What if we saw only souls?
 
If bodies, the least of us,
the one unlasting piece of us
were windows, made of glass, sunlit
unfit for throwing stones

What if we saw only souls in hoodies
buying goodies in convenience stores
or behind the wheel,
we would know what they were reaching for,
who they love, and how they feel
 
these bodies, they’ll be damned
if they do, if they don’t,
​we won’t change a thing
not one thing if we think that
these bodies aren’t walls
that separate, make it safe to hate one another
not one and other,
brother, there is no other
no us, no them,
no damned liberals or republicans
no “thug life” or “blacks who act white”
 
Act right, and nothing bad will happen, right?
 
Wrong.
 
Because bodies.
 
They’re everywhere.
And they’re getting nowhere
Fast
I’m scared
And it’s not enough, I know, but still
I sing and write and repeat
Like it’s etched in gold
 
What if we saw only souls.

I thought, only the suffering had died
that relief was on tap
peace flowing
finally

I went on like this for a week, 
happy almost
(smug you might say)
she was so sick, and in so much pain
my god, if you saw her
she was starving

idiot!

She was not starving
she was feasting

on every day
every hour
every minute

devouring seconds

the bread of life
(the cup of salvation)

I'd missed all that

until we came to the church
where people packed every bench
lined every wall 
with love in their hearts
and flowers in their hair

Because there were just so many of us,
they opened the choir loft 

And the people who knew you best
sang your praises
with stories and poetry, the places you went to meet God

And oh god (since we're on the subject)
the tears,
my tears
those unruly bitches 
plummeting from my eyes and nose
shameless

(I read on the internet so it must be true
that the molecular structure of tears
changes based on what they're for

tears of grief are not pretty
like onion-chopping tears;
Grief tears under a microscope resemble reckless stick people 
drunk and flailing in an ice storm)

It was only when your past stood up to speak
that I saw with my big dumb eyes 
what our future had lost

Your middle name was Denise
denise, from nice (I thought)
but really the name is derived 
from Dionysus, Greek
God of wine and merriment

(So your middle name was mischief.
Of course it was.)

I wept for your middle name,
and all the things I never knew
And all the new things we'll never know 

Grief is a motherfucker.
Not at all the holy golden thing we imagine
But a lumbering oaf who stumbles into the kitchen
and grabs a fistful of cocktail nuts
and chews with its mouth open 
while you're at the stove 
attempting to prepare
a balanced meal

I was expecting death.
I was not expecting this.

But then
The unexpected reminds me of you.
It feels like you. 

So I'll take it. 

I've been spending a lot of time at the playground lately, drawing and painting up a storm and oversharing the shit out of it on the Internet.  My unwillingness to self-edit is shameless and obnoxious and for that I am completely unapologetic. You don't want your Instagram feed swallowed up by a tsunami of scribbles of women with no noses, frowning into their coffee? FUCK YOU. You don't know what you're missing.

I don't know if it's lack of time, or low-grade alcoholism, or the fact that I'm about to turn 40, but in the face of all the gnatty little thoughts that used to concern and consume me, I keep reaching into my wicker basket of fucks and coming up with a fistful of nada. 

You don't like my half-assed watercolor seascape?
OH WELL.

You don't like the way I breathe when I laugh? 
Invest in some noise-canceling headphones, sister. Because I laugh (and breathe). A lot.

You think the estimate is WAY too high for something you could "like totally just do yourself"?
Then guess whose self should "like totally just do it"?  

I've got pictures of women with no noses to draw. 

I accidentally purchased a 3-pack of "queen-size" underwear.

The package said size 9, so you can imagine my surprise when I tore it open and these puppies unfurled like a flesh toned American flag. 

I mean they billowed.  

Being a curious sort of person,  of course I had to try them on. So I hoisted them up, climbed right in, and may I just say? Queen size don't lie.

These spacious lady briefs delivered a luxury the likes of which I have never known. It was like moving from a one-bedroom condo into a pelvic palace by the sea with 14 foot ceilings. So much space. 

Silky, silky space.  

If you've given birth in a hospital, you're probably familiar with the enormous disposable mesh undergarments they give you post-delivery. They're huge. And hideous. And fucking awesome. And any woman who says otherwise is a liar or Gisele Bundchen. So these queen-size nines? Are like those. But better. Because you don't have to throw them away. (Or give birth to get them). 

BIG UNDIES for the win, is what I'm trying to say. 


Treat yourself.

Have the courage to say NO.

When you can't. When you know you won't. Or when you could, but you just don't fucking want to.

Your maybes and i'd-love to-if-onlys--serve no one.

Do. 
Or don't.

Be in, 
or be out.

Be a yes, 
or a no.

Stop wasting our precious time on earth--yours and mine--with feigned indecision.

You know your answer.

Over at Life in the Circus, my friend (and new favorite muse) Jen Dominguez is contemplating the pros and cons of homeschooling her five (gasp) children. 

Like all at once.  
IN HER HOME THAT IS NOT EVEN A BAR. 

She asked other moms (of both the homeschooling and no-way-in-hell-schooling varieties) for feedback.  What do we have to say about the pros and cons she'd listed?  Are there pros or cons she hadn't considered?

As a working mom, married to a high school teacher, with two kids in public school, I have a surprising fondness for the homeschooling movement. I talk to Larry about it all the time. Not because I think I could teach the basics better (he could, I couldn't), but because I could do all of the other stuff better. For my kids it's all about  the other stuff. They are geniuses at the other stuff (most kids are, no?) But they need time and space to become experts. 

While I'm not as militant as Penelope Trunk on the subject,  I love her feisty rant about "well-roundedness." If you're interests are wide ranging (mine are all over the map) - then by all means, let your well rounded self roll. But some people (my oldest child, for example) have very specific interests. To the untrained eye, specific interests can look a whole lot like crazed obsessions. To the standardized test makers, specific interests resemble (d) none of the above. And to teachers, specific interests look a lot like a kid who will only stop talking if you write him another demerit (and tape it over his mouth.)

So I dream of homeschooling. Of allowing my children to learn the basics through the lens of their own passions. Doesn't that sound romantic? Learning through the lens of your own passions.  I want that sentence to light a candle and feed me chocolate mousse. 

But here are some of the less romantic reasons I fantasize about the homeschool life: 

1. My kids have been taking Spanish since they were four years old. If you need a good laugh, ask them to say a sentence (any sentence) in Spanish. No. Can. Do-o. 

2. In school, there's PE, but little-to-no free play. After all, why let children explore and imagine and make up their own games, when you can have them JUMP ROPE FOR HEART(R)

3. Speaking of which - ENOUGH. Enough with using innocent school children to do your fundraising for you, American Heart Association. As much as my son would love to  "unlock" the five AWESOME "levels" of rubber duck necklaces, we've already sucked all of our neighbors dry with those godforsaken CitySaver books. 

4: Those Godforsaken CitySaver books. 

5. But let's get back to heart health for a minute, since the American Heart Association keeps bringing it up (year after  jump roping year). You know what's not so heart healthy? Having our kids sit on their asses in school all day, every day, for 17 years, so they can grow up and get good jobs where they sit on their well rounded asses all day.

6. T-shirts. T-shirts. T-shirts. To every season (and fundraiser, and chili cook off, and talent show, and sporting club, and band) there is a t-shirt. Turn, turn, turn.

7. Family "Fun" Nights. 
Full stop.

8. Worksheets. Avalanches of pitifully written (often incomprehensible) worksheets spewing from 47 pound backpacks, directly into the recycling bin, because I. just. can't. 

9. The "Agenda" that has no agenda other than to document the color that best describes my child's behavior that day.  But it's very important that I sign this agenda every night, to ensure I fully absorb the GREENNESS of my child's "choices", and also that he gets his precious "dip in the treasure box" at the end of the week, which is, quite possibly and very sadly, his favorite thing about school. 

10. The Recorder. The recorder is not an instrument. It's an act of aggression against fourth grade parents everywhere.

11. School picture day! In the fall! And in the spring! And then makeup pictures!  If I wanted shitty digital pictures of my kids wearing wrinkled shirts taken by someone with no formal training in photography? I'D TAKE THEM MYSELF. 

12. Oh wait. I already do.  Like every day.  And my photos have filters, bitches. 

13. Family "Fun" Nights. Did I say that one already? 

14. How about the tardy slip? That's some fucked-up Little House on the Prairie bullshit, if you ask me. First of all, welcome to the future, Tardiness. On the planet 2015, we call it "being late." It's a common occurrence these days, what with all of the agenda signing, and t-shirt ordering we have to do.  Also, should we really hold a mother of five to the same standard of punctuality as the mother of an only child? I think parents of multiples should be granted a five-minute grace period, not per child, but per shoe. It's only fair. 

So that's my fourteen cents, Jen. I could go on, but I  probably have some permission slips that require me to write my child's name and grade and known allergies in triplicate when I get home. 

If I were you - I think I know what I'd do.

On the other hand ... 

Everything about it. Their voices. Their blend. Gus on piano, self taught and suddenly impressive. These two friends, bonded by an independent and steadfast creativity. The way Gus's kooky Ray Charles impersonation quickly dissolves into something so charming and cool that my motherness is temporarily suspended, and I'm just a big old goober of a fan. 

This essay is a day-maker. For those of you who haven’t seen it making the rounds on Facebook, I’m sharing it here.

I give you fair warning that if the F Bomb offends you, Manson’s essay is a minefield. Prepare to lose a limb.

The line from this piece that particularly struck me, however, was not by the author himself. It was a quote from Eric Hoffer, who said: “A man is likely to mind his own business when it is worth minding. When it is not, he takes his mind off his own meaningless affairs by minding other people’s business.”

Yes, Eric Hoffer. YES. YES. YES.
I’ll have what he's having.

I once knew a gal who made a fine art out of minding other people’s business. She was the Picasso of busybodies. And like Picasso, her impressions of other people’s business tended to be strangely … abstract. Is that a guitar? Or a boob with strings? WHAT. ARE. YOU. SAYING?

She’d draw me into some line of local intrigue, and I would listen, rapt, awaiting theOHMYGOD punch line she’d promised, but it never came. And I finally (it took years) realized that her “OHMYGOD” was my “oh for god’s sake who gives a shit?” 

And let me be clear: I am not above gossip.
I am above gossip that bores me.
Don’t give me no parsley without the steak.

And don't give me no parsley without saying "This here? Is Parsley." 

Another one of this gal's tricks was a variation on the Seinfeldian “yadayadayada”. Over the course of weeks, she'd casually allude to some big ugly secret, some unforgiveable slight that had been visited upon her, and when it FINALLY came time for the big reveal, she’d say, “Whatever. I’m just over it.”

I’m sorry what?
What are you over?
INQUIRING MINDS. WANT TO KNOW.

 And again, let me be clear: I’m not saying she’d reveal her profound truth and then say “Whatever. I’m just over it.” 
Her "Whatever”? Was IN LIEU (in lieu!!) of the profound truth. The actual punchline was mine to guess.

She’d go in for the big wind up, “ … So we’re sitting in the kitchen, and I’m listening to <Horrible Person Who Can Not Be Named> saying these words to me, and I’m like I can’t believe you just said that. Can’t. Buhleeeeve. But whatever. I’m just over it.”

I’d say, “I think I missed something. What did <Horrible Person> say?”

And she’d say, “You know what? It’s not even about that for me. It’s just the principle of the whole thing. You just don’t SAY certain things, you know? But honestly? I don’t have the energy to relive it, so I’m putting it behind me.”

ENERGY TO RELIVE WHAT?
Putting WHAT behind you?

!!!

Who talks like this? Do you have a person who talks like this? And can we write a play about this person? And call it"The Most Annoying Everplay of Evertime ... Because *Whatever*".

If I gave a f*ck, I would totally write that play. 
But I'm minding my own business.

Starting now.

In keeping with annual tradition - here's "What I Read in 2014". It was a good year of reading (and a good year all around, I must say), though this list is surprisingly light on fiction, even for a memoir junkie like me. I got back into drawing this year (which you'll see reflected in this list), after a long time away. It's brought me considerable joy and some neat opportunities at work, to boot.  For reading lists from past years, check out the Reading section of this site. For some of my drawings and other creative shenanigans, check out The Playground.  As ALWAYS, I want to hear what you read, what you loved, what you loathed and what you're looking forward to in 2015. Do share!

NONFICTION

Yes Please | Amy Poehler
The New York Times  panned it, so of course I loved it. I hate when book critics refuse to review the book that is and instead critique the book that wasn’t. So it’s not a linear memoir or “proper” book of essays—who gives a rip? It’s Amy Poehler IN PRINT (and in wigs!) And it’s fabulous fun. 

Smoke Gets in Your Eyes: And Other Lessons from the Crematory | Caitlin Doughty
Absolutely fascinating. And funny. I loved this book as much as any human can love a book about what we Americans do with our dead people—and what we may be failing to do. Caitlin Doughty is a witty, insightful, and compassionate writer and tour guide. Highly recommend. 

Not That Kind of Girl | Lena Dunham
I admire the heck out of Lena Dunham, and I will read everything she writes and says, with glee (and maybe a little bit of drool on my chin). Some of the essays in Not That Kind of Girl, unsurprisingly, exceeded my ick-ometer in much the same way Girls, (though I love and admire the show) can be a little too sexually explicit and raw for my delicate flower brains. But what I love about Lena Dunham is that she's so solidly herself - but always willing to self-correct (like when it comes to paying the opening acts on her book tour). And while she's enormously introspective (some might say self-absorbed, but aren't we all?), she seems genuinely interested in humanity. One of my favorite things in 2014 was this interview/conversation she had with Judy Blume. If you have time, listen to the podcast of the interview rather than just reading the transcript. It's well worth the time. 

Brain on Fire: My Month of Madness | Susannah Cahallan
A young, successful journalist is stricken with symptoms (seizures, psychosis, slurred speech …) no doctor can treat or explain. A nightmare (and well-written page turner) that casts an eerie light on the limits of modern medicine and reminds us how vigilant we need to be in asking questions and pushing for answers when the diagnoses aren't adding up.  

Tiny Beautiful Things | Cheryl Strayed
 I’ve read it before, and I’ll read it again, and I’ll continue to foist it on friends and family until everyone sees the poetic genius of Cheryl Strayed as Dear Sugar,  supreme ruler of the advice column queendom. (Not for the faint of heart. Or delicate of ears. But it's just amazing.)

Dry: A Memoir | Augusten Burroughs
Not just an outstanding memoir about alcoholism, but an outstanding (OUTSTANDING) memoir. And far less whacky and disturbing than Running With Scissors, if that one put you off. I really, really like Augusten Burroughs after reading this. (And I really, really like that we spelled our son's name the same way.)   

Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant? | Roz Chast
Comedy, crematoriums, inexplicable madness, despair, alcoholism … what’s next on the old nightstand? How about a heaping plate of dementia and dying, with a side of spastic bowels, incontinence, and hoarding tendencies? Needless to say, Chast’s graphic memoir is not your run-of-the-mill comic book, but it’s good. Honest. Real. Depressing as all hell. But also, oddly funny. I admire memoirists who keep it (very, very) real.  My mother found parts of it a little too real, however, vowing to leave "no sad little items" in her drawers for me to photograph and blog about when she's gone. 

Seducing the Boys Club | Nina DiSesa
I love books about women in advertising. This may have something to do with the fact that I’m a woman, and I work in advertising—or it might have something to do with the fact that women who succeed in the world of advertising have a healthy dose of curiosity and a damn good sense of humor.  Our agency's creative director knew Nina DiSesa when he worked in Manhattan, and he gave me this book to read.  It’s quick, smart, and entertaining. And while I wasn’t initially in love with the title and the metaphor of seduction as a woman’s secret to success in business … there’s a fair amount of truth there. (If you like this one, you must also read A Big Life in Advertising by Mary Wells Lawrence. It's a fabulous taste of an earlier time in the industry.)

Carry on Warrior | Glennon Melton
If you’re not reading Momastery (rhymes with Monastery) you're missing so many of the things! Add it to your feed reader and initiate yourself with this book of essays. She's a Christian writer the way Anne Lamott is a Christian writer (but with a lot less trashing of Republican presidents whose last name rhymes with tush.)  No hypocrisy in these pages. Just straight up inspiration, served funny-side-up, the way I like it.  

When Women Were Birds | Terry Tempest Williams
Mormon women, Tempest Williams tells us,  are expected to keep a diary.  When her mother was dying, she left her journals to her daughter, with instructions not to read them until she was gone. When Terry finally sat down to read her mother's journals—beautiful cloth-bound books, stacked high in her closet—all of the pages were empty. Understand that this is not a memoir in the traditional sense – it’s a blend of memoir and meditation, which is Williams’ signature, but it makes for quiet beach- or bedtime reading, and it makes you think.

The Working Poor | David Shipler
Need a little help understanding why poor people buy cigarettes and cell phones, and moon pies instead of healthy produce? Wonder why they don't have the "willpower" to save? Why they can't just pull themselves up by their proverbial bootstraps? Here's why. Horatio Alger fanatics won't want to bother. But anyone who is open to understanding just how difficult (and often impossible) it is to lift oneself out of poverty in this country, should consider this required reading. 

The Opposite of Loneliness | Marina Keegan
Young, Ivy League essayist and short story writer—precocious and promising (and likeable)—dies a sudden untimely death. Her writing is compiled here, and it is all the things Marina was--precocious, promising, lovely—and cut off before her writing could fully blossom. 

Hand Wash Cold | Karen Maezen Miller
 I read this very early in 2014, and frankly, I had to google it to remember what the hell it was about. Take that review with a grain of salt, however, because my memory is not so fresh these days—and I’d hate for any author to suffer because of it. I remember enjoying this meditation on daily routine—and how fulfillment and meaning can be found in small tasks, gestures, and moments. I just can’t quote it back to you.

 BOOKS I READ FOR WORK

How to Say It to Seniors  | David Solie
One of my clients is a retirement community for seniors. I love this client, because they are exceptionally kind and fair and open to ideas and direction. Part of my job is to identify the insights that make an audience click – and while I love my elders, I don’t necessarily have a handle on what’s happening inside their heads. So I turned to geriatric psychologist David Solie for insight. While I wouldn’t go out of my way to recommend this book to anyone who isn’t actively seeking ways to communicate better with the elderly, one insight really stuck with me. In this country we tend to view old age as a period of diminished capacity. We are burdened by our elders, rather than revering them. Solie shows us that old age, not unlike infancy, toddlerhood, or puberty, is a developmental phase like any other. And it's marked by two characteristic drivers: the need to maintain control, and the need to understand one's legacy. He describes this as "all-consuming work" for seniors - and offers communication strategies that support, rather than stand in the way, of it. 

The Fortune Cookie Principle | Bernadette Jiwa
Interesting anecdotes from the branding world, all of which can be summarized thusly: People buy the fortune, not the cookie. The most successful brands have a story at their heart--and that's what people are buying . Without that, they're just another commodity.  

BOOKS I READ INSPIRED ME TO BECOME A VEGAN*

The China Study | T. Colin Campbell

Diet for a New America | John Robbins

Great books. Very convincing. And yet: the bacon force is strong, y’all*. Stronger than I. More on this at a later date, because I have quite a lot to say on the subject of food and diet and being a whatever-a-tarian. My current dietary position (however much I resisted it) falls squarely in the court of moderation. #sigh

FICTION

I'm stunned at how little fiction I read this year. I probably started and stopped about a dozen novels--some of which I intend to finish ... some day. But here are the ones I completed. 

The Interestings | Meg Wollitzer
Genius. My Art of Fielding of 2014.

Wonder | RJ Palacio
I read this to the boys, and they didn’t want it to end. In fact (and this is horrible to admit) it's the first chapter book that has kept both of them interested long enough for me to finish it. The story is told in a series of first-person accounts that offer multiple perspectives on the main character, a fifth grader who has a severe facial deformity. We hear from his sister, his friends, his enemies, and from Auggie himself--all of whom are sympathetic characters in the end.

The Dinner | Herman Koch
Curious. Fast. Entertaining. But it never made it’s way into my heart. Dark like Gone Girl, but smaller, and not quite as riveting.

ART & ADVERTISING

The Doodle Revolution | Sunni Brown
 I love books about creativity and sketching and writing and concepting and what makes artists make the choices they make. I eat them up. When I take notes in meetings, I always draw doodles and pictures to help me remember what I’ve heard. For years, I worried that people thought I wasn’t paying attention—but still, my recall depends on it. Seeing this Ted Talk by Sunni Brown (and then reading her book)  inspired me to stay the course. If I take visual notes, I remember almost everything a client says. If I just write the notes, I have to go back and reread them.

The Sketchnote Handbook | Mike Rhode

Steal Like An Artist | Austin Kleon

Show Your Work | Austin Kleon

These three are in the same writer/drawer/professional notetaker vein as Sunni Brown’s Doodle Revolution (though I think perhaps their works preceded hers … not sure. They’re all good, clever fun.

An Illustrated Life | Danny Gregory

I like to learn as much as possible about the artists behind the illustrations I love—so this book was like an enormous bowl of beautiful brain candy. I keep going back to it for inspiration. 

Hello NY: An Illustrated Love Letter to the Five Burroughs | Julia Rothman
Beautiful, fun. A nifty gift for creative friends and fans of the Big Apple. 

The Practical Pocket Guide to Account Planning | Chris Kocek
 I’m an account director in a smaller agency, which means I also do the work of an account planner and creative strategist. If you’re curious about what the hell an account planner does this is a GREAT overview. If you're curious about why they call it "Account Planning", you'll have to look elsewhere. And let me know whose hair brained idea it was.

Advertising Concept Book | Pete Barry
Classic ads in concept (sketch) form show the importance of idea before design. A good idea works in black and white pencil. Every time. Check it. 

My Christmas wish is that we will stop writing articles about "What Not to say to people who (are pregnant/can't get pregnant/don't have kids/ have kids/ are adopted/have just adopted/ have a child with a disability/have never had a disability/ have just fallen in love/have lost a love one/are stay at home moms/are working moms/ are depressed/refuse to acknowledge suffering/etc etc etc) and just realize that everyone, for the most part, is doing the best they can. No one is out to get us. Or hurt us. Or misunderstand us. Or offend us. We are all trying to relate to each other. We all want to be loved. We all want to be interesting. Sometimes we will bore people. Not because we're boring, but because some people are interested in somethings other than us. Sometimes we won't be invited to the party. Not because everyone hates us, but because not everyone can be invited to every party. There is only so much punch and booze. Only so many personalities who can jive all at once. It 's ok. Sometimes people won't remember our names, not because we aren't memorable, but because there are too many damn people and all of them come equipped with one of those pesky names. Some people won't get us the "right" gift this year. Not because they don't *understand* us, but because they wanted to get us something, and THEY GOT US A GIFT. How beautiful! Relax. Breathe. Be kinder than you can. Take nothing personally, because that is your right and your choice. You are fine. I am fine. We are all going to be fine. Surrender to the holidays, the mess, the magic, the moments, the discomfort and the disappointments. These are the gifts of the living.

Remind me when you see me. And I'll remind you.