Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life

by Amy Krouse Rosenthal

  See also: Cheek Bouncing; Words That Look Similar

  FEARS

  I am scared of the dark, and of our garage, basement, and any mirrors at night.

  FEEL LIKE MYSELF

  I make my sevens with a cross through the middle, same with my Z’s—when I try to write them without crossing, it feels uncomfortably unfinished and I have the urge to make the cross. I have been wearing the same perfume, Fracas, since eighth grade, when my boyfriend Marc’s mother introduced it to me. When I run into people I haven’t seen for a long time, they will invariably remark, You smell the same, you smell like Amy. I wear mascara and eyeliner, but I never ever wear rouge, no matter how pale I am; I must have a teen memory of feeling makeup-y and clownlike with it brushed along my freckled cheekbones. I took my watch off when I was twenty-three and haven’t worn one since. I have had long hair most of my life; I’ll occasionally get bored and cut it, then start to not feel like myself and grow it back. If I don’t like the shoes I have on, I feel plain, even if I like the rest of my outfit. I hate wearing socks, and resort to them only in extreme weather conditions. I simply do not like the way they feel on my feet. Friends often comment, it is freezing out, and you’re not wearing any socks! I look down, I know, I know, I say. Or they e-mail me about some dinner plans and say, P.S. Put on some socks! I have not worn panty hose since I left for college, no matter how dressy the occasion; they feel like the leg equivalent of foundation makeup: false, itchy, and not me. I like my toenails painted, and my fingernails short and unpainted. I do not feel like myself in nice jewelry—I wear a two-dollar thumb ring and a five-dollar toe ring. I stopped wearing earrings altogether in my late twenties. I gravitate toward thrift-shop jackets. I am not a purse person. Maybe it has to do with being small; I feel like a girl playing dress-up, like what am I doing with this fancy thing. I bought a brown leather backpack in Greece when I was twenty-four and have been carrying it around ever since. It is now very worn-in, and feels very much like me.

  [Offering]

  Fracas was created in 1948 by Robert Piguet.

  It blends jasmine, gardenia, lily of the valley, and white iris.

  A complimentary sample is available to the first one hundred readers to request it. (encyclopediaofanordinarylife.com)

  FEMINIST

  Can you be a feminist yet still do a double take when you see a woman UPS driver?

  See also: Doctor in the House

  FICTION

  I am not attracted to fiction, and I feel bad about this; I perceive it is a weakness, but what can you do. I can’t read fiction without wondering, Is this part true? Is that part about the grizzly attack true? If it didn’t happen to the author, who did it happen to, and are they okay? The other thing with fiction is that the inevitable paragraphs about the weather/sky/trees instantly derail me.

  There was a gentle breeze. There was a gust of wind. It was cold. It was hot. There were birds, a still lake, a pond, an ocean, mountains, birds chirping, city sounds, tall trees, bare trees, trees casting shadows, a blue sky, a black sky, a sunset sky, a round white moon.

  On with it. So what about the moon? There it is, it’s very cool, I love the moon, too, we all like the moon, the moon is fascinating, what with space travel and men bouncing in those fat suits up there. But what do all the moon adjectives (full, half, a sliver) have to do with Josie (the redheaded, diabetic protagonist) shopping for lawn furniture with her ex-husband? Other people appreciate these descriptions, and I’m trying to be like them; I want to be like them. Please help me. Show me a story that describes a moon in a new way, in a way that matters, in a way that will make everything okay. If you could e-mail me that passage, I’d be most grateful.

  FIFTEEN MINUTES

  FIFTY STATES

  I can rattle off the fifty states in alphabetical order in seventeen seconds.

  FLAHOOLICK

  Flahoolick is an Irish word meaning openhanded, generous, expansive, and oh much else.… Anything can be flahoolick under certain conditions. Even water, supposing you were crawling on your hands and knees across the desert and in the broiling sun and came upon a waterfall though what it would be doing there we are not prepared to say. Lemon squash can be flahoolick if you are nine years old or inordinately fond of lemon squash. Draught beer is flahoolick; large linen napkins are flahoolick; long nightshirts are virtually always flahoolick.

  —Howard Gossage, advertising writer, 1917—1969

  It’s such a great word—in and of itself flahoolick. It feels good to say: You’ve got the fla action and the hoo, and then the satisfying crispness of the final syllable, a syllable that happens to be a word that conjures up lollipops.

  In the course of our daily generic routine, we seem programmed to seek out that which is flahoolick, to arm ourselves with flahoolick antibodies. Stopping for a cup of coffee on our way to work is an instant jolt of flahoolickness—and it goes beyond the caffeine; the tingle begins in the ordering of the coffee, the anticipation of the treat, the receiving, the way you feel walking out with the hot cardboard (crutch) in your hand. When my mother-in-law plays bridge online and the deep, anonymous voice says, “Nice move,” it makes her happy, or at least makes her momentarily immune to nonhappiness, because it is flahoolick. Similarly, my neighbor trained her parrot to say, “Hi, Cutie!” every time she enters the room. She may think she did this because it is novel and amusing, but on some level she did this because it is flahoolick to be greeted by someone who is clearly glad to see you.

  Soft pita bread dipped in Baba Ganoush is flahoolick.

  Hearing NPR correspondent Sylvia Poggioli say her name is flahoolick. SIL-vi-A Pa-JO-li.

  A lit-up Ferris wheel in the distance is flahoolick.

  FLIGHT HABITS

  I always start off clean and organized when I fly. I tuck my magazines and earphones in the seat pocket, place my backpack neatly under the seat in front of me, lay my book on my lap … but about twenty minutes after takeoff, I’ve got papers everywhere, pens have fallen between the cushion crevices, pretzel and earphone wrappers are strewn on the floor, and one of my shoes has disappeared way under the seat.

  FLYING

  When the captain announces we’re beginning our descent, and we’re still pretty high above the city, I’ll think, If the plane went down now, we would definitely not be okay. A bit lower, and no, we still wouldn’t be okay. Maybe now, now we might be low enough that if it crashed, we might be okay.

  FOLDED QUILTS

  Marie-Claude bought a beautiful antique cabinet with glass doors, repainted it, and filled it with a small stack of nicely folded handmade quilts. It is a joy to look at. It doesn’t mean to, but it represents everything my life currently is not. It’s fair to say I covet the cabinet. I hope to one day have the time and wherewithal to dote on such a fine item.

  FOLDING CHAIRS

  I called a rental company to see about renting some folding chairs. An older gentleman answered. He sounded jovial, full-bellied, possibly wearing suspenders. As he asked me questions—how many chairs? what day do you need them?—I could hear a woman in the background. It became clear that they were business partners, and that they were husband and wife. Every time he asked me something, she would correct him, or say, Did you ask her? just before he was about to ask me that. I could picture her—small, in a tent dress—standing about four feet diagonally behind him.

  FREE TO BE … YOU AND ME

  I was talking with a friend about how much we loved the Free to Be … You and Me album when we were kids. The theme song. The two newborns, played by Mel Brooks and Marlo Thomas. “William’s Doll.” “It’s All Right to Cry.” “Dudley Pippin and the Principal.” I listen to it now, with my kids, and it’s bittersweet. Its production style exudes 1972, something about the piano and the background chorus and the tinniness. It’s how Saturday-morning cartoon theme songs sounded. It’s how movie theme songs sounded. It’s how that whole decade sounded.

  My friend was saying she hadn’t heard the album in y
ears, and I told her I had an extra copy I could give her; it was a bit scratched, but she could have it. In fact, I could bring it to her the next night because we had just figured out that, just by chance, we had dinner reservations at the same restaurant.

  On the way to the restaurant I listened to the two CDs to figure out which was the scratched one. I realize a bigger person would keep the scratched one and pass on the clean copy. When my husband and I pulled up in front of the restaurant, Free to Be was blasting through our speakers.

  When we returned to our car a few hours later, after having successfully passed off the scratched CD to our friend, the valet guy hops out of the driver’s seat and says, Dude! That was awesome! I’m not kidding you, I haven’t heard Free to Be … You and Me since I was a kid!

  FRENCH FRIES

  How great is it to find a few stray bonus fries at the bottom of your McDonald’s bag?

  See also: Q-Tip

  FRIEND YOU THOUGHT CONFIDED IN YOU

  You think the friend is confiding in you, and in you alone. See, he is telling you something important here; he’s sharing personal details, and excerpts from a confrontational dialogue between him and X. He has chosen to share this with you because you are a rare kind of friend, and he values your opinion and unique brand of feedback. Yep, you’re good friends, the two of you. But a few sentences into his saga, something in his story triggers him to say, Did I already tell you this? And that, bam, is the instant giveaway. He has told others, most likely many others—hell, he can’t even keep track. No, you were not hand-picked at all. He just wants to talk about this, over and over, doesn’t really matter with whom. You were simply the next one up. Now you don’t even want to hear the rest of the story, let alone give him advice; who cares about his dumb personal life.

  See also: Humbling; Running into Someone; Special

  G

  GAS TANK

  Every. Single. Solitary. Time I go to get gas I have to lean out the window to see which side the tank is on.

  GLOVE

  I dropped my glove. As soon as I realized it, I turned around and retraced my steps. I couldn’t find it anywhere. I couldn’t imagine where it could be. Would I be able to find it if, say, my life depended on me finding it? I mean, literally, if someone said, Find that glove or we will kill you, would I be able to find it? I imagined spending hour after hour searching for it, in bushes, under cars. I would have to interview people who were on the street at the time. I would have to get everyone’s phone number right now, every single person on the street. And then, because so many people are already gone, I’d have to put flyers up on street poles and trees. Were you on this street at 8:45 A.M. Friday? Have you seen this glove?

  I would talk to many people about the glove. Someone would recall seeing it in a puddle. No, finding this glove would not be easy.

  GLUE

  I asked Jason to pick up some glue traps at the hardware store. He didn’t read the list I had given him closely, so he came home not with glue traps but just glue—in fact, two kinds, Elmer’s and super glue. As I was emptying the plastic bag, I pictured him at the store: She wants glue, but I don’t know which kind. To be on the safe side I will get her one of each. Imagining him standing there in the aisle, thinking that, I felt sentimental, very much in love.

  GO

  I get this weird sort of rush when an ambulance comes racing down the street, and I, along with all the other drivers, quickly pull over to let the more important vehicle pass. It’s as if us little cars on the side of the road are cheering, Go! Go! You can do it! Go, important ambulance, go! The experience invariably leaves me feeling proud and giddy.

  GOOD TO BAD MOOD

  GROCERIES

  I do not like when our house is jam-packed full of new groceries. There is simply too much good food on hand, too many options. When we consume some of it, I feel better, as if we’ve done a worthwhile, necessary thing. The elimination feels satisfying, not so much in the pleasure of the eating, but in the minimization of what’s available.

  See also: Completion

  GROCERY CART

  As I was paying at the grocery store, I noticed I forgot to put what was on the bottom of my cart on the conveyor belt. It was just a single rose, wrapped in brown paper. In a split second, I had to decide:

  BAD GIRL.….… OR.….… GOOD GIRL

  Say nothing Point to the rose

  save a couple bucks tell her I forgot

  be on my way add it to the bill

  I was in a hurry and didn’t really want to take the time to be good (remind me to tell you about a psychology experiment I read about where seminary students did a good deed only if they weren’t in a hurry), but somehow the combination of the solitary orangey-pink rose and the doelike faces of my kids standing there pushed me into the honorable camp. Fine. I forked over the extra $2.11 and off we went. Epilogue: While unpacking the groceries at home, I realized the rose was still sitting there at the store, paid for, on the bottom of the cart.

  GROUP PERSON

  Taking a step class on vacation reminded me of just how much I detest group aerobic activity. Four to the left. Four to the right. Up, down, clap, kick. Come on, everybody. Louder, I can’t hear you. That’s it. Again! In general, I am not a group person. I don’t go out with the girls, which I used to feel bad about, and which I know many of my friends enjoy. I prefer hanging out with one or two friends at a time. I love reading books and seeing movies, but not within the structure of a club that meets monthly in the living room. Charise and I have formed a couple clubs over the years—we even made laminated membership cards—but we’ve kept the group small: her and me.

  In Brownie uniform, 1973 Last major group activity. I lasted one session.

  H

  HANDWRITING

  Every now and then I will try on a new handwriting style. It is like adopting a new persona. Cool, I’ll think. But then if I am not paying close enough attention, I will forget and slip back into my natural handwriting.

  HAPPINESS

  I’m turning left. Look, everyone, my blinker is on, and I’m turning left. I am so happy to be alive, driving along, making a left turn. I’m serious. I am doing exactly what I want to be doing at this moment: existing on a Tuesday, going about my business, on my way somewhere, turning left. There is nothing disconcerting or unpleasant or unfortunate about this moment. It is exceptionally nice, plain, and perfect.

  See also: Tuesday Night

  HIGH SCHOOL, YEARBOOK SIGNATURES THAT SUMMARIZE

  Dear Amy—

  Out of all the girls I’ve ever met I’d have to say that you are the “Bugsiest” one I know! You’ve been such a good friend—always a riot to be with! We made it through two talent shows together—JJJ’s and Blues Bros. were fantastik! One of the highlights of this year was prom—I had the best time at your house watching the sun rise. You were a terrific cheerleader this fall—too bad we couldn’t have cheered together though! These four years have been special and you’ve been a big part of it! Good luck at Tufts next year—I’ll miss ya tons—but I know that I won’t forget your cute smiling face!

  —Love ya, C. (Bugsy!)

  My dearest lover darling,

  We are destined to have a hot, steamy love affair; you know it, and I know it. Frankly, though, I’m getting worried. Here it is, the end of school and we haven’t yet had wild, kinky sex. There’s still the summer though, so expect to be serenaded.

  —Love, G.

  Amy—

  You are a great friend and a fun person to be around! Remember Ray? Yeah for your party. I’m psyched! Call me this summer and we’ll party. I’m sure I’ll call you whenever I hear of a party “southbound.” Monday should be fun. Thanx again for PROM! It was great! (so was last year—under the pool table) Have fun at Tufts—Keep in touch always! Let’s have a super time this summer! SCORE!

  —Love always, A.

  Dear Amy—

  My love for you is unbounding. I pray that your summer is great and I see you at
100,000 parties. Be cool at college.

  —G.

  Amy—

  Wow, we’re about to graduate!! I’ve really had a good time this year LOYOLA BOUND! Talent show, prom, (memories). We definitely have many more times to party coming up this summer (I’m psyched). It sounds almost trite to say but I’m really glad we have become better friends. ALVA forever!

  —Love always, L.

  PS How was the econ test?

  Amy,

  You have to excuse the messy writing—my hand is shaking so bad due to the after effects of last night. Thanks for the invitation to the party we’re going to have a great time, you’ve been a big part of my high school years, don’t change next year, you’re so sweet and cute, stay that way!!

  —Love always, (ILLEGIBLE)

  Dear Amy,

  Carol and Billy are being shits—why don’t they come up. I’m telling you those two are in love. I think she really found her man. Oh well I’m happy for her & a little jealous but I still love her. This year was excellent and I don’t know how I kept my hands off you because you have the most huggable Ziggy body I’ve ever seen.