2015 is Done.

I don’t do resolutions but I do like to look ahead and make some goals for myself. What can I accomplish next year? What did I do in the year that trails behind me? What are we here for? What are we doing? What have we done? Etc etc.

At the end of 2014 I made some goals.

I wanted to be more involved in charity work.

I wanted to make a dent and/or finish a book I had started.

And I wanted to have my baby.

The entire year I felt a nagging guilt over not being more involved in charity work. But I did do more/give more than I had in previous years. Time, tiny human responsibilities, and finances limited my ability. This is just something I really want to do and will always be a priority for my life. It’s just the unfortunate truth that sometimes other things come before my ability to give to others. Ugh, that just sounds so gross saying out loud.

I did for sure make a dent in a book I was writing. I did not finish it, though I had no excuse not to. I have, though, decided to reorganize it. (Did you hear that Margaret! Stop reading the draft you have! I have no goals for it!) I foresee this being an evolving process. One that doesn’t get much traction until after Fae turns 1. That’s just how having tiny humans works. The first year is a shit show, the rest of life struggles to keep up.

Oh, but I did have that baby. So, gold stars for me!

2016… it has a nice ring to it. When I think about the year in my mind I get little sparks of excitement. THE FUTURE IS HERE. What’s going to happen? What are we going to do? What surprises will pounce on us? Will they be good surprises? Or will they sit on our faces until we cry for mercy? Who knows! The future is a mystery…

What do I want to accomplish? What do you want to accomplish? What are you going to conquer in 2016? Hearing the aspirations of others is inspiring, so please do share in comments.

My three goals:

1.) Buy a freaking house.

2.) Create a successful (meaning good, by my standards) podcast.

3.) Be consistent with Weekend-ing again.

Other minor goals that I’ll say are “honorable mentions” are…

1.) Get into a career situation that is more permanent than where I’m at currently.

2.) Get our photo books printed!! For fucksake!

3.) Get back into shape.

I really feel like this year is the year of Taking Care of Business. It’s going to be one of those rip-roaring years where we all look back this time next year and think, “holy shit… all of that in just one year?” Yup. All of it in just one year. We got this. It’s going to be insane.

My Current 10

1.) Trump is a racist and anyone who supports him is also a racist. There is no middle ground or “I can see where you’re coming from” with this one.

2.) More people need to be focused and open to helping others. If we had space for people I would absolutely open my home to host refugees. When I see someone on the street who needs help (passed out in a crosswalk, an older person taking a tumble, whatever it may be), I pull over, I stop the car, I don’t ignore it. Pointing fingers is point-less. All of those people who think Syrian refugees should just figure it out, who don’t want to deal with their problem: may you never experience the feeling of running for your lives. May you never experience a government who actively kills its own citizens. May you never experience refugee camps where your child sleeps in the grass every night. Because if you do experience that, may you also be met with the same attitude you are placing upon others.

3.) I don’t care if I’m a bleeding heart. I want the world to be gentler and kinder. Just because it was hard for someone before me doesn’t mean it needs to be hard for someone after me. I don’t care about “earning” whatever it is that other people feel we need to “earn.” I just don’t care. Everyone should have a safe home, should have healthcare, should be able to send their kids to quality schools. But I do believe in paying taxes, chipping in, supporting local communities and local businesses. Voting with my dollar.

4.) The pyramids were built as tombs, they were NOT to house grain!

5.) The atrocities the Native Americans experienced at the hands of the United States have not been taught widely enough. They should be common knowledge and we should not be celebrating Christopher Columbus. It’s like having “conqueror day” … it’s weird.

6.) But you know, yay being thankful, yay the holidays, yay family time and traditions. Those are positives.

7.) Does anyone actually go Christmas shopping IN stores anymore? It’s like my worst case scenario. Thank you weekend deals that are also online so that I don’t have to think about hunting down presents in person.

8.) I have so many things to say about being approached as a “mom” about money and employment, but at this time it is inappropriate to do so. Ask me in person.

9.) Sometimes I have parenting days where I feel like an absolute fucking failure. Lately I am just bone tired. I am battling a cold, Fae has a cold, she is waking up every 2 hours at night which means I can’t sleep to kick this cold. Gabriel is so difficult. I feel like a hostage negotiator more than I am a happy parent. I am an exhausted, frustrated parent.

10.) I’m so tired of wearing nursing tank tops. I need bras!! But… $$. Always but $$.


Do you have a Current 10? Do you have a current 5? I want in on that.

The Hustle

Where did I go? What have I done? WHAT IS HAPPENING?

Last week I had so many posts bubbling in my head. SO MANY. I even wrote half of one! But my real life hustle is taking up all of my time.

First a quick update: Things around here are moving fast fast slow fast fast slow. Right now I am in the fast fast. My search for a full time, normal person job fizzled, and as the holidays approach I am toning down my job search at the moment. Thankfully because of contacts in the professional writing world I have been piling on the freelance work. Piling on so much, actually, that we are able to pay for Fae to go to daycare after Kamel is off paternity leave. I can’t really control the job market, or who gets hired if it isn’t me, and I certainly can’t control how long this process takes, but I can control my hustle. And if my hustle means working from home all day and again after the kids go to bed and during stolen hours on the weekends? Then hustle I will. Because we have some major financial goals and without me those things can’t happen.

Like buying a house. Which is most likely put on the back burner for another year, unfortunately. But we’re getting there… we’re getting there. That’s the slow part. Fast fast hustle, slow life goals. As is life I guess.

So while I’m on my computer my writing brain is 99.9% focused on writing for dollar signs. It has been leaving me with less and LESS time to write for no dollar signs, even when that writing fills me up. It’s only been a few weeks of this hustle so I’m still finding my balance.

But in general I feel so awesome! And mentally kick ass! And smart! And on it! And handling my shit like a BOSS.

Because when things don’t work out like you imagined, strut down the paths that are open to you. Make it work. Make it more than work. Hustle and thrive. Fast fast slow.

Job Hunt Part 2: Even With A Small Child At Home?

On Sunday, while we were running errands in hell BabiesRUs I got a call back from a job I had applied for on a tech job listing site. The editor was calling to set up an interview for that day (Sunday, reminding you: Sunday) or on Monday. Because I am not one to turn my nose at an opportunity, regardless of how sketch it was to be getting called on the weekend, I returned the editor’s call and set up a formal interview for an hour later.

Initially it was the usual “tell me about your background” type of conversation, but then she asked me to tell her about myself – stuff that wasn’t on my resume. I started giving her more of my background, how I had graduated from grad school and then pieced together my writing career at the height of the recession, blahblah, but she stopped me and said, “No, I mean stuff that isn’t on your resume.”


So, flustered, I said I had two kids, that we had moved up to Seattle a year and a half a go when my husband got a job at Microsoft…. and she chatted amicably with me about the west coast and having kids, her only child was now 22, etc etc.

Things got weird again when she suddenly said they would like to offer me a trial job. A trial job? I said. Like a contract? I asked.

Well no, not like a contract, she said. This would be 2 articles a day for 2 weeks to make sure I would be a good fit, that I could keep up with the work… especially with having a small child at home.

With having a small child at home, would I, professional me, with a masters degree and 5 years of this particular experience under my belt, not to mention the bajillion other jobs I’ve held down, even during grad school, even during undergrad, even while also TAing….. be able to complete my work?

I let the comment slide, but stuck it in my back pocket just in case, because my next question was: And what would the rate be for this?

Oh, this would not be paid. Two weeks of part time work, getting 20ish articles out of me, for freebies.

No thanks, I said, that would not be acceptable. She gave me her email address (which I pretended to copy down) just in case I changed my mind, and that was that.

Even with a small child at home, even with the cost of 2 daycares looming, even with our house savings completely halted while I am scrambling for work and taking phone interviews covered in spit up…. Even with all of that, I know I’m worth more than that and I’ll wait for it.

Professionalism, I have it.

I’m starting to get ready to go back to work. I’ve been applying for jobs and last week I had 2 phone interviews. While prepping for the first one I experienced a wave of hot white rage washing over me. I had not had time to shower that morning while trying to get everyone successfully out the door. Gabe had not picked up his toys from the morning, there was still half eaten breakfast to be put away that was still sitting on the kitchen table. Kamel had taken his sweet time in the bathroom while I was still in yesterdays nursing tank and was wrangling an obstinate toddler to, “C’mon Gabe, we need to change your diaper. One… Two……….” When Kamel and Gabe finally left for the day I surveyed my mess of a domain and recounted my plan of attack for the first phone interview I’ve had in over a year.

First up, ignore that I was in maternity yoga pants and a dirty nursing tank.

Second, plan to nurse Fae an hour before the interview.

Third, plan to strap her into the lillebaby where she would be guaranteed to fall asleep so that I could…

Fourth, stand in the corner of the room where we get the most reliable* cell service.

But, as I was pacing the floor with a PISSED Fae who was having none of being strapped into the lillebaby, I began to bubble up with frustrated indignation.

How many men are home trying to apply for jobs and stage interviews while juggling childcare? Did Kamel ever have to consider the feeding schedule of his infant as he considered how to ace the first stage of getting a job? I wonder who has to start off an interview with, “oh and I apologize for the baby sounds, I have my infant home with me,” men? or women?

At work I try to not wear my mom hat. I don’t want to be seen as a MOM, I want to be seen as Professional Lauren. Lauren Who Is Competent and Awesome. Talented Lauren. Funny Lauren. And especially in an interview of ALL PLACES I do not want them having in their minds: MOM. I want them to be thinking: Experienced and an Asset to Our Team.

I enjoy my time away from my kids. It makes me a better parent when I am home. It makes me awesome. At work I am not the one blaming lateness on a sick child, or making excuses for my frazzled appearance with the fact that I had to switch shirts three time due to spit up. It may be true, but I don’t talk about that at work. As much as I would appreciate a more family friendly work mentality, the choice to not wear a loud and proud mom hat at work is not out of fear, it’s because I need to have a space where I am not mentally or physically attached to my kids. I need a space where I am viewed as Lauren.

The truth of the matter is: women do most of the child rearing, women are most often the primary care giver. In many, many households it is the woman who takes a career hit to handle sick days and doctor appointments and the inconveniences of parenthood. That’s not even talking about the career hit of actually birthing a tiny human, but that’s like… a monumental post that has no resolution in the foreseeable future. Weee!

I try very hard to maintain equality in my house. I have no interest in being a stay at home mom. I do not want to be the primary care giver. I want a partnership in all house things. I, unfortunately, have to remind Kamel fairly often that he is not “helping me” with the kids or the chores or whatever. I am not Parent 1 and he is backup Parent 2, I am not Home Caretaker 1 and he is back up Home Caretaker 2. We are Parents and we Share a House. Done and done. But things don’t always shake out that way in the real world of my life.

I would like to think that we take turns. And for the most part this is actually very true. Sometimes Kamel is peacing out of work in order to run the kid(s) to the doctor or working from home to deal with a sick one. Sometimes it’s me. Sometimes he has on his housemaid mental uniform and is moving the couch to vacuum and mopping the kitchen floors, sometimes I’m baby wearing and doing 3 loads of laundry.

Currently, though, things are not even. And the argument could be made that it’s because I’m not working. But – fuck that, fuck it so hard I don’t even want to talk to the person who is saying that right now. I had a fucking baby. And at 6 weeks postpartum I started frantically applying for work, while also being the primary caregiver of that baby. While also being the primary food producer of that baby. While also, because somehow it became some annoying default, being the primary house MAID for this goddamn house. Laundry and breakfast dishes and restocking diapers and wipes and picking up toys and shoes and napkins-a-plenty. And this explains my white hot rage while I was transitioning into PROFESSIONAL LAUREN while living in the world of exhausted, sore, and unwashed MOM LAUREN.

And what happened with that phone interview, anyways, you may be asking…

I nursed on time as previously discussed, I lillebaby-ed, but Fae would not stand for that shit. She would not stand for it at all.

So 10 minutes until interview time, with a crying baby, I took her out and held her with one armed and bounced and she quieted. But how sustainable is holding a baby with one arm? Until said arm falls off? Not so very sustainable.

Fae refused to fall asleep.

I apologized initially for any baby sqwacks, explaining I was home with an infant.

Within 15 minutes I was completely covered in sweat, spit up had splashed on my leg, but I had no time and not enough hands to remedy it. Fae started to fuss again. I tried to switch arms, but that just pissed her off even more. While trying to stay as composed as possible on the phone, I managed to put my interview on HOLD for a second while I shoved a boob into Fae’s mouth so she would STFU.

Overall the interview was a total cluster fuck.

Total emergency nursing moments: 2

Total dropped calls: 1

Total spit ups: 4

Total time of interview: ONE HOUR.

Total moments of sleeping baby during the interview: 0

Total beers consumed post interview: 758475. No, really: 1

Total jobs torpedoed: probably 1.

Towards the end of the interview the lady actually asked me: So…. is that….. YOUR baby? YES, YES IT IS.

Did she think that I would decide to babysit while also trying to convince people to hire me for work??

Professionalism, I have it. Allegedly.


*Still not super reliable.

City of Flour and Sawdust

I looked up nicknames for Minneapolis and this was the first one, coined in 1883. So shout out!


The Twin Cities are the midwest hub of publishing right now, which is fascinating. One might think its Chicago, but you’d be wrong. There is quite the scene in Minneapolis/St. Paul and I got to experience a tiny taste of it last week.


(At the sculpture garden, Margaret checking out an exhibit)


It also rain/snowed and then snow/snowed, which was magical and (admittedly) a little bizarre in mid-April. Then it became warm and beautiful and I wore a dress and sandals.


But mostly I was at a conference or spending hours chatting with Margaret and Jeff or meeting a lovely internet friend, Kelly, or moaning about being super sore and pregnant. I was there from Tuesday to Sunday and did a lot of thinking and planning and learning about my next steps in book publishing. It’s complicated because of time, because I need to be good – really good – and because it is such a multifaceted experience.

Will I need an agent?

Will I need to publish smaller pieces in notable places in order to boost my writerly “resume”?

Where should I even submit this book to?

And of course… how and when will I finish it?



I am very grateful for the opportunity to continue to feed my professional self. Which just so happens to be my creative self, my independent self, my deep inner Lauren self.


This week is my birthday week and I came home to a hubub of activity and it has been a scramble to get back to work, to get back to Gabe, to spend time with friends and family and everyone is asking me how my trip was. How was my trip? How was the conference?



It was great! It was restoring! It kicked me in the ass and gave me a clearer vision for what I’ll be working on for the next year (probably 2). It made me long for the routines of family life. It made me feel extra extra secure in Kamel’s parenting skills. It made me realize how much I truly need my kid(s) and my husband in my life on the regularly, that maybe traveling alone is not for me. But to have that freedom and head space, what a gift!


Parenting small children is a phase, parenting bigger children is also a phase. I entered parenthood knowing that eventually that phase would be done, a new phase of adult relationships with my children would flourish, and that what is not a phase is …. me. I am me, right here, ever changing and growing and becoming better versions of the original. Investing in that is key. Regardless of how I go about it, babies strapped to me or following behind like little ducklings, relying on my partner for the freedom to grow and expand my talents… investments must happen. I am so grateful they do.


(The mighty Mississippi)

The Writing on the Keyboard

So… I’ve been writing. And by writing, I mean WRITING. All caps. For a book I’m… writing. Writing a book. It’s just so weird to say that (write that) out loud. I’m not even going to tell you what kind of book it is, because it’s too embarrassing. UGH OK FINE, it’s a coming of age. I resisted putting coming of age in quotes because that somehow seems to dumb it down or make it seem like it’s only a coming of age in theory. But there it is. Hopefully I finish it some day and then maybe other people can read it.

I’ve been writing so much because I have a sort of self imposed deadline that is fast approaching at the first week (ish) in April. Where I shall be handing over pages to Margaret where she will write giant question marks in the margins and ask me about motivation and where the story is actually going. (You will, Margaret, don’t tell me you won’t.) Because oh my god, I don’t even know if I know. Last week I made a story arch like you do in freshman English class when the teacher asks you to point out the rising action, the climax, and the falling action. I pretty much only have one of those things figured out.

It is so much easier to talk about this in regards to me not knowing what the hell I’m doing because I don’t. I never do. I have never been super confident person when it comes to writing. Afterwards? Or in workshop classes? Super confident. Sort of. But when it comes to actually doing it. Oh my god, obsession, second guessing, terrible doubt city. It’s where I reside. I don’t know if it is productive but it maybe makes some of my scenes super sharp because I edit them in my head while walking from the grocery store to my car. And during elevator rides. And when I should be actually working, the work that actually gives me money for living.

But! I thought I would share a tiny smidge of what I’ve been doing for the last few weeks. It’s kind of exhilarating to share a voice that is not just my blog voice, which just so happens to be my inner monologue voice. This voice is sort of… out of myself. I hope you find it neat.


We moved to an old person neighborhood when I was in 2nd grade. The hills were too steep for neighborhood bike riding and we lived on the corner of a busy street. Even dribbling a basketball was treacherous. One wrong move and the ball was lost, bounding into traffic, down the hill, gaining momentum until it was too far gone.  

Old people were everywhere, or rather nowhere as they rarely were seen out of their homes on weekends. The only people out in the neighborhood was a small gaggle of teenage and pre-teen boys who congregated across the street from my new house and who were all older than me. One of them was lucky enough to have a flat driveway to play basketball in. They had a hoop and everything. I played basketball for my CYO team at school and sometimes with my mom on the weekends. I watched the boys, all a year or more older than me, with envy and unspecified lust from my bedroom window.  

My bedroom was over the garage and if my parents left early in the morning, I could feel the garage door opening and closing beneath me, the low rumble under my floor. All summer long I heard a constant and rhythmic nose from both the birds cawing on the power lines outside, and the near constant bouncing of a basketball followed by the swoosh of the net.  

Sometimes my mom would convince me it was a good idea to go shoot around at the YMCA down the street. I’d eventually work there during the summers, running a sports camp for squirrely children and getting an unprecedented farmer’s tan. When I was too young to work, but old enough to feel unexplained hot shame for purely existing, the basketball court at the YMCA was ripe for a million different unspeakable scenarios. The ball bounced too loud on the hardwood floors. My shorts felt too short. There were never any other girls in the old gym where we played, and sometimes we had the whole place to ourselves, but when we didn’t I could tell the other men and boys were annoyed that they were being limited to half court press by some mom and her little girl. If this had happened to adult me I would be thrilled by the opportunity to encroach on their turf, but being a pre-teen the truth of patriarchy was both overwhelming and humiliating made only worse by my mother’s clear disregard for its silent rules.  

In the neighborhood before the old person neighborhood there had been 3 homes with kids; my next door neighbors who had 3 boys, and then 2 houses on the other side of my block, past the crack in the cement that sometimes housed a hornets nest, past the barking dogs behind the chain-link fence. We all played together at different times, we all ate lunch at each other’s houses, we all road bikes around and around and around our block, sometimes cutting through the ally even though we weren’t supposed to. One time the neighbor boy showed me his penis. I think he was 3. I thought it looked like a broken finger. I expected to be integrated into the old people neighborhood kid-pool eventually. Maybe I just hadn’t made a firm enough move. That first summer I was eight, perpetually bored and fairly lonely. 

It was a Saturday and we were just getting back from Costco and all of the boys were outside playing ball in the driveway, like always. I hadn’t yet introduced myself to any of the neighbors really, being generally shy and afraid of grownups, but I imagined the onslaught of homemade pies and cookies paired with a friendly knock on our door and the Welcome To The Neighborhood meet and greet would happen any day now. The only new neighbors I had ever experienced came from the movies and that’s what happened on the silver screen, so it must ring true in real life. 

After I helped my parents unload the car from a weekend trip to Costco I told them that I was going to walk over and say hi. They had no problem with this and I had no doubts this was going to go amazingly well. It started off exactly as I had imagined and I had imagined this exact scenario many, many times. It was a beautiful early summer mid-morning, the sound of tennis shoes hitting pavement, of lazy bees milling about, and me in keds tennis shoes and matching short and t-shirt combo skipping, yes skipping, over to the boys’ driveway. I don’t think up until this moment I had ever felt this much confidence, nor have I ever felt it since.  

My skipping had motivation behind it. I thought in that instant it was the most nonchalant move on the planet. Like, “Hey, just thought I’d skip over here for a second. Since I have a free moment in my day, just thought I would stop by, as one does, in the neighborhood, skip skip skip.” The boys briefly all stopped playing to look in my direction.  

“Hi!” I said brightly, “My name’s Anna, you wanna play?”  

Their was a brief pause before the laughing started. Almost as soon as it began, though I waited just long enough for my face to fully collapse, and my very first true feelings of disappointment mixed with acute embarrassment to soak in, before quickly turning and sprinting across the street straight back down my steep driveway, down into my garage, and directly into my cool basement.  

I cried, but not until I was certain they wouldn’t see.  

Empty Spaces

Yesterday I went in for my 16 week baby checkup. Listened to the heart beat. Bunnyfrog still lives and is still in there. Bonus: I only gained 3 lbs. Small victories. Not that I’m like RESTRICTING my weight gain, but it is always best not to gain 20 right off the bat (I always say).

Body changes are an interesting part of pregnancy. In some ways they are the most straight forward. It’s not a shocker to grow an egg on the front of your person, it’s pretty standard pregnancy folklore that you do round out.

The part that is always so startling for me are the changes of who I am. I’m not Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde-ing it over here. I don’t hulk out or have intense mood swings. I don’t feel like I’m on one giant PMS roller coaster. That’s not what I’m talking about.

For me it’s about motivation. I mean, you see it here. The emptiness is echoing around this blog. Where is the content? Where is Lauren? Where are all of the things she is supposed to be writing about and doing? Echo echo echo.

Non-pregnant Lauren, Lauren of “Ordinary Time” (a catholic reference if there ever was one), is high functioning, insanely motivated, and a massive work horse. I am exactly the mother I want to be, making my own baby food, working full time, running around at the park, writing a ton, having adventures, taking on new and exciting projects.

Pregnant Lauren is exhausted and mentally incapable. I do not juggle. I do not where all the hats. I wear 3: I go to work so I don’t get fired, I love my child and am mostly phoning in motherhood, and I am mindful of the other human I’m growing so I try to make positive choices regarding that. I’m also married but that reads mostly like: Thank you darling for not letting the house burn down and all of us starve to death while I sit her being pregnant.

I don’t think other pregnant people are like this. I think other people are like the homesteading pregnant folk who came to the west coast via the Oregon Trail and walked 13 miles a day. When I am not pregnant I am building a house with one hand and nursing a baby with the other. When I am pregnant you need to push me around from place to place in a wheel barrow. I am a potted plant and my brain go boom.

I hate this. It is part of why I hate being pregnant. It doesn’t matter what my intentions are. It doesn’t matter how many balls I had in the air before getting pregnant. They fall. They all fall. It doesn’t matter how many pep talks I give myself about really pushing myself this week, really working on xyz, really making it happen… I’m still asleep by 10pm and I am still a walking sack of goo after 6pm.

On Tuesday I threw up at work. Just a normal pregnancy activity. I thought I was doing so much better but then guess what? I didn’t take my meds the night before and that morning barf city in the handicap stall in my office before I could even make it to my desk. Hoo-fucking-ray.

My body can come and go, but my ability to get shit done, my mental capacity for doing-it-all… I miss it. I want it back. I have so many more months.

Slouching Towards Bethlehem: A Review

Oh hello book lovers! Fancy seeing you here… in my world where I have totally neglected you.

How embarrassing.

But I have not forgotten and I have finished the reading list. Only this and 1 other to go and I am finally complete with this little experiment. More book loving and reviewing and reading to come, I promise. But only once I can be relied upon to make a deadline.

Anyways, on to the point. Slouching Towards Bethlehem by Joan Didion is one of her best known works and one I had only read excerpts from in grad school. It’s a collection of essays about the free love era and the hippy movement in San Francisco.

I love Didion as a writer. Her craft is something I aspire to in my own work. A Year of Magical Thinking changed the way I saw relationships. The way Didion writes a sentence, her use of echo and repetition speaks to me beyond any other writer. And this collection of essays is equally as powerful. It lead to an evening of researching videos of people experience LSD, of old news shows about Haight street during exactly this time, of me reading whole sections out loud to Kamel and crying over the really terrible parts. It’s amazing. And it left me with one majorly nagging feeling.

In college professors were always adding Hunter S. Thompson onto nonfiction reading lists and holding up as this pillar of gonzo journalism. Didion was also just as much of a gonzo journalist during the exact same time as Thompson. She isn’t quite as insane about it and maybe not quite as reckless, but she puts herself into the world that she is investigating, she goes there, she becomes part of the story. Why did it take me until grad school to read this? And excerpts at that? Why isn’t Didion standing next to Thompson on that gonzo journalism pillar? It reeks of another example of how men are the “pioneers” and women are the work horses.

It’s not just my voice you get to hear today! We are also hearing from Melissa who has been very kind about my absolute tardiness when it comes to getting up her review.


Melissa: Initially, I was excited in the way that you are excited when you are doing something good for you that you might not love but, you know, it should be good for you. Reading non-fiction is like eating my vegetables, except I like vegetables. Reading non-fiction is like getting up early and exercising. A few pages into the first essay, I thought, “Okay, this is going to be an easy read and at least mildly entertaining.” I am from Southern California, though I have been away 14 years (I’m old!) and I do enjoy books that evoke a certain California mystique.

Part I: Joan Didion’s self-indulgent look at other self-indulgent people around California in the 1960’s, through essay. I kept thinking, these are well-written and I like them, but who bought these things? This was her job? Answer: Vogue and The Saturday Evening Post bought these things. Best essay and best essay title, in my humble opinion: Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream. This passage took me home:

January 11, 1965, was a bright warm day in Southern California, the kind of day when Catalina floats on the Pacific horizon and the air smells of orange blossoms and it is a long way from the bleak and difficult East, a long way from the cold, a long way from the past.

Part II: Navel gazing. Reads like a teenager/early 20-something’s journal. Except Joan was in her 30’s, I think. Though she may have ransacked her younger self’s journals for the material. Still, I kind of liked it. Her way with words enables me to forgive a lot of the pretension, but it’s my least favorite section.

Part III: More personal reflections, this time focusing on different locales of importance to the author.

My favorite essay is found in this section, “Notes from a Native Daughter.” Her titles are so intriguing, and I love this passage:

…California is a place in which a boom mentality and a sense of Chekhovian loss meet in uneasy suspension; in which the mind is troubled by some buried but ineradicable suspicion that things had better work here, because here, beneath that immense bleached sky, is where we run out of continent.

Yes, it makes me have a lot of feels, so… success!

Lauren: Yes. The one thing that at times really irks me and at other times I find refreshingly honest and naive is the way Didion consistently writes with a very self-indulgent and privileged view. She lives in a world of old money and of never really feeling like she couldn’t do something. Sometimes I feel like UGH! White American viewpoint I’m so over this! And then other times I think, Wow this is really honest and so naked feeling. It’s not necessarily PC, it is just like… very wide eyed and pure. Not brave necessarily, but I respect it for what it is.

Melissa: Didion creates sense of place so very well and I would recommend the book based on that alone. The Haight hippies and the various “intellectuals” were vomit-inducing. However, Joan (we’re on a first name basis now) seemed equally unimpressed by them. The tone of her writing was like a little wink to the reader: aren’t these people ridiculous? Yes, yes they are.

Lauren: But I also felt like she saw them as both misunderstood and horribly uneducated. They were fascinating and also tragic. And some stuff with the small children I had a horrible horrible time with. I really do wonder what happened to all of those people. 

Melissa: [in regards to being surprised by anything in particular] I don’t remember enjoying her writing style as much when I read The Year of Magical Thinking. My memory may just be faulty, but that was a nice surprise.

Melissa: I did enjoy it. I am all about style and poetic prose. I would recommend the book to others who love clever wordplay and mulling over pretty lines.

Overall what do people think of Joan Didion? Have you read Slouching Towards Bethlehem? I would love your thoughts!

Too Many Happenings

There was no Weekend-ing this past weekend. Half the day was gone on Saturday before I realized the camera was left idle somewhere in the apartment. It happens. Every once in a while I just need to not think about it like that and just do how we do.

There were visits with family, long long walks, errands downtown, chasing Gabe all around carousels of men’s shirts, and rented movies. There was football and best friends, there was pita chips and dip, a lot of toddler giggles, and even a grown up dinner out with friends.

I struggle with doing the work of reflection and the work of living and being an active participant. That has always been my struggle when it comes to writing, photography, quiet moments, all of it. When do I say, “Enough, I need to step back and create something,” and when do I dive in with both arms and legs? I am always wanting both at the same exact time. Life is short and life is long, again, both at the same time.