Five Questions

Spinning off my sassy friend's recent blog, I have asked her to submit to me five "interview" questions to fuel my narcissistic love of talking about myself. :-D To prevent total and complete self-involvement, of course, there is a stipulation that I must then agree to interview someone else (who must then post their response on their own blog, and agree to interview another someone else and on and on).

Here are the official rules:

1. I pick the questions and you answer them.


2. You will update your blog by answering the questions.


3. You will include an explanation and offer to interview someone else in the same post. You cannot interview me again.


4. When others comment asking to be interviewed you will send them five questions.

So. My five questions.

1. Please post one of your favorite poems that YOU'VE written. It can be recent or old. Tell us the background.

Well, it won't be recent because I haven't written anything in years. I seem to cycle through my creative outlets -- focusing heavily on writing for a few years, then photography for a while, then I pretend to be a graphic designer or some eclectic music and mix tape prodigy.... LOL. My writing is in its fallow period right now, and that's okay. I haven't lost my ear for a well turned phrase or my love of language, so I'm sure that at some point I'll pick up a pen and try again.

In the meantime, here's the last poem I wrote. I wrote it after I found out that a friend of mine from high school, whom I'd lost touch with, ran off to Vegas to marry some guy who then isolated her in a small town in the middle of nowhere and proceeded to beat her. She left him after a year, thank goodness. I felt awful that I hadn't been in her life to help her through it. I knew / know nothing of spousal abuse, but I had been through some dark times, myself, so I felt like I could at least try to put myself in her place.

(Note: I made slight revisions to this poem later, but all I can find is the original. Sorry.)

Untitled, for M
You brought me here.
The lure of love and first sex,
a home of my own under the wide sky,
and you -- the lure of a life finally begun.

That first night the wind's fierce keen woke me
from a fitful sleep and dreams
of an empty road.
you rolled a towel up longways,
placed it beneath the door
to hold its screams at bay and block the cold.
But February nights are insistent
and long after the breath beside me grew rhythmic
and heavy and slow
I lay awake listening to the wild thing
at the window and just beyond the door.

It was not fear of you, at first,
that brought me to my knees, doubled over,
gasping for air or tears.
The wind blew for weeks and I was alone in the house.
The cold crept in through secret spaces,
a small chip in the glass hastily repaired with tape,
dark corners of the basement,
its stone floor. I was alone.
Ice painted brutal patterns in slivers on the pane.
Our bed grew cold. The sheets were stiff,
a blanket of thick, numbing frost.

When Spring came
shoots grew out of the hard earth,
they lifted their arms to me
like children crying to be held.
Everything wanted tending.
I walked softly, barefoot, afraid
to wake the life-buds too soon

and one day I watched from the backyard window
as brown fields sank beneath the weight of late snow.

You brought me here
but I belong where towns begin.

In dreams the seamless yellow prairie dissolves
into pure highway, straight and grey for miles.
I pass billboards and ragged buildings.
Refinery smokestacks color the sunset fire and blood.
The horizon looms, half lit,
and this is brutality I understand.
The valley explodes as the sky goes black
        the lights are shards of glass:
        cracked mirrors, broken windows, beat-out headlights
reflecting bright stars.

***

Sure, it's kind of morbid -- and no big surprise to anybody who knew my 20-year-old self that I would equate both small towns and winter weather with abuse (while simultaneously romanticizing the violence of urban life, lol). But still, I like it. I'm proud of it. I worked a lot of assonance in there without even meaning to.

Hard to believe I haven't written a poem in ~12 years, though. Geez.


2. What is the wackiest thing you did as a younger and probably stupider version of yourself?

Um.... I'm not sure I've ever really been the "wacky" type. I'm generally easy going, but still more serious and deliberate than wackily spontaneous. I suppose if we focus on your other adjective -- stupid -- I could come up with something, lol.

Let's see. There's the time I failed 10th grade Biology (not because I didn't understand the material, but because I got bored of doing and turning in assignments) and forged my report card -- a very careful copy & paste job perpetrated at the copy shop where a friend worked -- so my parents wouldn't find out. Of course, that was the first term of my sophomore year, so I had to keep forging the report card throughout the rest of 10th grade so they wouldn't see the F on the cumulative report.

The next year I had to fail my driver's ed test on purpose so my parents wouldn't submit the fake report card to the insurance company for the Good Student Discount they thought I deserved (lying to your parents is one thing, but I didn't want to get sent to the pokey for committing insurance fraud). I did everything wrong; I left no room for success. The freaked out driver's ed instructor told me that I needed a lot more practice before trying again, but that maybe I shouldn't practice on actual streets. Or anywhere near actual people.

I thought by 12th grade that I'd finally put the whole mess behind me. Until a few months before graduation when I got called into the counselor's office: Apparently, although I had made up the science credit the year before, the F left me missing an elective. I would not graduate unless I signed up for night school. (Would have been nice if someone had told me sooner!) So I paid $60 to take American History for a couple hours every Thursday night for six weeks. My classmates -- a few pregnant girls, some leather-clad potty mouthed bad boys, and a former drop-out or two who had decided to get a GED after all -- and I spent most of that time watching movies like Patton. Because obviously that's the best way to learn American History. I still hadn't told my parents; for all they knew, I was hanging out with my friends or studying at the library or working as a stock girl at the grocery store every Thursday night.

I think I was in my early 20s and a college graduate by the time I finally confessed to my parents. They didn't believe me. I had always been so conscientious, so studious, so responsible! (Well, except for all those classes I ditched -- but I had never made a secret of that, and had maintained legitimately good grades in challenging classes so no big whoop.) I think I had to dig up one of the forged report cards and point out the imperfections before they were convinced.

The thing is, I didn't lie and jump through all those crazy hoops merely to avoid punishment for (or more likely, their disappointment in) my academic failure. I did it out of concern for my mom and dad: I didn't want them to worry that my sudden lack of interest in 10th grade Biology indicated a drug habit or some other calamity. I didn't want them to stress about my repeating the class or almost not graduating (goodness knows, I stressed enough about it for everyone!). Why add to their load of burdens? I knew I could take care of it, and I did.

But I learned my lesson: One lie begets another. And another. And $60 and another. It's not worth it. It would have been faaaar better to complete the stupid assignments, or, barring that, at least confess my failure from the beginning. Oh well. At least now I have this funny story to tell my own children to illustrate the point that honesty is the easiest policy. :-P


3. List 5 things that surprise you about being a mom.

Having grown up among the oldest in a family of eight children, I felt pretty well prepared for the job of motherhood. I knew how to change a diaper; not to feed an infant ice cream if I didn't want her up all night, screaming from a tummy ache; how to "reason" (ha!) with a toddler; the importance of consistency in discipline. That's not to say I've ever been a perfect mom (again with the ha!), or have never had to call up my own mother for advice, but I do think I had an advantage over those women whose first time holding a baby was in meeting their own at the hospital.

Still. I guess some things have managed to surprise me.

The first, of course, was the discovery of projectile poop. I knew that when changing boy diapers, one ought to keep things covered to avoid being shot in the face. But I had a daughter -- no worries! Until one late night diaper change when Uno hadn't quite finished her business ... and her business went flying right past my head, getting my hand and a bit of my hair on its way to landing on the wall. I screamed. My face, according to DH, showed a hilarious mix of confusion and disgust. That first projectile poop incident remains to this day one of his favorite stories.

I'm surprised by my deteriorating patience since I've become a mom. I used to epitomize patience and long-suffering -- I might have seethed quietly to myself when really overwhelmed, but on the outside, I remained cool and calm. Not so much anymore. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. Maybe it's the stress of so little alone time. Maybe it's the constant exposure to irrational (however adorable) preschoolers with little to no adult time for balance that transformed me into the Unreasonable No Patience Lady. All of those explanations make sense, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It's just that I thought having kids was supposed to make you more patient, not less. Just another of those guilt-inducing motherhood myths, I guess.

I was very surprised to discover that Greg, the original yellow Wiggle (he's recently been replaced due to health issues), is kind of hot. Or maybe that's just the sleep deprivation talking again, lol.

Oooh, here's a good one: I surprised myself by nursing Dos for slightly more than two and a half years! I barely tried with Uno. It hurt (like a motha'!); I felt self-conscious; and I had a ton of sample formula cans from my doctor, the hospital, and the formula companies themselves, so I had an easy out. One of the biggest reasons I didn't nurse Uno, though, was that it seemed a little skeevy, lol.

Strained finances and a better education about breastfeeding convinced me to try harder with Dos, and I overcame the pain (it only lasts a month or so, as long as you don't get mastitis) to make it to my first milestone: Teeth. I figured I'd nurse her that long and then we'd reevaluate. She only bit me once or twice -- and I'm pretty sure those were accidents -- so we continued.

I decided I'd nurse her for a year and then we'd reevaluate. A year came and went; breastfeeding no longer seemed at all skeevy to me (though I think it did, increasingly, to DH's family and others who saw me breastfeed a child who could walk and talk) so I decided we'd keep doing it until she self weaned. I figured that would be around 18 months old or so.

The second year came and went, and Dos showed no signs of wanting off the boob. The shine had started wearing off for me by then, though, so I made the decision that when Dos transitioned from the crib to a big girl bed, we would be done with nursing. Approximately seven months after that, she moved to a bed. She asked for "Mommy Milk" a time or two, but generally seemed unconcerned by the change in the nighttime routine. It makes me wonder if we could have weaned sooner, though I have no regrets about the ultimate length of our nursing relationship.

I used to think pregnant bellies were disgusting. I got over that. I used to think breastfeeding was creepy. I got over that. I used to think extended breastfeeding (past, say, 9-12 months old) was gross and would scar the child for life. ("If the kid can ask for it, she's too old to nurse!" Well what do you think a baby's doing when it cries? Asking, that's what.) I'm happy and, yes, surprised to say that I overcame all my old neurotic prejudices to do something good (and cheap!) for my child.

All right, I think I've listed four things so far so I have one left. Hmmmm.

It surprised me to discover that I'm not meant to be the mom of a large brood like the one I grew up in. I always wanted to have kids (just not to haaaaaave kids, lol -- I didn't want to birth no babies!) and I thought that if I could adopt them all or, miracle of miracles, overcome my morbid fear of doctors, pregnancy, and childbirth, I would have a ton. But you know what? I'm not going to. The two I have, though amazing and hilarious, often overwhelm me and we're about to add a third, our last. I love large families and I loved growing up in one, but I am not my mother and this is my limit. This revelation came as a surprise, yet it seems perfectly natural for us. So go figure. It is what it is.


4. What is your favorite place that you have ever been to and why?

Holy cow, that's a hard question! I've been a lot of places and found things to love about nearly all of them (though I'm still bitter about Strasbourg; sorry seester). I don't know that I could legitimately pick a favorite.

Maybe I'll tell you about my favorite place that I haven't been to.

When I was a kid I watched an episode of The Twilight Zone called A Stop At Willoughby, wherein a New York advertising executive with a truly horrible life dreams every night on his train commute home of a quiet, peaceful 1890s town where the pace of life is slow and everyone knows and loves everyone else. At the end of the episode, he decides to get off at the idyllic Willoughby stop (which, in reality, of course, means he jumps from a speeding train to his death; Willoughby exists only in his imagination ... and in the Twilight Zone, cue music). From the moment I saw it, that has been my favorite TZ episode of all time -- and no wonder; its beautiful but morbid romanticism set a sort of template in my mind of the type of stories and images I'm still drawn to, today.

The fictional hamlet of the Twilight Zone isn't my favorite place, though. I've got my own Willoughby. As I mentioned before, I used to ride an Amtrak train home from college during breaks. Because I took the same train in the same season at the same time of day each time, we always came upon my favorite spot just as the sun was setting: A quiet river, shaded by old growth trees on the far bank, lay to the left of the tracks; to the right rose a steep hill covered in narrow streets and 19th century houses and store fronts painted to reflect their history and colored by that particular golden light of evening.

It was like magic. Like Brigadoon, mythical and impossibly lovely, or like Willoughby.

I have no idea what it's called, or even where it is; the train slowed through the town, but didn't stop. Looking at the route of the Capitol Limited, I can guess that it lies somewhere in Northwestern Maryland, a tiny corner of West Virginia, or maybe even Southern Pennsylvania. I don't know. I don't know if I'll ever know.

I would love to visit and see if the place lives up to my idealized recollection. I won't jump from any trains to do it, but if I can find the little town I'll go.


5. If money were no object what would you love to do with your spare time?

When I contemplate this question, I throw in the added presumption that time is no object -- that I have endless amounts of spare time to spend those endless amounts of money to pursue a hobby or passion. Because time is money, right? Ergo proctor hoc.... (I don't have the slightest idea what that actually means. It's just fun to say.)

Obviously I would love to travel. I tried compiling a list of places I'd visit, but I couldn't whittle it down to reasonable size because, in addition to all the places I've never seen but would love to (Morocco; India; China; just for starters), there are so many places I want to go back to with DH and my girls (Portugal; Paris; Belo Horizonte, Salvador, and Manaus in Brasil; Catherland in Nebraska; the Oregon coast; NYC; again, just to name a few). I want to go EVERYWHERE, and I want the people I love to love it as much as I do. I'm hoping my girls got a significant chunk of my gypsy genes; they seem like good travelers so far.

But I'd also love to pursue an education in my self-taught hobbies: Photography and design. I love them both, but I feel inadequate. I know just enough to be dangerous, lol, but not enough to have any sort of confidence in my abilities. I've only ever had one Photography class (I got a B) and, though I took painting classes a time or two in my youth, I've never studied design as such. I do think I have a reasonably good eye for both but without knowledge and technical skills I'm stuck at the same level where I've always been.

Once I had that education, I would use my endless supply of money to set up a fabulous studio. I would have lots of cameras of many different formats. I would have lenses galore. Backdrops and lighting sets and soft boxes and reflectors that look slightly more professional than the pizza pans I currently cover with tin foil before photographing my girls. I would have the fastest computers with huge amounts of memory. I would always have the latest editions of Photoshop and Illustrator, and I'd get one of those tablet thingies.

And then there are the days, of course, when all I want out of life is some time to myself, no money required. Except, I guess, the money required to pay for a sitter when DH is working late or on call. And gas money so I can drive aimlessly while listening to a good mix CD. Hmmmmm.


Well, thus concludes our interview for today. Thank you, my friend, for supplying the questions, and thanks to the rest of you for reading the whole thing (if you did manage to slog through it all). If anyone would like to be interviewed by me, post your request in the comments! I don't know if it's against the rules or not, but I'm thinking I'll limit myself to one person. It takes me a long time to think of things, lol, and my brain is already seriously overtaxed. ;-)


~RCH~