I recently did the WRDB World Records Show at Joe’s Pub. The record I set was most ice cream cones stacked on my nose- while telling lies: http://urdb.org/wr/ice-cream-cones-stacked-ones-nose-while-telling-lies
The idea for this record originated from a Radiolab interview with …… who has given up lying completely. I decided to follow his example, only instead of successfully cutting back on lies, I’ve become more aware than ever of all the white lies I tell- unnecessarily! To help me give up lying I’ve made a list of “the most common lies I find myself saying” here goes………
THE 50 MOST COMMON LIES I FIND MYSELF SAYING:
1. I have a black man’s penis.
2. Of course I remember you!
3. I’m so sorry, my phone died.
4. My boobs are real
5. Oh I’ve been tested
6. I totally speak Latin.
7. Yes, I did sleep with Don Rickles in the Spring of '94 and it was HOT.
8. Sorry, I'm completely stoned right now.
9. Really, I've never tasted chocolate.
10. I have a pony named Norbert.
11. I was just in the neighborhood.
12. You know that song, "She Bangs?" Yeah, it's about me.
13. I don't remember you telling me that.
14. Puff daddy is shopping my band.
15. I can eat anything I want!
16. After I published my book I was able to quit my restaurant job.
17. This is my real vagina.
18. Be there in five.
19. Yeah, it’s designer.
20. I would…..but this is my last piece.
21. The character of Tony Soprano was based on me.
22. I have perfect credit.
23. I understand what that means.
24. Helen Keller just called to tell me I’ve been looking really good lately.
25. I yoddled in Helen Hunt’s canyon.
26. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were using that.
27. I fooled around with a unicorn once and I’m still horny.
28. I’m not secretly proud of that joke.
29. I shower daily.
30. Of course I’ve heard of that band.
31. Oh no! I forgot my wallet.
32. It’s okay, I forgive you.
33. I’m really happy with the way my life is turning out.
34. It’s on airplane mode.
35. Trust me this is harder for me than it is for you.
36. I didn’t google you.
37. Your baby is soooo beautiful.
38. I liked him before I knew he was famous
39. I never sit on public toilet seats.
40. I’ve never pooped.
41. We can keep it casual. I’m really independent anyway.
42. This’ll only hurt for a second.
43. Uhhhh my dog has terrible gas right now!
44. Don’t worry it’s not contagious.
45. This is not what it looks like…
46. Oh, we’re just friends.
47. I was born with it.
48. I shot JFK.
49. Don’t I know you from somewhere?
50. Now that I’ve written this list—I will give up lying forever!
(special thanks to help from Anaheed, Shaina and Michael!)
If you liked this record- check out the other record I set on St. Patrick’s Day—Most birthday party hats worn at once:
http://urdb.org/wr/party-hats-worn
Monday, August 9, 2010
The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance: Clarified!
People often ask me if [The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance] is a book about Halloween. Sadly, it’s not, it’s named after an actual LDS church dance that I’ve attended every year for the last nine years that takes place in Manhattan. That being said, I LOVE Halloween. My favorite thing about the bizarre holiday is what it does to my imagination. Like how I felt when I read [The Wind Up Bird Chronicles, One-Hundred Years of Solitude, or Where the Sidewalk Ends] for the first time. And even as an adult I can get completely lost in the making of an original costume. Hours will go by and I will still be hot-gluing.
Although, using my imagination has never been difficult. I grew up in a very inventive home, thanks, in part, to my father. He had a way of making our home a party. On one occasion, he came home from a boring day at the office and yelled, “Line up, tallest to shortest.” He’d seen this in The Sound of Music and had been using it ever since.
All five of us kids lined up against the wall.
“Do you guys know what cereal killers are?” he asked.
We shook our heads no.
“You guys are the cereal killers!” he said emphatically.
He piled us into the van and drove us to Fred Meyer. While he bought us masks, gloves, and squirt guns, we each got to pick out any cereal that we wanted.
From there we headed to several of his friends’ houses, assembling in a clump on their doorsteps while Tina, my oldest sister, rang the bell.
As the door opened we cocked our squirt guns with one hand, and held up our cereal boxes with the other: “Hands up,” we yelled. “We’re the cereal killers!” Then, at my father’s instruction, we went into his friends’ houses and forced them to eat cereal.
It’s only when I tell stories like these to friends that I realize exactly how bizarre my childhood was
Celebrating Halloween fit right into this insanity. We were encouraged to dress however we saw fit: Earwax, an ink stain, or a melting iceberg, nothing was off limits.
The best costume I ever came up with was in fourth grade. We were having prawns for dinner one night in early October when the idea came to me. I’d taken all the discarded prawn heads and put them onto my fingers and I was chasing my younger sister around the house when I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. With prawns for fingers I looked like the most magnificent witch. I decided to replicate this look for Halloween, only I went even further. On top of prawn fingers, I had a pointy witch hat, painted green face and I added a jumbo pickle for a nose. Best costume ever award… here I come, I thought.
I was genuinely surprised when all the Minnie Mouses, Batmen and Rambos, didn’t get it.
“That’s disgusting,” the Little Mermaid informed me.
“You smell,” a Transformer said.
I’d like to say that I stood up for my costume, but I didn’t. I ate the pickle, since I was never one for wasting food. And then one by one I pulled each prawn head off and tossed them into the garbage can. Their beady little black eyes looked up at me, Don’t leave. It was time for the all school Halloween parade. I had no choice but to go.
My little brother, dressed as a tree-frog, spotted me walking at the front of the parade.
“What happened to your costume?” he ran up to me and asked. Wearing an oversized green t-shirt with green plastic kitchen gloves taped to his hands and feet he looked more like an amoeba than a tree frog. I gestured for him to go away.
“Didn’t you want to be a witch?”
“I am a witch,” I yelled.
“Then where are your hands?”
It’s moments like these that make you love your family more than anyone else. And it’s for moments like this, that holidays were invented.
Although, using my imagination has never been difficult. I grew up in a very inventive home, thanks, in part, to my father. He had a way of making our home a party. On one occasion, he came home from a boring day at the office and yelled, “Line up, tallest to shortest.” He’d seen this in The Sound of Music and had been using it ever since.
All five of us kids lined up against the wall.
“Do you guys know what cereal killers are?” he asked.
We shook our heads no.
“You guys are the cereal killers!” he said emphatically.
He piled us into the van and drove us to Fred Meyer. While he bought us masks, gloves, and squirt guns, we each got to pick out any cereal that we wanted.
From there we headed to several of his friends’ houses, assembling in a clump on their doorsteps while Tina, my oldest sister, rang the bell.
As the door opened we cocked our squirt guns with one hand, and held up our cereal boxes with the other: “Hands up,” we yelled. “We’re the cereal killers!” Then, at my father’s instruction, we went into his friends’ houses and forced them to eat cereal.
It’s only when I tell stories like these to friends that I realize exactly how bizarre my childhood was
Celebrating Halloween fit right into this insanity. We were encouraged to dress however we saw fit: Earwax, an ink stain, or a melting iceberg, nothing was off limits.
The best costume I ever came up with was in fourth grade. We were having prawns for dinner one night in early October when the idea came to me. I’d taken all the discarded prawn heads and put them onto my fingers and I was chasing my younger sister around the house when I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. With prawns for fingers I looked like the most magnificent witch. I decided to replicate this look for Halloween, only I went even further. On top of prawn fingers, I had a pointy witch hat, painted green face and I added a jumbo pickle for a nose. Best costume ever award… here I come, I thought.
I was genuinely surprised when all the Minnie Mouses, Batmen and Rambos, didn’t get it.
“That’s disgusting,” the Little Mermaid informed me.
“You smell,” a Transformer said.
I’d like to say that I stood up for my costume, but I didn’t. I ate the pickle, since I was never one for wasting food. And then one by one I pulled each prawn head off and tossed them into the garbage can. Their beady little black eyes looked up at me, Don’t leave. It was time for the all school Halloween parade. I had no choice but to go.
My little brother, dressed as a tree-frog, spotted me walking at the front of the parade.
“What happened to your costume?” he ran up to me and asked. Wearing an oversized green t-shirt with green plastic kitchen gloves taped to his hands and feet he looked more like an amoeba than a tree frog. I gestured for him to go away.
“Didn’t you want to be a witch?”
“I am a witch,” I yelled.
“Then where are your hands?”
It’s moments like these that make you love your family more than anyone else. And it’s for moments like this, that holidays were invented.
The Art of Storytelling!
Today I’d like to write a little bit about the art of storytelling. While my career took off when I started performing at The Moth or for This American Life, I began telling stories in elementary school. I was a chubby kid and I had a hard time making friends. Until one day when I told a story to a girl in my class and she actually laughed. Next thing I knew I was pimping out this gift, telling stories to every person I met in exchange for friendship.
It wasn’t until I met Elizabeth Swados [The One and Only Human Galaxy, My Depression, At Play] that it occurred to me that I should do something with these stories. During my senior year at NYU, Elizabeth Swados, or Liz, was brought in to write and workshop a show with twelve students. I was one of the lucky twelve.
Our first assignment was to tell a story about a sexual experience from the perspective of our parents. While the other students were sharing crass or explicit stories, I sat in my seat wondering how I was going to pull this off. I wanted to complete the assignment, but I didn’t want to disrespect my lovely Mormon parents. When it was my turn to share, I, in my mother’s voice, told a story about the most romantic thing my father had ever done for her.
“It’s not your typical romantic story,” I began, using my mother’s softer voice. “But here goes: I was in the hospital and I’d just given birth to your sister Julia. It was a very hard and a very messy labor and soon as the baby was born the doctor and nurses rushed her out of the room. Gary followed close behind, leaving me completely alone.
Once they were gone, I looked down at my body. I was physically exhausted and my lower half was covered in blood and fluids. All I could think was, I don’t want Gary to see me this way, I look awful. Just as I thought this, your father walked into the room. He took one look at me, scooped me up in his arms and carried me down the hallway to the nearest shower. The nurses were yelling at him to stop, but he ignored them. Fully clothed, he walked into the shower and he bathed me.”
Any way, I shared this (one of my parent’s more private moments) with the entire class. After class Liz pulled me aside, “You have a gift for telling stories,” she said, “Have you ever thought of making a show out of your stories?”
From that day forward, I’d get out of class early on Fridays, go to Liz’s house, sit on her giant blue couch and tell her stories. During this time, and over the course of an eight year mentorship, Liz taught me a great deal about storytelling. These are the two lines from Liz that I find myself repeating the most: “Just tell the story,” and “Don’t be coy.”
As I transitioned from being a storyteller to a writer I discovered how much patience and discipline it takes to put your thoughts on paper. And while the writer’s medium took a lot of adjusting to, it’s still about the basic art of storytelling. To quote the host of a Moth Storyslam, (The Moth is a storytelling series based in New York, I highly recommend their free podcast [themoth.org]) “Start on the action, have a clear beginning, middle, and end, and show a character who fundamentally changes from start to finish.”
In addition to this basic outline and Liz’s advice, the following quotes have inspired me as I write:
“First Thought, Best Thought” – Chogyam Trungpa, Rimpoche
“Notice what you notice.” Allen Ginsberg
“The natural object is always the adequate symbol.” – Ezra Pound
“The Mind must be loose.” – John Adams
“Maximum information, minimum number of syllables.” – Allen Ginsberg
“The unspeakable visions of the individual.” - Jack Kerouac
“Subject is known by what she sees.” – Allen Ginsberg
I also love the Essays [Politics and the English Language and Why I Write by George Orwell]. And while it’s straight out of Hollywood, I actually really like the book [Story by Robert McKee].
If you have any favorite quotes on writing please feel to post them below.
“How do we talk to ourselves at night in the dark? Each on his bed spoke to himself alone, making no sound.” – Charles Reznikoff
It wasn’t until I met Elizabeth Swados [The One and Only Human Galaxy, My Depression, At Play] that it occurred to me that I should do something with these stories. During my senior year at NYU, Elizabeth Swados, or Liz, was brought in to write and workshop a show with twelve students. I was one of the lucky twelve.
Our first assignment was to tell a story about a sexual experience from the perspective of our parents. While the other students were sharing crass or explicit stories, I sat in my seat wondering how I was going to pull this off. I wanted to complete the assignment, but I didn’t want to disrespect my lovely Mormon parents. When it was my turn to share, I, in my mother’s voice, told a story about the most romantic thing my father had ever done for her.
“It’s not your typical romantic story,” I began, using my mother’s softer voice. “But here goes: I was in the hospital and I’d just given birth to your sister Julia. It was a very hard and a very messy labor and soon as the baby was born the doctor and nurses rushed her out of the room. Gary followed close behind, leaving me completely alone.
Once they were gone, I looked down at my body. I was physically exhausted and my lower half was covered in blood and fluids. All I could think was, I don’t want Gary to see me this way, I look awful. Just as I thought this, your father walked into the room. He took one look at me, scooped me up in his arms and carried me down the hallway to the nearest shower. The nurses were yelling at him to stop, but he ignored them. Fully clothed, he walked into the shower and he bathed me.”
Any way, I shared this (one of my parent’s more private moments) with the entire class. After class Liz pulled me aside, “You have a gift for telling stories,” she said, “Have you ever thought of making a show out of your stories?”
From that day forward, I’d get out of class early on Fridays, go to Liz’s house, sit on her giant blue couch and tell her stories. During this time, and over the course of an eight year mentorship, Liz taught me a great deal about storytelling. These are the two lines from Liz that I find myself repeating the most: “Just tell the story,” and “Don’t be coy.”
As I transitioned from being a storyteller to a writer I discovered how much patience and discipline it takes to put your thoughts on paper. And while the writer’s medium took a lot of adjusting to, it’s still about the basic art of storytelling. To quote the host of a Moth Storyslam, (The Moth is a storytelling series based in New York, I highly recommend their free podcast [themoth.org]) “Start on the action, have a clear beginning, middle, and end, and show a character who fundamentally changes from start to finish.”
In addition to this basic outline and Liz’s advice, the following quotes have inspired me as I write:
“First Thought, Best Thought” – Chogyam Trungpa, Rimpoche
“Notice what you notice.” Allen Ginsberg
“The natural object is always the adequate symbol.” – Ezra Pound
“The Mind must be loose.” – John Adams
“Maximum information, minimum number of syllables.” – Allen Ginsberg
“The unspeakable visions of the individual.” - Jack Kerouac
“Subject is known by what she sees.” – Allen Ginsberg
I also love the Essays [Politics and the English Language and Why I Write by George Orwell]. And while it’s straight out of Hollywood, I actually really like the book [Story by Robert McKee].
If you have any favorite quotes on writing please feel to post them below.
“How do we talk to ourselves at night in the dark? Each on his bed spoke to himself alone, making no sound.” – Charles Reznikoff
Bad Dates Anyone?
I just got home from a bad date. And while it’s always reassuring to consult books like [The Big Book of Bad Dates, by Jo Renfo] or my personal favorite [Love is Hell by Matt Groening], I also love a more literary bad date. For example, there’s the bad date in [Franny and Zoey] or Augusten Burroughs’ romance with a crack addict in [Dry]. I enjoy reading about other people’s bad dates because they make my experiences seem more bearable.
Unlike the authors I mentioned above, my dating failures all stem from the same predicament: I’m trying to stay a practicing Mormon in New York City and have a love life. Because there aren’t very many Mormon men to choose from in the city, I’ve dated primarily non-Mormons. Only because I don’t have sex before marriage the longest relationship I’ve been able to sustain in NYC is 4 weeks. And that’s only because for two of those weeks the guy was out of town.
And so, after having a lot of No Sex in the City, and yet another bad date, I’ve decided to compile this list:
ELNA BAKER’S TOP FIVE WORST DATES:
1. Recently I was on a date with a party promoter. He ordered whiskey. I ordered water. Which would’ve been fine except that our pushy waiter kept trying to get me to sample the wine, the sake, the specialty cocktail etc. Finally my date interrupted him, “Don’t give her such a hard time, she’s a Mormon, Mormons don’t drink.” We both laughed, until it dawned on me,
“Wait a second… Did you know I was Mormon, or were you just making a joke?”
“What?” he nearly choked, “You’re a Mormon?”
2. While out on a first date, I found myself defending my decision not to have sex before marriage for the one-hundredth time. “You’re putting the pussy on a pedestal,” my date interrupted, “Sex is a totally natural function. It’s as normal as picking your nose.” He proceeded to dig one finger in and out of his left nostril while smiling suggestively.
3. I was thrilled when a guy from church actually asked me out, that is until he picked me up in his mini-van. As we drove to dinner, I glanced back at all the empty seats and felt overwhelmed by the enormous pressure, He wants me to someday fill this. Dinner wasn’t any better. When I told my Utah born and raised date that I’d been living in the city for nine years he looked at me in shock and said, “Do you at least know how to sew?”
4. After just kissing the same guy three weekends in a row (without ever explaining that I’m a Mormon and my limit is first base) my date got tired of waiting and slid his hand up my shirt. Instinctively, I tensed up.
“You’re so uptight,” he whispered into my ear, “I mean, come on, did you and your last boyfriend even do anal?”
5. And last but not least: I was asked to dinner by a famous French Director.
“You’re a Mormon?” he asked, as soon as I arrived.
“Yes.”
“Can you have ze sex?”
I was surprised at his candor. “No,” I answered.
He looked at me in disbelief. “Well if you can’t have ze sex, what can you do?”
For simplicity’s sake I took my left arm and lined it up under my collarbone, “Nothing below here,” I said. I lined my right arm across my knees, “Nothing above here.”
“What about your armpit?” he asked, “Can your boyfriend do anything he wants to ze armpit?”
I thought for a moment, “Yeah,” I said optimistically. “My boyfriend can do anything he wants to my armpit.”
“This is good,” he said, “He can stick his penis in and out of ze armpit, and if you grow hair it is almost like a vagine.”
My jaw dropped. “Is it too late to change my answer?”
*****
Now that I’ve shared a few of my disastrous dates with you, I ask, no, I beg you to share a few of your worst dates with me (it’ll make tonight’s bad date worth all the agony). Do you have any terrible, awkward, or offensive dating stories to share? Please, do tell.
P.S. My one consolation after returning home early is that at least I get to spend more time with my puppy. This is Carlos and I hanging out at home.
(As featured in the picture, I wore an awesome vintage sweater with music notes on it. My date took one look at my sweater and said, Uhh, jazzy, in a voice that made it very clear he was not a fan).
Unlike the authors I mentioned above, my dating failures all stem from the same predicament: I’m trying to stay a practicing Mormon in New York City and have a love life. Because there aren’t very many Mormon men to choose from in the city, I’ve dated primarily non-Mormons. Only because I don’t have sex before marriage the longest relationship I’ve been able to sustain in NYC is 4 weeks. And that’s only because for two of those weeks the guy was out of town.
And so, after having a lot of No Sex in the City, and yet another bad date, I’ve decided to compile this list:
ELNA BAKER’S TOP FIVE WORST DATES:
1. Recently I was on a date with a party promoter. He ordered whiskey. I ordered water. Which would’ve been fine except that our pushy waiter kept trying to get me to sample the wine, the sake, the specialty cocktail etc. Finally my date interrupted him, “Don’t give her such a hard time, she’s a Mormon, Mormons don’t drink.” We both laughed, until it dawned on me,
“Wait a second… Did you know I was Mormon, or were you just making a joke?”
“What?” he nearly choked, “You’re a Mormon?”
2. While out on a first date, I found myself defending my decision not to have sex before marriage for the one-hundredth time. “You’re putting the pussy on a pedestal,” my date interrupted, “Sex is a totally natural function. It’s as normal as picking your nose.” He proceeded to dig one finger in and out of his left nostril while smiling suggestively.
3. I was thrilled when a guy from church actually asked me out, that is until he picked me up in his mini-van. As we drove to dinner, I glanced back at all the empty seats and felt overwhelmed by the enormous pressure, He wants me to someday fill this. Dinner wasn’t any better. When I told my Utah born and raised date that I’d been living in the city for nine years he looked at me in shock and said, “Do you at least know how to sew?”
4. After just kissing the same guy three weekends in a row (without ever explaining that I’m a Mormon and my limit is first base) my date got tired of waiting and slid his hand up my shirt. Instinctively, I tensed up.
“You’re so uptight,” he whispered into my ear, “I mean, come on, did you and your last boyfriend even do anal?”
5. And last but not least: I was asked to dinner by a famous French Director.
“You’re a Mormon?” he asked, as soon as I arrived.
“Yes.”
“Can you have ze sex?”
I was surprised at his candor. “No,” I answered.
He looked at me in disbelief. “Well if you can’t have ze sex, what can you do?”
For simplicity’s sake I took my left arm and lined it up under my collarbone, “Nothing below here,” I said. I lined my right arm across my knees, “Nothing above here.”
“What about your armpit?” he asked, “Can your boyfriend do anything he wants to ze armpit?”
I thought for a moment, “Yeah,” I said optimistically. “My boyfriend can do anything he wants to my armpit.”
“This is good,” he said, “He can stick his penis in and out of ze armpit, and if you grow hair it is almost like a vagine.”
My jaw dropped. “Is it too late to change my answer?”
*****
Now that I’ve shared a few of my disastrous dates with you, I ask, no, I beg you to share a few of your worst dates with me (it’ll make tonight’s bad date worth all the agony). Do you have any terrible, awkward, or offensive dating stories to share? Please, do tell.
P.S. My one consolation after returning home early is that at least I get to spend more time with my puppy. This is Carlos and I hanging out at home.
(As featured in the picture, I wore an awesome vintage sweater with music notes on it. My date took one look at my sweater and said, Uhh, jazzy, in a voice that made it very clear he was not a fan).
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Hello from the great beyond!
I started writing my book at the artist colony Yaddo [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yaddo]. When I arrived I felt very young and out of place, as though, at any moment, I’d mispronounce something and out myself as a non-literary genius unworthy of the slot. My fears were confirmed the first night at dinner. I turned to the writer sitting next to me and politely asked, “Where in New York City do you live at?”
To which he replied, “In a sentence that doesn’t end with a preposition.”
I left the dining room with my tail between my legs. He later explained that he was trying to set me up for a joke and that I was supposed to have come back with, “Where in New York City do you live at, asshole?”
We obviously weren’t reading from the same script because instead of this sassy line all I saw were the stage directions: Stand up. Clear your plate. Get the hell out of there before you say anything else stupid, asshole.
As luck would have it, writer Andrew Sean Greer arrived my third day at Yaddo. While Andrew’s books [Story of a Marriage, Confessions of Max Tivoli] reflect a more serious thinker, the Andy I know and love is into throwing mash-up dance parties, exploring hidden rooms in the Yaddo mansion, and hiding 5lb. dumbbells in my lunch box. We became fast friends.
One day, several weeks into my residency, one of the poets (a huge fan of Sylvia Plath) told Andy and me that the room Sylvia Plath had once occupied (where she’d completed her first volume of poetry [Colossus]) was going to be vacant for a night. We decided to hold a Sylvia Plath séance.
At midnight, holding copies of [Ariel], ceremonious candles and a ouija board,
seven artists snuck into Sylvia’s old room.
“We invite the spirit of Sylvia Plath to join us. Is there a spirit with us now?”
The indicator on the ouija board moved to YES. As a Mormon I was taught not to meddle with things like ouija boards, the game “light as a feather” or chanting Bloody Mary in a bathroom mirror. And so instead of participating I’d offered to be the group scribe.
“Identify yourself,” a poet asked.
“S,Y,L,V,I,A, P,L,A,T,H,” I wrote each letter down.
“Sylvia, tell us about your process?” one of the poets began.
“Is confessional poetry dead?” another poet piped in.
Perhaps it was the fact that six people were holding the indicator, or perhaps the last thing a dead person wants to talk about is their work, either way the indicator went from letter to letter without ever spelling anything discernable. Until all of a sudden, it stopped completely and then started again with newfound vigor.
“E,L,N,A, E,L,N,A, E,L,N,A,” the indicator moved quickly from letter to letter.
“Guys, this isn’t funny.”
“We’re not doing it.”
“Then why is she spelling my name?”
“Q,U,E,S,T,I,O,N.”
“Do you have a question for Elna?”
“YES.”
“What is it?” I asked Sylvia.
The indicator spun in three full circles and then stopped for good. The poet’s tried calling Sylvia back, but it was pointless, she was already gone.
****
Half an hour later, walking back to the mansion with Andy, I forgot all about my piety.
“Let’s get the ouija board from the parlor, go back, and find out Sylvia’s question.”
“This sounds like the beginning to a horror film,” Andy groaned.
****
A few minutes later he was humming a different tune, “We’re here to conjure the spirit of Sylvia Plath… again.”
The indicator started to slink forward.
Andy, unsure of how to conduct, made a face, “Who’s here?” he asked.
“S,Y,L,V,I,A, P,L,A,T,H.”
“Well isn’t that nice. Sylvia, do you still have a question for Elna?”
“YES.”
“What is it?”
“A,M, I, A,M?”
A part of me was certain that Andy was putting me on, so when she asked this particular question, it startled me. Unbeknownst to Andy, I used to repeat a mantra to myself everyday: I am what I am.
“Are you asking me if I am who I say I am?”
“YES.”
“Yes,” I answered, “Why?”
“I, A,M, Y,O,U.”
“What does that mean?” I started to panic. “Do I have a mental illness?”
“R,E,L,A,X,” the ouija board finished.
“Is she being sarcastic?”
“No,” Andrew offered, “I think she means you need to relax into yourself.” He turned to face the ouija board, “Are you saying Elna needs to relax into herself?”
“YES.”
“Told you.”
“But what is it that I’m supposed to do?”
“H,E,L,P.”
“Help? How? What am I going to be?”
“N,I,C,E.”
“Nice?” I looked up at Andy, “That’s all? I’m going to be nice?”
“Do you have any other advice for Elna?” he asked.
“L,O,V,E,” as soon as she finished spelling this word, the indicator moved down to the, “GOODBYE.”
RELAX, HELP, NICE, LOVE. Sylvia, known for her intense metaphors and avid description, had become a little general in the afterlife.
Whether it was the real Sylvia Plath singling me out, or Andrew Sean Greer imparting ghostly wisdom, I keep a note card on the bulletin above my desk to remind me of this evening:
“R,E,L,A,X.”-Sylvia Plath
To which he replied, “In a sentence that doesn’t end with a preposition.”
I left the dining room with my tail between my legs. He later explained that he was trying to set me up for a joke and that I was supposed to have come back with, “Where in New York City do you live at, asshole?”
We obviously weren’t reading from the same script because instead of this sassy line all I saw were the stage directions: Stand up. Clear your plate. Get the hell out of there before you say anything else stupid, asshole.
As luck would have it, writer Andrew Sean Greer arrived my third day at Yaddo. While Andrew’s books [Story of a Marriage, Confessions of Max Tivoli] reflect a more serious thinker, the Andy I know and love is into throwing mash-up dance parties, exploring hidden rooms in the Yaddo mansion, and hiding 5lb. dumbbells in my lunch box. We became fast friends.
One day, several weeks into my residency, one of the poets (a huge fan of Sylvia Plath) told Andy and me that the room Sylvia Plath had once occupied (where she’d completed her first volume of poetry [Colossus]) was going to be vacant for a night. We decided to hold a Sylvia Plath séance.
At midnight, holding copies of [Ariel], ceremonious candles and a ouija board,
seven artists snuck into Sylvia’s old room.
“We invite the spirit of Sylvia Plath to join us. Is there a spirit with us now?”
The indicator on the ouija board moved to YES. As a Mormon I was taught not to meddle with things like ouija boards, the game “light as a feather” or chanting Bloody Mary in a bathroom mirror. And so instead of participating I’d offered to be the group scribe.
“Identify yourself,” a poet asked.
“S,Y,L,V,I,A, P,L,A,T,H,” I wrote each letter down.
“Sylvia, tell us about your process?” one of the poets began.
“Is confessional poetry dead?” another poet piped in.
Perhaps it was the fact that six people were holding the indicator, or perhaps the last thing a dead person wants to talk about is their work, either way the indicator went from letter to letter without ever spelling anything discernable. Until all of a sudden, it stopped completely and then started again with newfound vigor.
“E,L,N,A, E,L,N,A, E,L,N,A,” the indicator moved quickly from letter to letter.
“Guys, this isn’t funny.”
“We’re not doing it.”
“Then why is she spelling my name?”
“Q,U,E,S,T,I,O,N.”
“Do you have a question for Elna?”
“YES.”
“What is it?” I asked Sylvia.
The indicator spun in three full circles and then stopped for good. The poet’s tried calling Sylvia back, but it was pointless, she was already gone.
****
Half an hour later, walking back to the mansion with Andy, I forgot all about my piety.
“Let’s get the ouija board from the parlor, go back, and find out Sylvia’s question.”
“This sounds like the beginning to a horror film,” Andy groaned.
****
A few minutes later he was humming a different tune, “We’re here to conjure the spirit of Sylvia Plath… again.”
The indicator started to slink forward.
Andy, unsure of how to conduct, made a face, “Who’s here?” he asked.
“S,Y,L,V,I,A, P,L,A,T,H.”
“Well isn’t that nice. Sylvia, do you still have a question for Elna?”
“YES.”
“What is it?”
“A,M, I, A,M?”
A part of me was certain that Andy was putting me on, so when she asked this particular question, it startled me. Unbeknownst to Andy, I used to repeat a mantra to myself everyday: I am what I am.
“Are you asking me if I am who I say I am?”
“YES.”
“Yes,” I answered, “Why?”
“I, A,M, Y,O,U.”
“What does that mean?” I started to panic. “Do I have a mental illness?”
“R,E,L,A,X,” the ouija board finished.
“Is she being sarcastic?”
“No,” Andrew offered, “I think she means you need to relax into yourself.” He turned to face the ouija board, “Are you saying Elna needs to relax into herself?”
“YES.”
“Told you.”
“But what is it that I’m supposed to do?”
“H,E,L,P.”
“Help? How? What am I going to be?”
“N,I,C,E.”
“Nice?” I looked up at Andy, “That’s all? I’m going to be nice?”
“Do you have any other advice for Elna?” he asked.
“L,O,V,E,” as soon as she finished spelling this word, the indicator moved down to the, “GOODBYE.”
RELAX, HELP, NICE, LOVE. Sylvia, known for her intense metaphors and avid description, had become a little general in the afterlife.
Whether it was the real Sylvia Plath singling me out, or Andrew Sean Greer imparting ghostly wisdom, I keep a note card on the bulletin above my desk to remind me of this evening:
“R,E,L,A,X.”-Sylvia Plath
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
You’re not the boss of Me
Just because I was a chubby kid doesn’t mean I wasn’t a picky kid. I only liked food that tasted like sugar. Which meant that my mother had to force me to eat anything even the slightest shade of green. I would fight her by crying, whining, and stomping my feet. This only made things worse, she’d threaten to ground me or spank me and I’d immediately give in. Still, I held a grudge. (I was especially sensitive to any parenting methods that involved control or the bending my will. You’re not the boss of me, I would frequently scream).
I spent most of my childhood looking for a solution to this forced-fed dilemma. At the age of eight, I found one: My father was sick of the little kids falling off of their chairs, so he re-designed our dining room and built a wooden bench around the table. The bench was nailed to the wall and built like a box so that you couldn’t see underneath it. This bench was my answer. Anytime my mother forced me to eat anything healthy, I’d wait for her to turn her back, spit my food into my hand and drop it down the crack between the bench and the wall. The food would collect there, unnoticed. Genius.
Only, I have this terrible tendency, once I figure out how to get away with something naughty, I immediately abuse it. After an entire summer of hiding food under the new bench, I started to get sloppy. My mom would serve us mashed potatoes, I’d scoop mine up with one hand and shove it down the crack nonchalantly. It was not long before our dining room area started to smell. No amount of Clorox, scrubbing or deodorizer could fix the scent of my rotting food.
And then it was September and the beginning of a new school year. For me, the first day of school is a big deal. The night before, I’d set my clothes out in the shape of a body next to my bed and packed my Lisa Frank backpack with fresh notebooks, neatly sharpened pencils, and a brand-new scrunchie. Third grade is going to be different, I said optimistically, this year I’m going to be cool.
Unfortunately, third grade got off on a rocky start. My mother made us scrambled eggs for breakfast, I hate scrambled eggs. Without even checking to see if the coast was clear, I picked up my plate of eggs and tilted it down the crack. I looked up, my mother was staring in disbelief.
“What did you just do?” she fumed. The situation only got worse, she got a crowbar from the garage and detached the bench from the wall. Months of food, shriveled broccoli, tiny carrots, dried pasta shells--the entire a food pyramid minus the dessert layer, was there. Not to mention the smell.
After yelling for ten minutes, my punishment was two fold: I had to clean it up and I had to eat the rest of the scrambled eggs left on each of my siblings plates. To ensure that this happened, my mother compiled all their servings into one large serving, a heaping plate of scrambled eggs just for me.
“But it’s the first day of school,” I whined, “ I’ll be late.”
My mother didn’t care, “I will drive you to school once you finish cleaning. And don’t think your father won’t be hearing about this later,” she stalked off, still fuming.
While Tina and Julia boarded the school bus, I scrubbed the floor. Cinderella, Cinderella, I lamented, (it was a mistake letting me watch this cartoon, I referenced it every time I did the slightest bit of housework.) By the time I was finished cleaning up my mess I was over an hour late and my new school outfit was greasy and stained.
This only fueled my resentment. As soon as I finished, I marched into my mother’s room. She was busy nursing my baby brother Britain and looked up to see me with my hands on my hips.
“I’m done cleaning,” I said.
“Good. Did you finish your eggs?”
I’d forgotten the second part of my punishment. “No,” I glared at her. “I’m allergic.” (I used this line all the time in school, to great effect. It never quite worked on my mother.)
“Eat your scrambled eggs and I will drive you to school.”
“Noooooooooooo,” I wailed. The hour of kneeling and scrubbing had caught up to me emotionally, I forgot the fact that I was the culprit and had a total meltdown. Tears streamed down my face and I started saying things I’d later regret like you’re a terrible mother, and this is child abuse.
My mother, still breast-feeding, stood up, grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me into my bedroom.
“You’re not coming out of this room until you eat your eggs,” she yelled.
“How am I supposed to do that?” I sassed her, “There aren’t any eggs in here.”
When my mother gets angry her eyes turn a particular shade of blue, glass blue. She stared me down, ice eyes, and then she turned and huffed out of the room. A moment later she was back, a plate of eggs in one hand and Britain in the other, still sucking on her breast.
“Enjoy,” she set the plate of eggs on the floor, and walked out of my bedroom, my door slammed behind her.
“You’re not the boss of me,” I called after her.
Unfortunately, she was. I spent the next half hour staring at the yellow eggs and playing the game oh woe is me. This game consisted of me listing each grievance my mother had caused me during the course of my 8 year existence, I played it all of the time.
There was the laundry incident: I used to throw my dirty laundry under my bed. My mother warned me not to do this. When I didn’t listen, she decided to teach me a lesson by publicly humiliating me. I came home from school one day only to find the trees, branches and bushes in front of our house decorated in splashes of color. As the school bus got closer I realized what it was: my dirty socks and underwear. I’m not talking one or two pieces either, there were dozens of my private undies dangling for all to see. The other kids on the school bus thought it was hilarious, I was mortified. One point for mother, no points for me. I put my laundry in the laundry basket from that day forward.
Then there was the incident with the piano lessons: My mother played the piano in church every Sunday and believed it was a necessary talent, “Every congregation needs a pianist.” I was forced to take lessons twice a week. I had absolutely no interest in learning how to play—it was our first real battle. I would do everything in my power to make us late for my lesson. When this didn’t work, I would forget my sheet music and say that I was unable to practice. My mother, with four kids to deal with, would drive us back to the rehearsal space and pick up the music. She was unbreakable. Mr. Meisner, on the other hand, my teacher (an Austrian immigrant and concert pianist) did not fare as well. When I realized my mother wouldn’t fold, I started working on him. Day by day I’d destroy his love of music with whiny faces, rolling eyes, and heavy fingers. And to kill time, I’d insist that I practice each song in the air before putting my fingers on the keys. This above all else, drove him crazy.
“This child cannot be taught,” he told my mother. When she tried to persuade him to keep trying he put his hands in the air and said, rather dramatically, “because of her, I will never touch a piano again.”
These are just two examples, but every day with my mother was a battle of wills. Don’t have seconds, clean your room, take a bath, go to sleep, don’t watch tv, read a book, be nice to your sister. Her demands were unceasing. And now, on an important day, my first day of third grade she wanted me to eat an entire plate of scrambled eggs, eggs which had once belonged to my dirty fingered, slobbery mouthed siblings. Every child has a breaking point, this was mine. I’m running away from home, I decided, I can’t live like this.
It wasn’t all that hard to do, with the house to clean and Britain to take care of, my mother was out of the way. She won’t even notice I’m missing, the thought disturbed me. I got a piece of paper and wrote a note just in case it was true. It said something to the effect of: I’m running away from home, I can’t live like this. I set the note next to my eggs, re-packed my Lisa Frank backpack with clothes and my teddy bear. Fortunately my bedroom was on the first floor, I opened my window, kicked out the screen and climbed outside.
Walking across the yard and over to the gravel street, I secretly hoped my mother would look out the window and spot me. I pictured her calling my name, Elna, Come back, we need you in this family. This didn’t happen. I made it all the way down the hill and to the paved street without anyone so much as noticing.
When I got to my school bus stop I stopped. It was the farthest I’d ever been on my own. To my left was the main road, to my right, Second Street, a back road that consisted primarily of hills. You can do this, I coached myself, don’t look back. I held my Lisa Frank backpack tight and headed up Second Street. I was Columbus setting sail, venturing into unchartered territory. Uphill, downhill, uphill, downhill. After what seemed like an eternity, but what was probably more like 20 minutes, the road dead-ended on a forest. I peered inside, it looked scary, blackberry bushes, tall evergreen trees, and darker lighting than the street. But I wasn’t about to let this deter me. Running away from home meant facing my fears. And so I raised my head high and walked into the trees. I was brave, but also worried about getting lost, and so after walking for a few feet I sat down on a stump and took a break.
***
It was quiet in the woods. Sure there was rustling, the occasional bird, and a grasshopper that hopped by, but for the most part, everything was still. I don’t do well with stillness. The minute I’m still, everything catches up to me: my actions, my conscience, my ability to reason. All that, plus I could hear my stomach grumbling.
I’m hungry, I looked in my back-pack for something to eat, nothing. Oh no, I kind of have to pee. I’m incapable of squatting, I’ll only urinate with dignity.
The list went on from here: What if I have to go number two? And where exactly am I going to sleep? And how am I going to watch TV? Running away had seemed like a good idea at the time but now there were all these details. Who’s going to wake me up in time for school? What happens when it’s Sunday? For the first time in my life I was “the boss of me.” There were so many things I’d never considered.
On top of that, I missed my family. It’d only been an hour and already I wanted company. Being alone is boring, I thought, What will it be like if I’m alone forever? Sure my parents were embarrassing (my dad had a beard and my Mom was always the pregnant lady), but we got into water fights, and they told scary stories and let us play pranks on their friends, so it broke even. And, if I thought about it for a long enough period, my mother wasn’t really all that bad.
Hoot, hoot, I heard a loud noise, it was coming from behind a tree. Ahhhhh, I didn’t have time to figure out what it was, I ran, arms flailing, back to the street. Downhill, uphill, downhill, uphill, downhill, uphill, home. I made it past the cherry trees, through the gravel and over to the garage, when I heard my mother calling my name.
“Elna,” she screamed, “El-naaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.”
There was panic in her voice. I ducked behind a garbage can. She walked into the garage, she was standing a foot from me, only she didn’t know it.
“Elna,” she called my name again.
I thought about everything I’d learned in my hour and a half as a runaway. I wanted to tell her I was sorry, admit I needed her, say I loved her, say I missed my family, only that’s not what happened.
I stuck my head out from behind the garbage can, “I’m right here,” I said, “Stupid.”
Poor choice of words, my mother cooked eggs every night for a week.
I spent most of my childhood looking for a solution to this forced-fed dilemma. At the age of eight, I found one: My father was sick of the little kids falling off of their chairs, so he re-designed our dining room and built a wooden bench around the table. The bench was nailed to the wall and built like a box so that you couldn’t see underneath it. This bench was my answer. Anytime my mother forced me to eat anything healthy, I’d wait for her to turn her back, spit my food into my hand and drop it down the crack between the bench and the wall. The food would collect there, unnoticed. Genius.
Only, I have this terrible tendency, once I figure out how to get away with something naughty, I immediately abuse it. After an entire summer of hiding food under the new bench, I started to get sloppy. My mom would serve us mashed potatoes, I’d scoop mine up with one hand and shove it down the crack nonchalantly. It was not long before our dining room area started to smell. No amount of Clorox, scrubbing or deodorizer could fix the scent of my rotting food.
And then it was September and the beginning of a new school year. For me, the first day of school is a big deal. The night before, I’d set my clothes out in the shape of a body next to my bed and packed my Lisa Frank backpack with fresh notebooks, neatly sharpened pencils, and a brand-new scrunchie. Third grade is going to be different, I said optimistically, this year I’m going to be cool.
Unfortunately, third grade got off on a rocky start. My mother made us scrambled eggs for breakfast, I hate scrambled eggs. Without even checking to see if the coast was clear, I picked up my plate of eggs and tilted it down the crack. I looked up, my mother was staring in disbelief.
“What did you just do?” she fumed. The situation only got worse, she got a crowbar from the garage and detached the bench from the wall. Months of food, shriveled broccoli, tiny carrots, dried pasta shells--the entire a food pyramid minus the dessert layer, was there. Not to mention the smell.
After yelling for ten minutes, my punishment was two fold: I had to clean it up and I had to eat the rest of the scrambled eggs left on each of my siblings plates. To ensure that this happened, my mother compiled all their servings into one large serving, a heaping plate of scrambled eggs just for me.
“But it’s the first day of school,” I whined, “ I’ll be late.”
My mother didn’t care, “I will drive you to school once you finish cleaning. And don’t think your father won’t be hearing about this later,” she stalked off, still fuming.
While Tina and Julia boarded the school bus, I scrubbed the floor. Cinderella, Cinderella, I lamented, (it was a mistake letting me watch this cartoon, I referenced it every time I did the slightest bit of housework.) By the time I was finished cleaning up my mess I was over an hour late and my new school outfit was greasy and stained.
This only fueled my resentment. As soon as I finished, I marched into my mother’s room. She was busy nursing my baby brother Britain and looked up to see me with my hands on my hips.
“I’m done cleaning,” I said.
“Good. Did you finish your eggs?”
I’d forgotten the second part of my punishment. “No,” I glared at her. “I’m allergic.” (I used this line all the time in school, to great effect. It never quite worked on my mother.)
“Eat your scrambled eggs and I will drive you to school.”
“Noooooooooooo,” I wailed. The hour of kneeling and scrubbing had caught up to me emotionally, I forgot the fact that I was the culprit and had a total meltdown. Tears streamed down my face and I started saying things I’d later regret like you’re a terrible mother, and this is child abuse.
My mother, still breast-feeding, stood up, grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me into my bedroom.
“You’re not coming out of this room until you eat your eggs,” she yelled.
“How am I supposed to do that?” I sassed her, “There aren’t any eggs in here.”
When my mother gets angry her eyes turn a particular shade of blue, glass blue. She stared me down, ice eyes, and then she turned and huffed out of the room. A moment later she was back, a plate of eggs in one hand and Britain in the other, still sucking on her breast.
“Enjoy,” she set the plate of eggs on the floor, and walked out of my bedroom, my door slammed behind her.
“You’re not the boss of me,” I called after her.
Unfortunately, she was. I spent the next half hour staring at the yellow eggs and playing the game oh woe is me. This game consisted of me listing each grievance my mother had caused me during the course of my 8 year existence, I played it all of the time.
There was the laundry incident: I used to throw my dirty laundry under my bed. My mother warned me not to do this. When I didn’t listen, she decided to teach me a lesson by publicly humiliating me. I came home from school one day only to find the trees, branches and bushes in front of our house decorated in splashes of color. As the school bus got closer I realized what it was: my dirty socks and underwear. I’m not talking one or two pieces either, there were dozens of my private undies dangling for all to see. The other kids on the school bus thought it was hilarious, I was mortified. One point for mother, no points for me. I put my laundry in the laundry basket from that day forward.
Then there was the incident with the piano lessons: My mother played the piano in church every Sunday and believed it was a necessary talent, “Every congregation needs a pianist.” I was forced to take lessons twice a week. I had absolutely no interest in learning how to play—it was our first real battle. I would do everything in my power to make us late for my lesson. When this didn’t work, I would forget my sheet music and say that I was unable to practice. My mother, with four kids to deal with, would drive us back to the rehearsal space and pick up the music. She was unbreakable. Mr. Meisner, on the other hand, my teacher (an Austrian immigrant and concert pianist) did not fare as well. When I realized my mother wouldn’t fold, I started working on him. Day by day I’d destroy his love of music with whiny faces, rolling eyes, and heavy fingers. And to kill time, I’d insist that I practice each song in the air before putting my fingers on the keys. This above all else, drove him crazy.
“This child cannot be taught,” he told my mother. When she tried to persuade him to keep trying he put his hands in the air and said, rather dramatically, “because of her, I will never touch a piano again.”
These are just two examples, but every day with my mother was a battle of wills. Don’t have seconds, clean your room, take a bath, go to sleep, don’t watch tv, read a book, be nice to your sister. Her demands were unceasing. And now, on an important day, my first day of third grade she wanted me to eat an entire plate of scrambled eggs, eggs which had once belonged to my dirty fingered, slobbery mouthed siblings. Every child has a breaking point, this was mine. I’m running away from home, I decided, I can’t live like this.
It wasn’t all that hard to do, with the house to clean and Britain to take care of, my mother was out of the way. She won’t even notice I’m missing, the thought disturbed me. I got a piece of paper and wrote a note just in case it was true. It said something to the effect of: I’m running away from home, I can’t live like this. I set the note next to my eggs, re-packed my Lisa Frank backpack with clothes and my teddy bear. Fortunately my bedroom was on the first floor, I opened my window, kicked out the screen and climbed outside.
Walking across the yard and over to the gravel street, I secretly hoped my mother would look out the window and spot me. I pictured her calling my name, Elna, Come back, we need you in this family. This didn’t happen. I made it all the way down the hill and to the paved street without anyone so much as noticing.
When I got to my school bus stop I stopped. It was the farthest I’d ever been on my own. To my left was the main road, to my right, Second Street, a back road that consisted primarily of hills. You can do this, I coached myself, don’t look back. I held my Lisa Frank backpack tight and headed up Second Street. I was Columbus setting sail, venturing into unchartered territory. Uphill, downhill, uphill, downhill. After what seemed like an eternity, but what was probably more like 20 minutes, the road dead-ended on a forest. I peered inside, it looked scary, blackberry bushes, tall evergreen trees, and darker lighting than the street. But I wasn’t about to let this deter me. Running away from home meant facing my fears. And so I raised my head high and walked into the trees. I was brave, but also worried about getting lost, and so after walking for a few feet I sat down on a stump and took a break.
***
It was quiet in the woods. Sure there was rustling, the occasional bird, and a grasshopper that hopped by, but for the most part, everything was still. I don’t do well with stillness. The minute I’m still, everything catches up to me: my actions, my conscience, my ability to reason. All that, plus I could hear my stomach grumbling.
I’m hungry, I looked in my back-pack for something to eat, nothing. Oh no, I kind of have to pee. I’m incapable of squatting, I’ll only urinate with dignity.
The list went on from here: What if I have to go number two? And where exactly am I going to sleep? And how am I going to watch TV? Running away had seemed like a good idea at the time but now there were all these details. Who’s going to wake me up in time for school? What happens when it’s Sunday? For the first time in my life I was “the boss of me.” There were so many things I’d never considered.
On top of that, I missed my family. It’d only been an hour and already I wanted company. Being alone is boring, I thought, What will it be like if I’m alone forever? Sure my parents were embarrassing (my dad had a beard and my Mom was always the pregnant lady), but we got into water fights, and they told scary stories and let us play pranks on their friends, so it broke even. And, if I thought about it for a long enough period, my mother wasn’t really all that bad.
Hoot, hoot, I heard a loud noise, it was coming from behind a tree. Ahhhhh, I didn’t have time to figure out what it was, I ran, arms flailing, back to the street. Downhill, uphill, downhill, uphill, downhill, uphill, home. I made it past the cherry trees, through the gravel and over to the garage, when I heard my mother calling my name.
“Elna,” she screamed, “El-naaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.”
There was panic in her voice. I ducked behind a garbage can. She walked into the garage, she was standing a foot from me, only she didn’t know it.
“Elna,” she called my name again.
I thought about everything I’d learned in my hour and a half as a runaway. I wanted to tell her I was sorry, admit I needed her, say I loved her, say I missed my family, only that’s not what happened.
I stuck my head out from behind the garbage can, “I’m right here,” I said, “Stupid.”
Poor choice of words, my mother cooked eggs every night for a week.
Juror #2
When I turned 25 my parent’s health insurance plan stopped covering me.
“Make sure you get health insurance,” my father advised, “I’ll send you a check to cover the first three months.”
“Of course. Thank you.” But I’d never been sick before. So when the check arrived in the mail I spent it on shoes, dresses, and my phone bill.
The thing is, I should’ve known better. At the time I was working as a temp for the tv show Trading Spaces. My job was to do their data entry. In order to win a free home makeover each applicant would send in three pictures of their home and an essay explaining why they needed the makeover. It was my job to scan these letters into a database. I was supposed to do this impersonally. In fact, I was instructed not to read any of these letters, simply scan and shred. But they were like gold. Each offered a window into someone else’s life. Naturally, I read every single one. And in so doing I discovered something I hadn’t known before: in America, if you don’t have health insurance, you’re totally screwed.
While the letters could’ve been about anyone and anything, almost every single one went as follows: My husband Mark and I purchased this home and planned to make repairs but after his lung cancer/ heart attack/ stroke all of our money goes to paying our hospital bills. Trading Spaces please save us.
When this temp job ended, my concerned father sent me another check for another month’s insurance. I’d told him I was with Blue Cross (your fingers) Blue Shield. Really, I used the money to buy a cute bracelet.
It was around this time that I got a jury summons in the mail. I was thrilled. I get a daily stipend! Unlike the other reluctant citizens, I insured my selection by answering each lawyer’s questions impartially. Unfortunately, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I was selected to be on a jury that deliberated, of all things, medical insurance fraud. And the trial, which dragged on for several weeks, was boring as shit. Shit being the operative word. After three weeks of sitting on a hard jury bench, something started to happen to my butt. To be frank, jury duty gave me hemorrhoids. I was 25, healthy, and completely unfamiliar with this anus related illness. Determined not to pay to go see a doctor, and hoping that whatever it was, would just go away, I decided to ignore the problem. This was a bad idea. It got worse, a lot worse. I felt like I had to go to the bathroom every ten seconds. Only when I got there, I couldn’t get anything to come out. As if this wasn’t bad enough, I was still on jury duty, which meant I had to raise my hand and request the judge’s permission every time I had to go. “Your honor, may I please go to the bathroom?”
“Again?” The judge would call a recess and the entire courtroom would wait while I sat on a toilet and prayed for poop. Ironically, whenever this happened the judge would use my official title, “Recess requested for Juror Number Two.”
By the second week of actively avoiding the issue, something horrible happened: while trying to use the bathroom during a recess, my hemorrhoid burst. I’d given myself an anal fissure (or as my brother and sister still like to refer to it, the fisherman that lives in Elna’s ass). In severe anal pain, I left the trial and took a cab to the nearest emergency room.
Laying on the hospital bed with my gown wide open and my bottom bare for all to see, a doctor, assisted by two nurses, began a colonoscopy. It was intended to diagnose the problem.
“This may feel a little uncomfortable,” he began. While nothing can prepare you for a camera being shoved up your ass, “a little uncomfortable” was an understatement. Just as the tube was inserted, my cell phone, which was in my purse on the other side of the room, started to ring. Da na na na na na na, my ring at the time was a Cindy Lauper song, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.
Incapable of getting up to turn it off, my only option was to lie there and pretend it wasn’t happening. They just wanna, they just wan-na-a-a. The doctor continued to push the tube in, and the nurses avoided making eye contact with each other as we all listened to five full rings play out.
Oh girls, they wanna have fu-un. Regretfully uninsured, a $5000 hospital bill pending and a tube snaking its way up your anus, I thought, Yes, they certainly do.
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