JenniferPashleyBlog

I can only speak for myself, but this pretty much rocked my pants off. They are awesome live, and you can’t really beat Ryan Adams’ self-professed rock-star-ness.

I’ve been a mother for quite some time: eleven plus years. Today, however, I ran into some mothers who made me second guess that.

Here’s what happened: I stopped by the library with a friend and her baby (now almost two, and not quite a baby). There were a few women there with small children. The kids were playing, and had interesting names which were old-fashioned by varying degrees. The mothers spoke softly to their children, not because we were in a library, because that’s how they always speak to their children. Sometimes they use the Royal-We: “Emma, we don’t stand on the table.” Or, “Charles, we don’t throw blocks.” The mothers, one of whom had a 2 1/2 year old, a baby under six months, and also appeared to be pregnant, were really happy. Really happy. Like, so placid I thought they were drugged.

I waited a long time to say anything. After, my friend and I, we had the conversation we sometimes have about having more kids. My answer is always no (and my reasons for this are varied and another blog post entirely. They include being lucky, wanting to write, and wanting to have the kids I already have out of the house before I’m 50.) My friend’s answer is always that part of her wants to have another baby, but that she probably won’t. Then I said

“If I weren’t already a mother, and those women at the library were my only exposure to what it’s like to be a mother, I probably wouldn’t have kids.”

We talked a little about how calm they were. I joked a little about whether or not they were on lithium. I started thinking back at the library that what the other mothers made me feel wasn’t just that I didn’t belong, or that I wasn’t the right kind of mother, or maybe, even politely, that I was just a “different” mother. But rather, they made me feel like a non-mother.

Don’t get me wrong. No one was killing moose or running for vice president here. We’re in a liberal town. No one said anything, or acted untoward in anyway. It’s just that sitting there, I felt like the loud mouth dirty story telling bull in the bone china shop of childhood. That if this were all I had to go on, I’d never be deemed placid or organized enough to have a kid in the first place.

Over the past few days I’ve been reading through people’s memories and thoughts about David Foster Wallace. Comments are tricky. Any dumb fuck with time on his hands can write whatever he wants, related or not, insensitive or not. Most of the comments and memorials were salient and civilized. And one of them said, “Thank God he didn’t have kids.”

Which I took to mean the obvious: how awful to leave a kid behind after a suicide. But part of me took it this way too: cynical smarty-pants writer types also ought to think twice about kids. Because your non-placidity might be a threat. Because your right-on-the-edge emotion, the reality of your own thinking, feeling and being might not be in the best interest in raising well-adjusted kids. Or maybe it is.  

Deep down, the US, with its space, its technological refinement, its bluff good conscience, even in those spaces which it opens up for simulation, is the only remaining primitive society. — Jean Baudrillard 

If I had a store front window here, there’d be a crooked sign taped in it: We’ve Moved. Please visit us at our new location in a small village so friendly it’s freakish.

We’ve left behind a third of an acre of lawn. 3300 square feet of house. A neat grid of a development that has been under road construction all summer. And Wegman’s. Suburbia’s a neat place: when we sold our house, our neighbors were very concerned that the new folks would take good care of their lawn. People regularly blow grass and leaves out of their driveways. Have organized containers for trash, really expensive implements for outdoor work, and in our old neighborhood, lots of wrought iron railings and bathtub Virgin Marys. And it was killing us.

There’re a couple of reasons for this. The simple one is money. The slightly more philosophical reason is that we’re just not suburbanites. Neither of us have a passion for lawn care, home improvement, SUVs or shopping trips to Sam’s Club. What we do want is a smaller, simpler place that requires less maintenance, where we can walk to most of the things we need, and where we have more time (and more money) to have fun, to travel, to read and enjoy life.

So we gave it all away. Or sold it. It’s liberating. It’s our Tyler Durden moment:

It took my whole life to buy this stuff. . . .Then you’re trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you.
Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk, p. 44  

If you’ve talked to me since the end of the summer, you probably know that my dad passed away on August 23rd. He was 88. And one of the things I learned in the days that followed was that when he left home at 18 (in 1938) he left with his accordion and one suit that had two pairs of pants. And that’s it. That when you’re passionate about making a life out of the important things, like music or art or writing, you just believe. Because you have to.

And sometimes that means giving it all away.

It is always the same: once you are liberated, you are forced to ask who you are.
– Jean Baudrillard

I’ve been thinking about Dolly Parton lately. Dolly Parton, and singing, and because it’s summer, traveling.

There’s a couple of reasons for this: one, if you haven’t heard, we’ve started a band. By band, I mean, we sit in the living room and sing along with the iPod, which is cranked so loud you can’t hear either of us. Sometimes Geoff pretends to strum the guitar. He even makes finger formations that look like chords. It’s impressive. The other thing is that no matter what type of song, I sing everything in a high, tinny Dolly Parton voice.

The second reason is that I was talking to my . . . my . . . What do I call her? Writing associate? I can’t call her “my agent,” even though I want to, because in that great literary agency metaphor of dating, we haven’t gone all the way. So I was talking to M— about Tennessee, and Dollywood, which is the only place in Tennessee I’ve ever been, save the shit towns you have to drive through to get there, and then I remembered, I didn’t actually go to Dollywood.

Let me explain. When I was 16, right after I got my driver’s license, we drove to Tennessee. I drove most of the way, which was good practice for such a young driver. Or it was totally reckless, not sure, but we made it. We spent a few days in a town called Pigeon Forge, which I guess is where Dolly Parton is from, but we never actually went to Dollywood. I think we drove as close as the actual sign to the actual park, but didn’t go in.

Anyway, this is a trend I’m remembering about my dad: taking trips to nowhere. Or taking trips close to something big, and then not going in. The Grand Canyon comes to mind. And the Apple Festival, but I’m sure there are others. There’s something else to be said here, about the anticipation of travel, which we prepared for like war: you had to be prepared, but not show it, not ask about it, and no decisions were made until we actually hit the road. And even then sometimes not.

And we traveled a lot. I’ve still been in more states than almost anyone I know. This is a trend I’d like to repeat with my own kids, road trips, sandwiches in the backseat, theme parks. With slightly less swearing and throwing up. And somewhat more actually going in.

Turns out, Dollywood is only 12 hours from Syracuse, and I’m a better driver now. Maybe it’s time to take this show on the road.

If you know me, you might remember that a few years ago I whittled myself down to about 125. If you’ve seen me lately, you know that 125 looks different in shorts or capris, or any of those cute t-shirts I used to wear. Now, I’m not saying I ballooned up to something ungodly. But I have given it a name, and it’s not the freshman-fifteen, which is neither accurate age wise, nor was it ever politically correct. I’m calling it Classic Madonna.

Madonna’s tricky, because really, even old-school Madonna might be buff. But I’m going way back. Think Borderline — complete with the little roll of white belly fat above the black — you got it — capris. When you add in the wiggly arms, and the meaty thighs a la VMAs, you get the whole picture. Honestly, I think that’s the bathing suit I’ll be wearing this summer (with the hat).

So, I’m trying to do something about this. But in the meantime, if you see me doing yard work in black lace gloves (while biting my lip) — that’s why.

It took 14 years for us to figure this out. It’s not Rhett Miller, of the Old 97s, although the last time we saw them live, Geoff said, “Even I was watching him shake his ass.” It’s not Jason Schwartzman, sexy as he is post-Darjeeling Limited, or even Josh Brolin. (Really: who knew Josh Brolin was hot at all?) And our apologies to any major Syracuse celebrities for not picking them.

It’s Evan Dando. 

Why? He’d rather watch TV than camp. He’s done more drugs than us. He’s got long hair, stubble and he’s been to bed with everyone we can think of.  

Except us. 

Plus, nothing says “Welcome to your mid-30s” like having a mutual crush on Evan Dando. 

So, I log on to iGoogle this morning, and Leo at Zen Habits has posted “10 Things I Learned from My Second Marathon,” which I mistakenly read as “martini.” Then I found out that the things you learn are the same:

1. [Drinking] experience matters a lot. Right. You can’t go into a martini without prior experience, or you can, but you won’t do well. Without practice, both marathons and martinis end in puking and passing out.
2. Pacing is huge. I cannot emphasize this enough. Sip, kids. Don’t glug.
3. Extra weight also matters a lot. I agree. If you’re 140 pounds, you just can’t hold as much martini as the 225 lb guy next to you. (If, by the way, you find a 225 lb guy next to you drinking martinis, let me know. I don’t actually know any.)
4. Be relaxed and have fun. It’s not a race, kids, or a competition. Drink at your own pace. Remember the tortoise.
5. Test out your gear beforehand, on a long run. For Zen Habits, this is a post about gear. Clearly, it never hurts to see how you will look when you’re out drinking martinis, so by all means, try on the new long and lean jeans and pose a bit at home, with a glass in hand. Also, try spilling a little on yourself, to see how the fabric breathes with the gin.
6. Keep your upper body relaxed. The key to not spilling is all in the balance. Too relaxed = too likely to spill.
7. Plan your day before well. You must lay a good base. Carb up before you go martini running.
8. Having people to talk to is great. It’s even better — or at least much more entertaining — if everyone else is having a martini too.
9. Have a reason to keep going at the end. “I’ve never drank this much before!” is a good one.
10. The long drink is your martini training. Speed work doesn’t work (much). Here, I’ll quote liberally from Zen Habits:”My training for this martini consisted mostly of long drinks on Sunday. I also drank during the week, but my proof wasn’t very high, and I did almost no speed drinking. I did some intervals at the bar, but not much. It was almost all the weekly long drinking, and it turns out, that was enough. Sure, I might have done better if I drank more often, at higher proofs, but maybe not. Next time, I’ll start drinking earlier, in the day, in the year.”

“You have to forget your last martini before you try another. Your mind can’t know what’s coming.” — anonymous altered quote from Zen Habits.

Stay tuned for a more detailed post, one that looks more like an essay.