don't knock it till you try it: dwelling in the past

Back in junior high I was into all things theater-related. I went to plays by myself and took part in all the performance-related stuff at my south Minneapolis Catholic school. Theatrical opportunities mostly consisted of yearly revues featuring students lip syncing to "These Boots are Made for Walking," dancing aerobically to "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen and playing "Props" from "Whose Line is it Anyway."

In retrospect this was all pretty small potatoes, but at time these glorified variety shows were promoted to all and sundry as a VERY BIG DEAL. And the biggest proponent of the serious importance of these shows was "Ms. Stumpings," the resident theater/music teacher at my school and the director of these yearly displays showcasing over-emoting tweens and a soundtrack from her no doubt free-wheeling youth (Pink Floyd, James Brown, the Beatles, etc.).

Ms. Stumpings was a product of the sixties. She wore dangly earrings, clothing with leather fringe and owned a rotating selection of ponchos. She set Shel Silverstein poems to music and showed us Duck Soup. She was the only hint of something "anti-establishment" in our stodgy old Catholic school, and of course we all thought she was totally cool.

Despite the fact that I was a girl (she made little effort to disguise her disdain for women), she took me in as one of her protégés at a fairly young age. She praised me excessively in front of our class and laughed uproariously at my stupid jokes. I imagine this was quite annoying to my classmates, especially considering the fact that I wasn't exactly the most popular girl in the fifth grade. "What does she see in her?" I now imagine my peers asking each other, wondering why Ms. Stumpings didn't wise up and lavish more attention on the Carries.

Everything was great, until I started my eighth grade year and ran into Ms. Stumpings in the hall on the first day of school. I was excited to see her, since I'd spent a ton of time over the summer taking part in an acting program with a local theater company and I figured she'd be psyched.

"It was so great!" I told her. "I got to work with these really cool directors and choreographers. We did You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown!"

Ms. Stumpings' smile froze on her face as I told her about my summer. "Oh, I see," she said. Suddenly distant, she stalked away without another word.

I was confused. I'd assumed that she'd be excited about the fact that I'd "broadened my horizons" and pursued my interests while school was out--but clearly she was pissed about something.

Things went downhill from there. She stopped doling out the praise and started ignoring me in class. I talked it over with my mom, and came to the realization that  she was irritated with me because I'd sought out theater instruction from someone other than her. She probably felt betrayed, and maybe threatened, too. Because I, a 13-year-old girl, had taken part in a summer theater time-killing exercise and in so doing, destroyed our special bond.

She treated me like I'd stabbed her in the back. But she didn't want to talk about it, she just wanted to huff around and shoot daggers at me with her eyes, like I was the girl who drunken made out with her boyfriend at a keg party down by Nine Mile Creek.

Despite my relatively young age, I had a sense that her reaction was definitely childish and maybe inappropriate. I became disenchanted with her. The qualities that once seemed charming--like her spooky, channeling-Stevie-Nicks persona and her dramatic, "theater-person" tantrums-- suddenly seemed like ridiculous affectations.

One afternoon while rehearsing for the yearly variety show, Ms. Stumpings pitched one of her famous fits. Whenever we were lacking energy, or horsing around too much, or simply not GIVING IT OUR ALL the way she wanted us to, she would throw up her arms in the air and pace around wildly while yelping things like, "Oooohhh!" and "Aahhh!" and "You children!!" frequently clutching at her hair for effect. Although these displays were meant to scare us into submission, at this point I was SO DONE. I gave one of my friends the side eye and then rolled my eyes in a noticeable way.

Of course she saw me. But she couldn't just ignore it. "SHANNON!!" she bellowed. "OUT IN THE HALL!!"

I sauntered out into the hall, feeling really fucking cool (I was generally a totally polite, rules-following milquetoast).

"HOW DARE YOU disrespect me like that?" she demanded, doing her best to tower over me.

"God, what's the big deal?" I asked. "I just rolled my eyes. Christ, I didn't think it was such a SIN."

"Oh yeah?" she said. "Well, IT WAS."

I still found her utterly ridiculous after that, but there was admittedly a part of me that felt crappy about the fact that my once-mentor seemed hell-bent on cutting me down to size. Wasn't that supposed to be the role of my peers, not my teachers?

I went on with things and decided to run for student council president. My opponent was "Jake Seever," who I still maintain was weirdly self-satisfied for an eighth grade boy. He was widely understood to be "a really great guy." I loathed him. And I was convinced of the superiority of my platform, intellect and physical attractiveness. Of course he won.

I wasn't actually very surprised ("he won because he's a BOY!" was my proto-feminist conviction) or even that disappointed, except for the fact that that instead of letting us losers slink off into the parking lot for a cigarette and a swipe at our thighs with a razor, we were all appointed to chair a committee--in my case, I was now in charge of the "apostolic" committee, the committee in charge of all things religious/God-oriented. And for this indignity, I was livid. (I was already agnostic, even if I didn't know about that word just yet.) It seemed like a perfect example of God personally telling me to fuck off.

After learning about my defeat, I trudged alone down the hall towards my homeroom, feeling put-upon and singular. At this point, as if by magic, Ms. Stumpings appeared in front of me.

"Shannon," she said, giving me a serious look of great pity. "Shannon, please come sit down with me in my room."

What the fuck? Clearly, I was not in her good graces anymore. I'd betrayed her (Charlie Brown) and disrespected her (rolled eyes)--was there any way to get past that? I assumed not, but here she was, clearly trying to project an aura of empathy.

I went with her; I assumed she was re-assuming her teacher role and that she planned to console me about my loss.

We went into her classroom and sat down at her desk, across from each other.

"Oh Shannon," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Was this my cue to spill my guts? To start crying and wailing about how disappointed I was? I wasn't accustomed to "talking about my feelings," (to the extent that I need to put that in quotes) and so I just kind of sat there, feeling like shit, but hopeful, like maybe she was going to act like my supportive teacher right now. In fact, that's what I expected--there must be something hard-wired in my being that, despite all evidence to the contrary, still wants to think that, when things are bad, that other people will try to be merciful.

"I know you're upset," she said. "And that's why I feel that I need to tell you why I voted the way I did." She looked at me in this very meaningful way. She didn't actually say, "I voted for Jake," but that's what she meant. She looked right at me. It was a shitty sort of look--the look of a 40-something teacher telling a 13-year-old student something she didn't need to hear.

I was really surprised. "This is fucked up," I thought, although I don't know if "fucked up" was necessarily part of my usual vocabulary back then.

I was so surprised that I couldn't respond. This seemed to encourage her to elaborate.

"It's just that I really think Jake needed this," she said. "He's been on the decline, and he needed something to bolster him up. You're strong...you'll be fine. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that."

I don't remember if ever said anything in response to all this, and I don't remember leaving her classroom. I don't think I told anyone what happened, because, of course, it was mortifying.

And now that I'm here, like, almost 40 years old, with plenty of other things to worry about, I think it seems self-indulgent and ridiculous to even talk about this dumb incident. It's not like it's stopped me in my tracks or anything. However, it still strikes me as particularly troubling--more troubling than the fourth grade asshole who tormented me for being a "fat bitch" who was doomed to grow up to be a "hooker," or the boyfriend who claimed he attempted to "rape" me (I did not notice the attempt), or the jackass who accused me of being a "modernist" when I yelled at him for making out with my roommate while we were "dating."

The nice thing about writing to a non-paying audience of three is that I don't feel like I have to "wrap it up." And this is something I definitely can't wrap up. Am I proud of the fact that I'm still thinking about something that happened when was 13? Yes!I mean, no. It's embarrassing. But are other people still hung up on such things? I don't know--probably not! It's probably just me. Even so, that teacher can suck it. I don't care how many glowing profiles I read about her in the neighborhood newspaper.

don't knock it till you try it: taking the blame

I recently had a second baby, and this time around I decided to go wild and splurge on a "home health" visit from a nurse a few days after we got home from the hospital. It sounded like a good idea--a medical professional stopping by to check on my boy's traumatized head (courtesy of the obstetric vacuum) and to evaluate just far down the postpartum depression hole I might be sinking. Insurance was going to cover like, thirty percent!

"Connie," a neat and tidy nurse who appeared to be in her late fifties, showed up at my door on a Monday morning. I immediately tuned in to her judgmental aura--I live in a house that could be politely referred to as "pleasantly cluttered." I should probably have a magnet on my refrigerator that says, "A Clean House is a Sign of a Wasted Life."

Anyway, I tried to smooth things over with an "I know what you must be thinking" greeting.

"I'd apologize for my trashed house," I said, "but I'm sure you hear that all the time, right?"

"Well, I'm here to check on you and your baby, not your house," she said with a pinched smile.

I invited her to sit on my (cat hair-infested) couch and we started to discuss my new-baby situation. We got to chatting, and I eventually mentioned the fact that Lydia, my first child, had been an insanely colicky baby. Connie suddenly looked very empathetic, even brushing away a (fake??) tear.

"Oh Shannon," she said.

She went on to explain that she too had had a colicky baby, but it was back in the day when no one knew why babies were colicky.

"I've made it my mission to do whatever I can to help parents with colicky babies," she said.

I got excited. I too have heard the siren call to "do something" to help other parents with colicky babies. For example, when I was up at 4:00 am with Lydia, bouncing her madly while she screamed and flailed, I often wished there was something for all the hapless parents like me. Ideally a free nursery where you could drop off your screamer for a couple hours (to be cared for by kind people who would not shake her) while you slept or had a drink in a soundproof room. Perhaps she had something like that in mind?

But no, that wasn't what she had in mind.

"Research has shown that most fussiness in babies can be traced to the mother's diet," she told me. (Obviously this is only relevant to breastfed babies.) "If Felix gets fussy the way Lydia was, I encourage you to try an elimination diet." She then went on to write down a list of the foods I should be prepared to eliminate for a minimum of ten days--dairy products, eggs, fish, nuts, citrus, soy and wheat.   

I was familiar with this philosophy. But I wonder if any of the professionals who suggest this approach have actually tried a severe elimination diet while dealing with a colicky newborn? Scientific proof or not (and I think the jury is still out on the scientific evidence, despite what some people insist), what new mother has the fortitude to undertake this kind of masochistic intervention while her baby screams nonstop around the clock?

Actually, according to the online motherhood forums and my own experience, quite a few mothers. The first time around I was so desperate to "cure" my daughter's screaminess that I was willing to try anything. The baby chiropractor we visited determined (through some brand of "energy work") that Lydia was "allergic" to my breast milk, but was quick to tell me not to stop breastfeeding. Instead, I was to immediately eliminate wheat, soy and dairy from my diet.

I took her advice, and kept it up for about two days, at which point I broke the fast because I was super hungry from only eating rice and steamed vegetables.

I think Connie noticed my look of irritation, despite my attempt to maintain a bland expression.

"Of course, it's always the mother's fault," I said.

She quickly changed the subject. "Let's look at your son...we're running out of time."

I realize she might have a point--everyone might have a point. I bet they're all right--that tofu-and-tilapia sandwich is surely the secret culprit behind your average baby's all-night screaming. But I also know our culture's current obsession with all things food-related, and the belief that almost everything can be "cured" with a dietary adjustment. Even more than that, I know from personal experience how quick people are to lump all the blame--for "fussiness," illness, obesity and more--on possibly inconsequential decisions made by parents.

"If it comes to that, I'm switching to formula," I said.

don't knock it till you try it: mediocrity

I got a copy of my college alumni magazine the other day, featuring a story about wine making alums who are "lighting up" the California grape business. I felt exhausted just looking at the cover photo of a woman (class of '99) kicking back with a glass of wine while perched on a barrel.

Of course, this is standard fare for the alumni mag--if it's not a bunch of ex-students making wine it's a story about that guy who started Surly Brewing, or a graduate with an organic farm, or some couple who started out as soulless stock brokers but then launched a web company and quickly sold it for tons of money and now they still look very chiseled and Scandinavian.

In other words, I'm tired of hearing about all this stylish and progressive-appropriate success. It's not that I disapprove--I'm actually glad this stuff is going on. Someone should put a green roof on City Hall--yes, that's definitely a good thing. Hats off to the immigration lawyer who works primarily with seasonal farm laborers. I'm totally on board with educational investment programs in low-income countries.

But as a failure-oriented sort of person who is more interested in weird interpersonal situations and gossip, these empowering, occupation-driven stories of "alums on the make" leave me cold. Where is the story about the guy who always meant to leave St. Paul, but ended up dating that local girl for a few years and even though that didn't work out, the job at Medtronic kept paying the bills, and when it comes to Korean food on Snelling Ave. isn't Sole better than Mirror of Korea?

Those are the kinds of stories I want to read about in the alumni magazine. Seriously, what's so bad about mediocrity? Isn't success actually kind of boring?

I suppose this desire for stories of inertia and ordinariness is strongly influenced by my own experience. Because let's admit it--I'm really pretty mediocre, at least when it comes to the work I do. It took several years for me to "warm up" to that realization. I spent plenty of time thinking that I really "should" do something more meaningful with my life than proofreading the fine print in credit card offers or ghostwriting emails for the CEO of a Big Agriculture corporation.

Other people have also emphasized the importance of doing something else--anything else. Well, maybe not anything, but something better.

I recently told an acquaintance about some of the freelance writing work I've been doing. I was actually feeling pretty okay about my work for once, when I realized he was stifling a look of pity. "You're a pretty good writer, Shannon," he said. "Shouldn't you be doing journalism? Wouldn't it be more fun to write articles?"

I had the sudden realization that I was a loser in his eyes. This has happened before, too.

Several years ago I was at play with a friend and she ran into someone she knew in the lobby. "Shannon, you've got to meet Mary--she's a writer, too!"

It turned out that Mary was a 30-year veteran of the Twin Cities journalism scene, currently holding a high post at Minnesota Public Radio. My friend enthusiastically announced that I was a writer.

"Oh, really?" said Mary. "Where do you work?"

I could tell right away this wasn't going to end well. I informed her that I was editing a trade magazine about window treatments.

"Oh, of course--trade magazines," she said, as if I'd initiated a conversation about hemorrhoids--embarrassing, disgusting and definitively indicative of one's low status. "I've never worked in that field."

The message is always the same--why are you wasting your time with that? I suppose it could be taken as a compliment, that these people think I have more to offer the world than a well-worded and persuasive brochure about heat pump upgrades.

don't knock it till you try it: body dysmorphia

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don't knock it till you try it: expecting brilliance from your child

Billboards have really been getting me worked up lately. For example, a pro-life advertisement in my neighborhood recently caught my eye. The billboard in question featured a grainy snapshot of a toddler on a sled. The "don't get an abortion" message? "Your child could grow up to be an Olympic bobsledder!!!"

This pretty neatly sums up what I hate about that striving, desperate brand of parent who observes some normal, everyday kid thing and immediately equates it with future impressive achievements. Your daughter grabbed a wooden spoon and waved it around? Obviously she's a budding gourmet who will one day run her own farm-to-table restaurant! Your son clocked another kid at the playground? The next Muhammad Ali, no doubt!

I suppose some of these pronouncements are meant to be humorous, but I still think they betray an underlying anxiety about the pronouncer's child. Just under the surface of "mommy's little neurosurgeon" is the possibility that the kid will be disappointingly normal--a clerk at Home Depot, perhaps.

Recently some people came over to my house for lunch. My daughter (just over one year old) was in attendance, and one of my guests entertained her for awhile by encouraging her to drop some coins into a cup. She became quite adept at placing the coins in the cup. I was so proud! "My baby's gonna grow up to work on an assembly line!" I exclaimed.

Although I thought this was a hilarious joke, I later learned that one of my guests did not agree. Evidently he thought that I really was afraid that Lydia would grow up to work on an assembly line due to the putting-things-in-cups skills she was developing that day. Perhaps we weren't encouraging her cognitive development as aggressively as we should have been? Maybe some baby sign language could have been incorporated?

I'm trying to imagine being part of the intended audience for that pro-life billboard--pregnant, not so sure I wanted to be pregnant, weighing the options. But then, the sudden realization: "If I keep this baby, he or she very well might grow up to have some kind of impressive profession or skill that could reflect positively on me!"

Because isn't that the whole reason to have kids? If people knew the truth--that their cute baby would one day turn into a teenager who would take hallucinogens and climb under the Lake Street bridge, then get depressed and graduate from an expensive liberal arts college in preparation for a job as a receptionist a community newspaper--I imagine more ladies would be checking the correct placement of their diaphragms.

don't knock it till you try it: wedding rings

I recently saw this statement on a billboard, right next to an image of a big tacky wedding ring:

"It was easier picking out the guy."

Of course. Finding a dude to marry is fucking easy, the real decision-making comes when it's time to PICK OUT THAT ROCK!

I find the whole thing with wedding rings to be completely bewildering. An expensive, custom-designed ring seems like something that you might purchase if you were extremely wealthy--not something that your average working sap should be expected to buy.

Did you know that those things cost thousands and thousands of dollars? Well, they do. I know, because I went out shopping for them a few years ago. I was getting married, and I thought, "Well, there's usually an exchange of rings, right?" So I started to look around.

Someone referred me to a custom jeweler. I thought that sounded kind of cool. Not your average mass-marketed blood diamond, right?

But when I visited his shop, I quickly realized that everything there was going to cost thousands and thousands of dollars. "I guess I have very simple tastes," I said. "Can you show me some plain metal bands?"

He showed me some plain metal bands, the cheapest of which cost five hundred dollars.

Someone else told me to go to this "arty" jewelry store in the Minneapolis skyways. I don't remember exactly how she described it, but she made it sound like it was for people who were "too cool" for normal wedding rings. "That sounds like me!" I thought.

This time I went with Nick. But once again, it became immediately apparent that everything there was on sale for thousands and thousands of dollars. The clerk could tell that we weren't satisfied with the offerings on hand.

"We do custom designs, too," she said.

"Could we custom design something for less than three hundred dollars?" I asked.

"For your wedding?" she asked, her tone redolent of divorce.

After that, I lost all interest in the wedding ring task. "Who cares?" I thought. It seemed pointless to cough up loads of money for something that I was inevitably going to leave next to the sink at the Turf Club.

But even more than that, I was embarrassed by the idea of an expensive wedding ring. Even if we could afford it, would I really want that message projected to the outside world? "Look at me, a unique and special creature who has traded her maidenhead for this shiny symbol of possession!" No, I wouldn't want that, not at all.

So the day before the wedding, Nick and I were like, "Fuck--the rings." We went to an antique store where I tried on everything they could find in the cabinets, but virtually everything was too big. Finally, I came across a ring featuring a stone that can only be described as a "black teardrop." Of course, it fit perfectly! It was $24, but when we told the clerk it was for our wedding--which was the following day--she was so impressed that she gave it to us for half price.        

don't knock it till you try it: being boring

Back when I was about 13 years old, I was dating some guy I just wasn't that into. (And by dating I mean, I think we held hands once.) Our "relationship" mainly consisted of labored phone conversations and the occasional outing to the Boulevard movie theater.

I remember one particularly grueling phone call. After making some stilted small talk ("How are you?" "Fine...") the conversation promptly trailed off into nothing. I finally broke the silence, asking him what he'd done that day.

"Well, you know, I returned some movies to Blockbuster."

I was appalled. Although my speaking skills were clearly pathetic, I knew better than to give voice to the reality of my daily life. Much better to be vague and (hopefully) project an aura of mystery, right? Blockbuster? Really? I pictured him riding his bike to the movie rental chain, opening the little drop box door, placing the VHS cassettes in the chute, and riding back towards his house. There was something almost poignant about it--driving home the absolute mundanity of daily life.

There was also something totally hilarious about it. For years afterwards, those words became the punch line for a running family joke:

Mom: "So, how was your day, Shannon?"

Me: "Oh, you know, great! I returned some movies to Blockbuster!"

And we'd laugh and laugh.

But these days, this classic joke is hitting a little close to home:

Husband: "So, what did you do today?"

Me: "Oh you know....stuff. What about you??"

I practice this deflection technique so that I can use it when I meet new people. It might seem like the typical "woman deferring to the man" kind of scenario, but it's really just self-preservation. No one needs to know the tedious details.

But sometimes, for fun, I provide a comprehensive blow-by-blow, like this:

"Well, I got up and fed Lydia her breakfast. It took FOREVER. Why does it take so long to feed babies?? Oh my god! She totally smeared the food all over her head. I checked my phone while she ate, but all I got were emails from groupon. Then I changed her clothes. Those baby jeans I got at the Salvation Army are a pain in the ass to get her into! Wow! Eventually she took a nap, and I wrote some captions for a corporate magazine article."

But you have to be careful when you act all ironic about reporting on your mundane life. There's a thin line between ironically over-reporting the boring details and earnestly reporting the boring details because, in fact, those are the only details you have to report.

It almost makes me re-think all the laughs I've had at "Ned's" expense. Seriously, I should be so lucky to be able to return some movies to Blockbuster.