Can I speak with Phyllis?
Do you know her last name?
No, I don’t, Carolyn. But now I know I better get your last name in case I have to call back again.
I’m sorry, we don’t give out last names.
See also: Depressing, Things That I Find
SEXY
Jason looks especially sexy when he takes off his suit jacket, rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, loosens his tie, and plays Pig with the kids.
SHAMEFUL
My mind has drifted onto self-involved matters at more than one funeral.
SHOPPING CENTER
I will go anywhere with you except the shopping center.
Table
COMPARISONS BETWEEN THE CHURCH AND THE MALL, TWO MODERN PLACES OF WORSHIP
Confessionals = Dressing rooms
Strive to become a better person = Free makeover
Sermons = Shoplifters will be prosecuted
Closer to God = Escalators
Lifelong friends = Gift with purchase of $40 or more
Hallelujah = Sale
SHORTCUT THROUGH ALLEY
Jason walks to the El every morning, which is only a few blocks from our house. Occasionally I’ll go downtown with him. On one such morning he said, I’ve figured out that if I cut through this alley, I save a good thirty seconds. So through the alley we went. A couple months later we left the house together again. When we got to the alley, I started to turn off but stopped when I noticed he was going straight. What about the shortcut you showed me? I asked. Oh, yeah, I don’t use it anymore. I realized life’s too short to be walking through alleys past Dumpsters. This way’s nicer—this way you can have trees.
SHOWER TILES
The tiles in my shower have swirly, haphazard designs. Each one is different, and, as with clouds, you can see things in them. One looks just like Ronald Reagan.
SIGN AT 7-ELEVEN
I saw a poster advertising CELEBRITY IMPORTED HAM. How perfect. Indeed, a celebrity is often just that: an imported ham. Los Angeles, California … the land of imported hams.
See also: Amy Rosenthal; Encyclopedia Spine; Wordplays
SIGN, BATHROOM
I saw a sign in a public restroom that said PLEASE DO NOT FLUSH EXCESSIVE AMOUNTS OF TOILET PAPER OR SHOES DOWN THE TOILET. THANK YOU. I so want to meet the person who flushed a shoe down the toilet, and made a sign like this necessary.
SIGN, HANDMADE
When I see a handmade sign taped to a cash register like WE WELCOME TIPS! I imagine the employee in the back room writing it out in pen or marker. Did the task make him feel focused, hopeful, and productive? Or, conversely, did he feel despondent, a nagging sense of doom?
SILENCE
I like to spend the in-between hours in silence. After I drop the kids off at school and before I head out for the day, I will return home to a still house. I will open the blinds, straighten up, merge lists, coordinate schedules, compose e-mails, all within the absence of sound. I do not turn on the TV. I do not turn on the radio. Occasionally I will toy with the idea of putting on a CD, but the feeling passes; during these stretches, nothing ever seems more appealing than the quiet. There’s nature quiet—vast silence plus crickets plus weird bird noises plus stream gurgling off to the left somewhere. And there’s house quiet—vast silence plus clanking of heating system plus dishwasher switching cycles plus hum of refrigerator. The rest of the day is about chatter, cars, music, noise. But for now, it is power button off.
SITCOM, THREE REAL PEOPLE AS VIVIDLY DESCRIBED BY/ MY FRIEND A. WHO ALL SEEM LIKE CHARACTERS IN A
The paleontologist from Iowa, who also writes haiku
The hunchback dentist
A prick named Howie
SLEEP
I love sleeping. I love falling asleep on the couch, in the car, on trains, in the sun. I love getting into bed at night, and whenever possible, sleeping late in the morning. I love beds and covers and quilts and pillows. I just love everything about sleeping.
SLOW/FAST
I am a slow reader, and fast eater; I wish it were the other way around.
SMALL THINGS
Small things are cute. A minuscule dollhouse chair: cute. Ritz Cracker Ritz Bits: cute. Mini pumpkins, thimbles, puppies, those miniature gift books they sell at the counter: all sickeningly cute. Even a tiny heel piece of French bread could be described as cute. This is why young children—even homely ones—exude a certain cuteness; they’re actual people, just smaller.
SMELLS
Table
FAVORITE SMELLS
My father’s forehead.
When my kids wake up from their naps all sweaty.
Fire in the fireplace.
Husband’s chest.
Rain.
DISTINCT SMELLS
Newborn baby.
Sex.
New car.
New carpet.
Feet.
Pee after eating asparagus.
Nursing home/old people.
Nair.
SMELLS THAT REMIND ME OF SOMETHING Crayola crayons = childhood.
Gasoline = getting gas with my mom or dad when I was little.
Lysol = when someone would throw up on carpet in grammar school.
Blown-out candle of any kind = cake/birthday parties.
Empty beer cans = high school, and college frat parties.
SMOOTH JAZZ
It would be hard to not let your fondness for smooth jazz come between us.
See also: Bad Movie
SNEEZING
Jason sneezes. God bless you, I say. He sneezes again. God bless you. He sneezes a third time. Bless you, I say kinda angrily. He sneezes for the fourth time. Stop it already, I say. It’s annoying now. As if he can help it.
SNOWFLAKE
If I say snowflakes on your eyelashes, you can feel it, can’t you? You are there, on the snowy day.
SOUP
A good soup attracts chairs. This is an African proverb. I can hear the shuffling and squeaking on the wood floor, the gathering ’round. This, from just five well-chosen words.
SPECIAL
I went to pay for my tea and bagel at the coffeehouse and the woman behind the register said, You know what? It’s free today. What, huh, why? I asked. Just because, she replied. Wow, I thought. She intuitively senses I’m special. I bet I’m the only person she’s ever given free tea to. She must be picking up on my unique energy; my significance; that I’ve been brooding and feeling contemplative lately; that I feel like I finally want to read Proust. The other worker tilted her head and whispered to me, She does that all the time—to break the monotony, you know?
See also: Friend You Thought Confided in You; Humbling; Running into Someone
SPICES
I know a woman named Saffron, another woman named Curry, and a horse named Basil.
SPILLED LINGUINE
I spilled a package of linguine on the kitchen floor. My immediate reaction was, What a bummer, what a waste. But then: Wait a second, it’s going directly into a pot of boiling water. Sterilizing these noodles and cooking them are one and the same. Cool.
ST. JOHN’S WORT
Experiment
DAY ONE
I’m not sure if I feel any less blue yet, but I did notice that when I put the Tarzan CD on in the car for the kids, I started to sing along.
DAY TWO
Forgot to take it.
DAY THREE
Bored with experiment.
ST. TROPEZ
Jason and I spent the afternoon in St. Tropez. At the end of the day, we planted ourselves at a café to people-watch. I kept wondering if I would see anyone I knew, despite the fact that we hadn’t seen any Americans for two weeks. Nonetheless, I thought about the odds, running into an old college pal or an acquaintance from the health club. I figured surely I had to know someone here, even if only remotely. What if an announcement were made over the P.A. system (as if St. Tropez had a citywide P.A. system): Excuse me, Mesdames et Messieurs, does anyone here know a Ms.
Amy Krouse Rosenthal of Chicago, Illinois? If you know or have ever heard of such a person, please report to dock number nine.
I think I know an Amy Rosenthal.
(Pointing to dock) Elle est là, Monsieur.
Amy?
Steve? Steve Prebish? Is that you?
STARING
It is hard not to.
STATEMENT
There is so much I want to say. Someone has to say it. It’s never been said before, and it desperately needs to be articulated. As a statement it is at once powerful yet tender, obvious yet insightful; to finally say it is to release a hundred butterflies. But for now, all that surfaces is an unintelligible burst of consonants set to a drumbeat. It will do.
STRAWBERRIES
While rinsing strawberries, you have the privilege of spotting and eating the very best one, the deep red jewel that is free of indents and blemishes.
STREET FAIR
I’m at the street fair. This booth looks interesting. And that one across the way with the hats and sundresses. Oh, and back there, I missed the sugar-covered peanuts. I set out with organized intentions, to walk up one aisle and then calmly, tidily, down the next. But it’s no use; I inevitably zag. What I’d prefer, what I suppose I would do if I could, what I suppose this is all about really, is I’d just like to swallow—in all its messy, bursting vibrancy—the whole fair at once.
See also: Completion; Flight Habits; Magazines
STUPID SLOW DRIVER
When I see a really slow driver, I have to pull up alongside him to see what this person looks like, to confirm my suspicions. I am certain I will find a distinctly stupid-looking person. Ah, yes, he looks totally stupid. Stupid slow driver.
SUNDAY
Though this has never materialized, I still think of Sunday as the day when I will stay home and make a large vat of chili for the neighbors, and also boil a sack of potatoes so we can use them in various ways throughout the busy workweek.
See also: Busy; Folded Quilts; Soup; Woman Across the Hall
SUNDAY NEW YORK TIMES
Sunday holds the most promise. It is the day when I will sit down with a cup of coffee and read all the sections of the paper, instead of just the Magazine, “Arts and Leisure,” and the Book Review. Monday comes and I think, Okay—the paper’s still pretty fresh and timely; I’ll read it tonight. Tuesday comes and I have a slightly diluted version of my Monday stance. Wednesday I ignore it. Thursday is the day when I’m like, Face it, I’m not going to read all of it this week, and besides, a whole new one is coming in four days, and then I gather up the sections and throw them out.
SUNNY DAY
I stepped outside. It was bright, very bright, and sunny. There was a long patch of yellow flowers across the street. The flowers were in full bloom, so alertly yellow, as if plugged in. I felt like I was in a Claritin commercial.
SYNCHRONIZATION
Synchronized anything is so cool to watch. Twenty-five dancers moving the exact same way at the exact same time—exhilarating. Same with water ballet/synchronized swimming—the trademark aerial view of those perfect circles they make, the way their legs all come up at the same time, how they disappear under water and then … pop back up! in unison. Fantastic. Other examples: (1) A marching band. (2) Dolphins at a zoo dolphin show. (3) The flawless choreography of a flock of birds—dip down, turn to the right, turn to the left, all while in fluttering formation. (4) Even that mirror game we used to play as kids. Two people face each other. One leads, the other tries to copy his movements, ideally without delay. Right arm slowly up, then back down, look over your left shoulder, then back … (5) And vineyards. Motionless, yes, but still, row upon row upon synchronized row.
T
TA-DA!
Children get to say ta-da!, and I guess magicians, but other than that, it’s an underutilized expression. I’m trying to think—an adult might say it as she waltzes in with the turkey, or a homemade cake. But a self-congratulatory ta-da! would certainly be warranted for any number of daily accomplishments. I cleaned out the trunk of my car. Ta-da! I finished filling out the insurance application. Ta-da! I made the bed. Ta-da!
TAKING A PICTURE WITH A FRIEND
You’re taking a picture with someone. You’re standing there all chummy, arm in arm. After the picture’s taken, you drop your arms, let your face go back to neutral. But then the person with the camera says, Oh, one more, just to be sure. There’s an awkward moment where you don’t exactly know if you should put your arms around each other again, reenact the camaraderie. The second picture is wrought with self-awareness. Her hand feels looser on my waist. She’s uncomfortable, too. Should I take my hand off her shoulder and put it on her waist?
TAKING UP SOMETHING NEW
When I take up something new—say knitting, or the Nordic-Track—there’s a period of time where I think, Who knows, this may be just the thing for me. From this point on it will be part of the way people define me. As in: Oh yeah, Amy, I know her; she’s the one who knits those hats. It’s galvanizing, this new thing, partially because it is fun and interesting, partly because it is simply new, and largely because of the prospect of it becoming an integral part of my life and identity. I will always have knitting needles with me. I will know all the good knitting stores. I will become an expert on yarn. While there are things that have stuck since I fell into them (I dye my hair red; I like yoga; I am known for concocting salads and dressings), it seems, in many cases, the new things slip right off me. It’s as if their sticking were nearly impossible, that to try to adopt them would put me head to head with my destiny.
Table
THINGS I’VE BEEN INTO (IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER)
Passion What Age(s) Total # of Years
Coloring, drawing 3–18 15 years
Piano 8–16 8 years
Ziggy 14–20 6 years
Fibonacci numbers 8 th grade 1 year
Not eating sweets 18–19 1 year to the day
Tennis 13–23 10 years
Swimming 21–31 10 years
Writing time with h, as in 8h15 20–32 12 years
Not eating meat 23–28 5 years
Advertising writing 21–32 11 years
Green algae nutrition supplement Two days in my late 20s N/A
Passion What Age(s) Total # of Years
Making bracelets out of antique buttons with boyfriend/husband 24–28 4 years
Creating T-shirts with expressions on them, with husband 26–30 4 years
Nordic Track One week in late 20s N/A
Running 31–35 4 years
Knitting Two weeks in late 20s N/A
Reading biographies about Proust 32–35 3 years
Waking up early on school days before kids to shower and prepare breakfast One day in mid-30s N/A
Cooking Friday-night dinners 29-? TBD
Yoga 36-? TBD
TALKING WHILE COLORING OR MAKING ART
There is a specific kind of talking that occurs between two people who are engaged in the creation of art. I was aware of this as a kid when I was coloring with a friend, then in drawing classes in college, and again now when I color side by side with Paris. This banter, this art speak, is nonsensical, meandering, intimate, and purposeful. It is what keeps reconnecting you to the other person as you drift/zoom in and out of the micro-world of your painting, or art project, or coloring book. For a few minutes there you will all but disappear; you’ll actually be inside your art, walking around a specific five square inches of your canvas, getting to know the thickness of every black line, tweaking the blue-green splotch at the bottom, adding a little triangle in the corner. Then, zap, you’re beamed back, and upon your return you’ll say something like brown, brown, please pass the brown, brown is the best in town. But what you are really saying is, Hi, I’m still here with you, how you doing, glad we’re coloring together.
TEARS
I cry in all the usual places: weddings; the births of babies—my own, yes, but even those born to strangers on Lamaze videos; the kids�
�� school shows, when they stand up there on the stage singing in their one nice shirt they’ve outgrown; certain commercials, the ones equal parts polished and mushy. I think some of my biggest cries have been at movies. Dancer in the Dark made me cry so hard for so long that all I could do was put my drained self to bed and apologize the next morning to a friend whose party I missed. The Double Life of Veronique made me cry, though I think its magic was later somewhat tarnished when I heard the 444-FILM guy refer to it as The Double Life of Veronica—ka in place of ique, emphasis on the ron—in his overzealous, peculiarly brash manner. As a teenager, Love Story made me cry in the hugest way. Ali MacGraw’s beauty. Her long middle-parted hair. The way they looked together with their collegiate scarves in the snow. And of course the theme song didn’t help—C E E C C E E C C E F E D D D B B. Years later I would learn that this movie was what one would call manipulative, lowbrow, a tearjerker. But it will always be what it was for me then in the mid-seventies—a great movie that made me have to take deep breaths and blow my nose.
Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life Page 13
