Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life

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Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life Page 9

by Amy Krouse Rosenthal


  —Love always, T.

  Ziggy,

  It’s all coming to an end. (JK) I’m glad we’ve gotten to be such good friends. We’re going to have the best summer yet!!! Senior Blues forever! I can’t wait till your party!!! Don’t forget me next year. Keep in touch at Tufts with Tony (JK). I’m going to miss you a lot next year enough. (Sorry I’m writing in fragments) You can’t forget to invite me to the wedding (even though you’re not going anymore). Uh Huh! Have a great year. I’ll miss you

  —Love ya, N.

  HOMER, ROD

  I had been thinking about a couple people I went to high school with who, at the relatively young age of fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, had already discovered and made peace with their distinct, true, and unconventional selves. I had not been like this myself, and suddenly, almost out of nowhere, I regretted that I didn’t get those people back then; that I didn’t appreciate their creative offerings; that I didn’t realize what tremendous inner strength and poise it must have taken to waltz around the halls with all these blobs of conforming, frightened youths huddling together. One guy in particular resurfaced in my mind. I couldn’t for the life of me recall his name, but I kept thinking about him. He was tall, and he seemed to walk like a wave, up and down, up and down, with his crazy curly hair flopping with each rise and fall. He was in a band, and he was a ferocious doodler. He had a kind way about him, a winning combination of goofiness and earnestness.

  Exactly two days later, it’s Saturday night, and Jason and I are at a charity event. As we go into the main room to find our seating card (Amy and Jason Rosenthal, Table 15), I run into a friend from college who I haven’t seen in years. We had recently reconnected via e-mail in a serendipitous way, but we still hadn’t gotten together. The friend, Adam, introduced me to his wife, Charmane. They’re at table 15, too. We catch up. Turns out Charmane and I are from the same hometown, went to the same high school a few years apart, perhaps I know her brother? Rod Homer?

  Yes, Rod Homer, that’s his name. Rod Homer. Tall, bouncy, confident Rod Homer.

  See also: Marshmallows; Meaning;

  Mind, Random Things That for Some Reason

  Often Come Back into My;

  More Miles; Mr. Koch; Sensitive;

  Wallet, Forgotten

  HOT

  If something is supposed to be hot, I want it to be hot. If it is not hot, I have no interest in it. A cup of coffee, for example, should be very hot. So should those little washcloths they give you at Japanese restaurants. A lukewarm washcloth is just so depressing and wishy-washy, like a flimsy handshake. McDonald’s fries are meant to be consumed right out of the deep fryer, so hot that they almost burn your mouth while you eat them and you have to do that thing where you sort of chew with your back teeth only, and with your mouth half open, while blowing on them at the same time. Hhuh hhuh bite, hhuh hhuh bite, bite. And baths, baths should be very, very hot. Because of this love of hot, I find myself constantly reheating the same cup of coffee in the microwave. Or sending my fish back with the waiter. Or getting up in the middle of dinner at home to nuke my linguine. Or coaching my kids while they cling to the edge of the tub, oh, come on—it’s not that hot, you’ll get used to it.

  Humbling

  I was out of town with the kids, talking to Jason on the phone. I was thinking, He’s really missing me. I imagined that talking to me on the phone was a high point of his day, and how happy he must be to be having this conversation. But then wait, what’s that I’m hearing in the background, that gentle click click click? Sure sounds like keyboard pitter-patter to me. Is he actually typing on his computer?

  J, are you typing right now?

  Uh, yeah.

  Table

  TRAVELING

  You Say How It Sounds

  I’m going overseas. Sounds like you’re going to the Orient, or somewhere really far away.

  I’m going abroad. Has junior-year-in-college undertones.

  I’ll be out of the country. Sounds like you’re a spy. Mysterious. Ambiguous. A nameless place, somewhere people go to engage in covert operations.

  I’m going to Europe. Well, la-di-da, good for you. Pretentious.

  I’m going to France. Fine, but compels people to say, “I see London, I see France, I see ____’s underpants.”

  HUNGER PREVENTION

  It’s not just that we eat if we’re hungry, but we eat if we’re worried that we will be hungry. For example, let’s say I’m going to a seven o’clock movie—that’s right smack in the middle of dinnertime. I won’t be hungry at five-thirty or six, but I must prevent the hunger that will inevitably occur halfway through the movie and take care of it now. I MUST EAT IN ADVANCE OF MY HUNGER. Thus, I grab a sandwich or bowl of pasta, eat it with minimal pleasure, but acknowledge that I have done something necessary. I have come at my hunger from the back door and eliminated any possible future hunger discomfort.

  HUSBAND

  Jason and I were fixed up on a blind date, by my dad’s best friend, John. When I opened my front door and saw him, I knew there was something between us. By the end of our merlot and rigatoni, I knew he was the one. Fifty-two weeks later, he knew. I like how when his sister Michel phones him he just answers yep or uh-huh and then she either talks and he occasionally goes alrighty then or, more characteristically, says nothing at all. I like how they always call each other during exciting TV events like the Grammys or The Sopranos’ season finale or some Freeview Prince concert on satellite and just sit on the phone together in total silence, sharing the show from their respective city posts. I like that he’s had the same best friend since he was three. (Hey, Dave.) I like that he’s a good dancer and a surprisingly good jacks player. I like how he barely ever annoys me. I like how we dine at restaurants—either on stools at the bar instead of waiting an hour and a half for a table, or if we do sit at a table, we’ll sit next to each other instead of across. I like how he looks when he’s making a toast—thoughtful, composed, handsome, you know, like a real gentleman. I like how he laughs when he really laughs hard, like during the Will Ferrell streaking scene in Old School. I like how he’s forgiving when I shut down and retreat inward. I like how he doesn’t give me a hard time about my heap of clothes in the closet, though we both know I have less tolerance for his harmless, scattered piles. I like how he doesn’t make me feel bad about my lack of enthusiasm for important adult things like politics and Quicken. I like that I don’t mind how he smells when he sweats. I like that when we Wght, he tends to have a point, and he makes it skillfully and convincingly. I like how he holds a skillet. I like his hands, they Wt good with mine.

  I

  IDENTITY

  Experiment: How might I look as a Wanted poster?

  Drawing based on father’s description to police sketch artist.

  Drawing based on husband’s description to police sketch artist.

  IMPROVISATION AT CONCERTS

  I go to a concert, a band I really love. The band plays the first few bars of my absolutely favorite song, but then … what’s that? They’re altering it, improvising. The band thinks this is refreshing and artful, a welcome deviation, a prize for attending. But I am irked and disappointed they didn’t play it just as I’ve enjoyed it on the CD all these years.

  See also: Comfort in the Expected

  INFINITY

  Justin came home from school with the announcement that he had just learned what even and odd numbers were. Okay, I said. So tell me: What’s infinity, even or odd? I certainly didn’t have an answer in mind; I posed it only as a fun, unanswerable kind of question. He thought about it for a moment, then concluded: Mom, infinity is an 8 on its side, so it is an even number.

  [intermission]

  INTRODUCING A FRIEND TO A FRIEND

  Sometimes you have a friend and think, She would really like my other friend so-and-so, and you introduce them, and sure enough, they become friends, they totally hit it off, and there you are, demoted to background buddy.

  J

  JACK
ET BIO

  There is a direct correlation between how much a book moves me and how often I flip to the author’s photo. Midsentence I will feel a pull to return to that photo/bio on the back flap. Take me at once to the man who wrote such a splendid thought! The photo serves as a sort of home base. And at progressive intervals, the photo will seem more and more revealing, more and more interesting. Invariably, I will find myself idealizing and envying this person and his three-sentence life as captured in the bio. He is the author of several novels, a memoir, and, most recently, a collection of short stories. He is professor of English at Berkeley. He lives on the beach with his wife and dog Hemingway. Oh, how complete. Impressive. Idyllic. And complication-free. Only his close friends know that his recent novel ended up in the five-bucks-and-under bin; that he is in the midst of a major lawsuit with the beach house contractor; that his wife, two years before, was his kid’s nanny. But for the rest of us, the casual admirers, the main thing, the important thing, is that the author’s jacket photo credits Nick Hornby as the photographer, and one can only imagine the exclusive literary soiree that produced this sweet little digital memento.

  JASON

  J-A-S-O-N. J—July. A—August. S—September. O—October. N—November. We met in July. We got engaged in November.

  See also: Dreams; Husband

  JOBS I COULD NEVER DO

  I would abhor being a professional mover; I would just whine and complain the whole time. Nor would I make a very good Buckingham Palace guard; I get the giggles way too easily and/or smirk at inappropriate times (while reprimanding my kids; upon hearing tragic news).

  K

  KIDS’ MEALS ON FLIGHTS

  I never remember to pre-order the kids’ meals, it never even occurs to me, until I see the flight attendant prancing down the aisle with fun, colorful trays for children who are not mine.

  KLASSY

  I saw a car whose license plate read: KLASSY. It was a Cadillac. I think it’s easy to put the guy down—and you can just picture what he looks like, can’t you? So easy to say, man, what a loser, how tacky. But it’s all about context. If an old, pudgy, gold necklace—wearing fellow gets behind the wheel of his Klassy Cadillac, it seems cheesy. But if it was, say, Beck driving that very same Klassy Cadillac, it would suddenly be cool in a kitschy, in-on-the-joke way. This isn’t exactly fair. But is there any way to get around it? Perhaps a more enlightened person would have glanced over at the Klassy geezer and thought, Cool, good for him. Or better yet, had no judgments at all.

  L

  LACY UNDERSHIRTS

  When I got engaged, my mother took me shopping for what was once upon a time called a trousseau, a gift of garments mothers traditionally sent their virgin daughters off with as they began their new lives as wives. It was sweet and old-fashioned and unnecessary and so my mom. It was there in the lingerie department that she held up these lacy, shoulder-padded undershirt things and said, You will definitely need a couple of these. I had never worn—let alone seen—a lacy, shoulder-padded undershirt thing before. But I figured my mom knew what she was doing, and that when I got married, perhaps mere minutes after exchanging vows, I would be a different person. I couldn’t quite picture who that person was, but I imagined that the married Amy would be more grown-up, more put together, more better—basically, that I would suddenly have a pressing need for lacy, shoulder-padded undershirt things. After seven years of marriage and seven years of still looking at those undershirts with the tags still on, I finally put them in a bag to be donated to charity. It was bittersweet, but also there was a sense of relief: I no longer had to sit around wondering what I was doing wrong, why my married-glamorous self refused to present itself, why I wasn’t getting into bed every night with freshly shaven legs and glistening, sweet-smelling skin from jasmine bath oils. Being yourself seems like the most effortless thing in the world—duh, who else are you going to be? But it’s deceiving, tricky, a summons laden with meandering and failed attempts—and then at last, so wondrously simple. Like the riddle, floccinaucinihilipilification is the longest word in the English language—can you spell it? I may have thought I wanted to be a red-silk-nightie kind of wife. But it turns out that the right answer for me is I feel sexier in boy-short undies and a Mr. Bubble T-shirt. I-T.

  LAUNDRY BASKET

  I’m getting undressed. I don’t feel like folding my pants or hanging them up. I’d rather they be dirty so I can put them in the laundry basket. I check out the legs closely, the seat—bummer, they look pretty clean. But then, wait, the bottom of the legs are dirty—very dirty in fact. Excellent, I can legitimately toss them in the basket, I’m not just being lazy.

  LEAVES

  My friend Scott’s son looked at the leaves twirling around outside and said, Look, Dad—the leaves are playing with each other.

  LEAVING A TIP

  When leaving a tip at the counter, I often do so with exaggerated gestures, or take a bit longer than necessary to place the dollar in the dish, just to make sure they know what a nice and generous customer I am.

  LETTERS

  The letters a, e, g, and s seem nice; k, v, and x seem meaner.

  See also: Ayn Rand

  LIFE

  The same two words, albeit in reverse order, sum it all up:

  Home nursing

  Nursing home

  LIFE AS CAPSULIZED ON PUBLIC RADIO MORNING NEWS

  Alex Dryer died today. He was an NBC anchor for forty years. It’s forty-nine degrees today and sunny skies. This is WBEZ Chicago.

  LIFE AS PRESET MENU

  LIMOUSINE

  Very few individuals are able to walk by a parked limousine without comment.

  LOLLIPOP TREE

  Our friends woke up early one morning and tied hundreds of lollipops to their tree in the backyard. They invited our kids, and a few lucky others, to join their family in a celebration in honor of their lollipop tree, which, as anyone could see, had just come into full bloom. We watched for a few, sacred minutes those eight or so children shrieking in delight and wonder, picking lollipops off the tree.

  LOST ITEM

  When I can’t find something in my house—a pair of jeans, let’s say, or even something small and stupid like a Sharpie marker—the first thought that runs through my head is, I can’t believe the cleaning woman took that! For years, she has been nothing but loyal and trustworthy, handing me nickels and pennies retrieved from the washing machine, for God’s sake, but still, for that split second, I think this has all been some kind of convoluted scheme so one day she could abscond with my pants. Of course, I always find the misplaced item a moment later, and then shake my head at myself while releasing a disgusted, guttural hm, ashamed that I could have even thought to internally accuse her.

  LOVE

  If you really love someone, you want to know what they ate for lunch or dinner without you. Hi, sweetie, how was your day, what did you have for lunch? Or if your mate was out of town on business: How was your trip, did the meeting go well, what did you do for dinner? Jason will stumble home in the wee hours from a bachelor party, and as he crawls into bed I’ll pry myself from sleep long enough to mumble, how was the party, how was the restaurant beforehand? The meal that has no bearing on the relationship appears to be breakfast. I can love you and not know that when you were in Cincinnati last Wednesday you had yogurt and a bagel.

  Which typeface gives you the impression I really mean it?

  Lows

  Age 3: Friends Christie and Tommy move away.

  Age 5: Get sick night before I’m supposed to go on airplane and visit grandmother.

  Age 14: Family moves second semester freshman year.

  Age 14: At bull session at overnight camp, A. says she hates my brown bathing suit, it’s ugly.

  Age 16: Car accident.

  Age 16: Speeding ticket.

  Age 16: Speeding ticket.

  Age 18: Have a party when parents go out of town. Get caught. Grounded for entire summer.

  Age 18: T. has big g
raduation party and doesn’t invite me.

  Age 21: Grandmother dies.

  Age 22: D. and I break up.

  Age 24: Ellen killed.

  Age 25: E. says nasty things to me on the phone and makes me cry.

  Age 26: Offered dream job; husband doesn’t want to move to Portland; no choice but to turn it down.

  Age 27: Complications with first pregnancy.

  Age 27: Fired by M. Seven months pregnant with first child at the time.

  Age 32: Sister-in-law dies during childbirth.

  Age 34: Lump in neck. Biopsy.

  Age 35: Computer crashes.

  Age 35: Father has open-heart surgery.

  Age 36: September 11.

  Age 37: Boat accident. Miles injured.

  Age 37: Leave CD case containing favorite CDs on the security belt at airport.

 

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