

Last night Brandon took Caleb to his first practice of this season, and he reported that it seems as if we got a good team. Meaning, none of the following*:

-The Vaguely Scary Dad: Quietly berates his child and thinks no one can hear him when he's berating the other children under his breath. Always brings his large dog (that you have to suspect is somehow compensatory) and scares the younger siblings of the players with it.

-The Bossy Parent: Cheerful, but you damn well better remember to bring snack when it's your turn. Because she's reminded you thirty times already.

-The Old Hat: She has a hundred children, and #98 is on the team. She is neither surprised nor delighted by any turn of event because she's been witness to EVERYTHING, sister. Also, she calls bases "bags."

-The Very Important Parent: Don't interrupt. He's in the middle of Having It All.

-The Amnesiac: You meet her at every single school and extra-curricular function. And every single time, she has no idea who you are.

I think it'll be a good spring in the stands.

*With apologies to Tracy Sutton, of "Playdate Mommies from Hell."

Luck, Luck, Goose

Sometimes Caleb and I will be hanging out in some idyllic mother-son way, lounging on the couch, say, or walking hand in hand through the Kmart parking lot, and I'll say to him, "How did I get so lucky to be your mama?"

And he'll say, "I don't know. You just did."

It's as good an answer as any. One of the things that drove me nuts about many of the self-help experts was this tidy correlation between action and consequence. I know that it's meant to be empowering. I know that it's supposed to curb whining and inspire people to fix what ails them. But when you flip it around--you brought on whatever bad stuff that's going down in your life--it get pretty creepy pretty fast.

I kept bumping up against this issue, also known as There Is No Such Thing As Luck. Which is crazy talk. I didn't do anything in particular to get the wonder that is my healthy, smart, fun boy, any more than other parents did anything to get their children who got cancer or their suicidal teenagers. Yes, there are such things as bad parenting, genetic predispositions, uninformed decisions. But there's also such a thing as hard situations that happen for complex reasons, or no reason at all.

On the face of it, this sounds like the more depressing mindset to have. I can totally see why people are drawn to the experts who say you can grab Destiny by the suspenders and ride that bronco to success.

But, really, I think it's a lot easier to have gratitude--for the eight-year-old hand in yours, for the afternoon on the porch with a beer and a card game, for the nice email from your aunt--if it feels undeserved and untainted with self-congratulations. Also, if you roll like this, when the bad stuff happens, you might be able to take it without, or with less, self-flagellation.

In any case, it was a comforting thought to have once we were actually standing in the Kmart, having less than idyllic mother-son discussion regarding the Easter Bunny's generosity, or lack thereof, in electronics genre of gifts.

It Depends on How You Look at It

For most areas of life, there really are very few revolutions in the conventional wisdom. For losing weight, say, it all comes down to: Burn more calories and/or intake fewer of them. Or, for almost all interpersonal relations, a good rule is: Don't be a prick. So what makes the next big self-help bestseller? You can bet your bippy it's the marketing.

This occurred to me last night as I settled up the bill for our meal. If someone had said to me, "Would you like to go to a fondue restaurant?" I would have (and did), reply, "Sounds dandy!"

But I might have reconsidered if someone asked me, "Would you like to sit a table for a very long time and be served a plate of raw meat that you then have to boil yourself?"

*

There's a little change in the schedule. The always excellent Theo Pauline Nestor and I will be at Third Place Books in Seattle on June 13, not June 14.

Yukking It Up

Is laughter the best medicine? No: Medicine is the best medicine. (I think I stole that from someone.)

But if I have a choice between funny and not-funny, the funny is always going to be more pleasurable to me (and probably to most people). Yesterday, I saw Mary Roach, author of Spook and Stiff, speak a Virginia Festival of the Book event. I approach these events, where I absolutely love love love the writer's work, with equal parts excitement and dread. Excitement because the lady's work delights me. Dread because there is always the possibility that the writer is an asshole.

Long ago, I covered a big book event where I had to interview a star roster of writers. I can tell you that Rita Mae Brown ain't nothing but a pleasure to be around. John Gardner, who now writes the James Bond books, has both a strong English accent and a speech impediment, which is a challenge for a reporter.

And then there was this other writer, the very famous one, the reason I wanted to cover this event in the first place. Like a lot of young writers, I adored her work, bought her books, and was prepared to fawn.

I approached her and introduced myself. She brushed me off; she was dismissive. She was rude. Long story short, I can't read her work any longer. Since then, her star has dimmed, and you know what? Good.

I am a petty, petty woman.

So, anyway, I went to this event yesterday, and I'm happy to report that Mary Roach seems very nice. Her schedule had her rushing off to another event across grounds immediately after the one I attended at the med school, so I didn't get to meet her and have her sign a book. (I have both of them anyway.)

Since it was a medical school event, she mostly talked about Stiff, her book about all the different ways cadavers serve the living (mostly through organ donation and in research, in fields from forensics to automotive safety.) There was a lot of talk about the ethics of working with cadavers--what respect, in terms of a corpse, means. If you've read the book, you know that it clearly doesn't mean gentle handling.

Someone asked what she plans for her own remains. And she said that she has two applications at home for donating her body to science at universities in the Bay area, where she lives. She's at a stand-still. "I feel like a high school senior," she said, tempted to call the schools and see what kind of deal she could broker for her own cadaver. This is what I love about her work, that it's dark and funny and comforting on some level. Yes, we will die, but we can also think of it as graduation. I can't wait for her next book, whatever it may be.

*

Speaking of the funny, do yourself a favor and read this. And if you know something awful about the author, keep a lid on it.